King Elrond sat in the darkness less than a day from the mines of Moria.
He dared not light a fire, lest it attract the attention of any roving
orcs. He was here alone. He wanted his departure from Rivendell kept
secret for as long as possible. The last thing he wanted was to incite
panic. Things had been botched enough already. How had it come to this?
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to think, and think clearly. Saryn's flight had rattled him to the core. The wounded elves had been brought past as he'd been surreptitiously packing his supplies. A pitiful lot they had been, clutching wounded arms and legs and grimacing in pain. His first instinct had been to stay behind and tend to them, but in his heart he knew he could not if he wanted to reach the mines and Lothlorien in time.
When he had been sure that no more could be done in Rivendell, he'd mounted his horse and set off for the Passage of Elbereth, a long-forgotten cavern that led from the castle at Rivendell all the way to the mines of Moria. Built during the First Age, it was widely used as a trading route. After the advent of the Dark Lord Sauron, it served as an escape route for wretched creatures fleeing before his scourge. When peace had returned, the usefulness and need for the passage had diminished until it was forgotten by everyone. Everyone except himself and Gandalf, that was. He'd ridden for days through the inky blackness, vainly hoping that perhaps the escapees had stumbled across this road as well, but they had not. Less than an hour ago, he'd emerged from the cavern to find himself within sight of Moria. Now he waited for daylight.
He started at a soft rustling behind him, but relaxed when he realized that it was only the sound of his mount, Ghidra, munching contentedly on the tender grasses. Events of the past months had made him a nervous wreck. He hardly dared sleep for fear of some sentry bursting in to tell him the Ring had been lost. You mean like last night? said a soft, sly voice inside his head. Yes, like last night. Exactly like last night, as a matter of fact.
He made himself as comfortable as possible under his rich maroon cloak and laid back, his hands beneath his head. He pondered the routes the pair may have taken. Now that she knew Legolas was headed for Mordor, she was no doubt heading on an intercept course to Lothlorien. With the huge head start the party had, it was highly unlikely she would reach him. Unless…but no. Surely she knew not of that place.
What if she does? She was with Telvryn, after all, and if memory served, Telvryn's grandfather was a gatherer of ancient elven lore. There was little doubt he knew of Basylis and his bog, and the old man was notoriously loose-lipped about all he knew. Telvryn had merely to stroke his ego, and the fellow would divulge anything. If he'd told his grandson about the treacherous bog, then that was where they would now be, for Saryn's grief was persuasive. It had nearly snared him the night he locked her in the tower. If they had truly gone into the bog, there was little chance either of them would be seen again.
Realizing he could do nothing about events already past, he turned his mind to other things. He reflected on how strange it was that he should be here at all, all things considered. Born of an elven mother and a human father, his beginnings had been less than auspicious. Though elves were willing to trade with men and entertain friendship with them, they frowned upon intermarriage with other races. Things were made worse by the fact that his mother, Elwind, rumored to be the fairest maiden in all of elvendom, died in childbirth. Now, he had been a mongrel without a mother.
His father, a soldier in the elven army under the great King Elendil of Mirkwood, tried his best to raise him in the elven ways, having forsaken human customs to be with his mother. Despite his father's best efforts, growing up had been painful. He had inherited his mother's keen hearing, and wherever he went, he gritted his teeth against murmurs of "half-breed" and "mongrel."
Just when he thought it could get no worse, it did. His father, a faithful and loyal servant of the king's, was sent to investigate rumors of strange, ruined, hateful creatures lurking in the valley of Mordor. He never returned. Search parties later recovered the torn, savaged, mutilated bodies of his father and the twelve other men in his party. Most were unrecognizable. That had been one of Middle Earth's first encounters with orcs.
King Elendil was a good and kind man, and in tribute to his father's faithful service, he had taken Elrond in as a page in his court. Though he was grateful for the shelter and acceptance he found there, he was devastated by his loss. Still quite young, only three hundred, he often wandered through the castle corridors weeping. If the king knew of these nocturnal travels, he gave no sign.
As the centuries passed, the benevolent king grew quite fond of young Elrond, who had grown into a handsome, strong, just man. For seven hundred years, he had been his faithful servant. It was still a surprise, though, when the king had summoned him into his private study. Even after all these years, he could remember thinking how odd it was that the king should want to see him there, when for seven centuries, he had always been called to the opulent throne room.
Things grew even more bizarre when he entered the study to find it quite full. Besides the king, there had been assembled a striking woman with flowing red hair, a bored blonde man to her right, Prince Thranduil on the left of the king, and a beaming wizard behind the throne.
"Sit Elrond," the king commanded when he entered.
He had sunk weak-kneed into the nearest chair, convinced he was about to be punished for some grievous infraction. What had he done? Had he forgotten to deliver an important message? Had he served the wrong tea? He racked his brain, trying desperately to figure out what he had done.
The king must have sensed his discomfort, for he said with a smile, "Calm yourself, boy. You have done no wrong."
He nearly wept with relief.
"Now then, first things first," declared Elendil in a business-like tone. These people you see before you are the royalty of the elven kingdoms, save one. You know my son. The lady is Her Majesty Queen Galadriel of Lothlorien; the gentleman, her husband, Celeborn."
He nodded and bowed, more confused than ever. Celeborn looked quite the twit, an impression he wisely kept to himself.
"And this," continued Elendil with a vague gesture of his hand, "is Gandalf, a promising young mage. I trust you have heard of him?"
"It pains me to say that I have not, Your Majesty," he confessed, eyeing the young wizard with curiosity. He was young, perhaps twenty, with long blonde hair and contemplative blue eyes.
Elendil raised a thin eyebrow at this, but only said, "Ah…it matters not. I have a proposition for you, young Elrond."
Elrond sat up straighter, intrigued.
"You have been under my care for how long now, seven hundred years?" he asked.
"Yes, my lord," he answered. He wasn't sure where this was going.
"You have become like a son to me," mused the king, looking at him fondly.
"And you as a father," he conceded. It was true. After the initial shock of his father's death, he'd been drawn in by the monarch's compassion. Slowly, he'd begun to confide in the king, releasing all of his pain, his anger, and his fear. In turn, the king confided his cares and worries to the young page and later steward. There was a strong bond between them.
"Have you noticed the dark clouds over Mordor?" asked Elendil.
This was an odd question indeed, and he wasn't certain what it had to do with their relationship. "Yes, my lord. I have seen the dark, churning clouds that hang like a pall over the mountains."
The king nodded, satisfied. "In all my time upon this earth, I have never seen clouds such as those. I fear they are a portent of a great calamity.
There was a long silence. He didn't know how to respond. Finally the king spoke again. "A request such as this has never been made before and will probably never be made again. But for the unease now stirring in my heart, it would not be made at all. There is coming a great battle, one that will cost Middle Earth much, and I have but one heir. If one or both of us should fall, Mirkwood would be left leaderless. This I cannot allow. Thus I ask you, will you be my second son and heir?"
Elrond sat thunderstruck. This was the last thing he had expected. The world grayed dangerously, and for a moment, he thought he was going to faint. His mouth worked but nothing came out. "I-uh-uh," was all he could manage.
"This is not a decision to be made lightly," interrupted Elendil, "for if you accept, you must forsake all traces of your humanity. No one of mixed blood has ever sat upon an elvish throne. When your father joined with your mother, she bestowed upon him the gift of immortality, a trait passed on to you. But your partial humanity made the gift imperfect. As you may have noticed, you look older than your peers of similar age."
He had indeed. While most elves stopped their aging process at no later than twenty-one, he looked nearly thirty. Only Celeborn looked older, once again prompting suspicions about his intelligence to arise in Elrond's mind.
"Ponder your decision well. Once done, it cannot be undone. You have one day to fix your mind upon an answer. Would that I could give you more, but there isn't much time. If you refuse, I will not love you any less."
With that he had been dismissed. For the rest of that day and most of the night, he roamed the realm of Mirkwood, his mind a maelstrom of confusion, anxiety, and guilt. It was clear that Elendil greatly desired his consent, and he was quite fond of the king, but still his heart could not shake the notion that to accept the offer would be to dishonor his father's memory. His father. The great man who had raised him from infancy. Who had instilled in him a love for the elves and a sense of honor so profound that not even Sauron could corrupt it. For the first time in many years, he wept for his father.
In the end the decision had come to him on the wings of a memory. He was standing in the same spot where, twenty-three hundred years hence, Legolas and Saryn would construct a bower, when the glade changed, replaced by a scene so vivid it took his breath. He sank bonelessly to the ground and watched the past unfold.
It was he and his father. He saw himself as a young boy, dressed in the soft grey tunic and trousers common to all elves. In his hand is a light pine bow, and he is smiling. Beside him stands his father, tall and proud, his hazel eyes gazing down at his progeny with pride and love. Neither of them are burdened with the knowledge that in two months' time, he will be torn asunder by the merciless orcs, and that Elrond will be driven to the brink of madness by the sight of his father's horror-glazed eyes as they bring the body somberly through the streets of Mirkwood. For now, they only revel in their time together.
"Ready?" asks his father, and man-Elrond watches in dreadful fascination as the boy he was nods in eager anticipation. Then his father pitches something into the air. The boy takes careful aim and lets fly, and there is a solid chuk as the arrow hits home.
"Splendid!" cries his father, pleased. The boy laughs, an innocent, uncomplicated sound that fills the gentle twilight breeze and elicits a groan of longing from the man huddled in the corner. The memory is huge, overwhelming. He is suffocating beneath its weight, and still it will not let him go.
The practice lasts until they can no longer see the target. As they walk back home down the familiar forest path, he hears the words that will forever change his destiny.
"People have often asked me if I regret forsaking the realm of men for that of the elves," his father is saying to the boy, "and I tell you I do not. Mark me, my son, I would sacrifice everything to protect this land and these people."
"Alright, alright," he had screamed then, terrified that if he did not break the memory's hold it would destroy him. "I will do it! Torment me no more!"
Everything went black, and when he had come to himself again, he realized it was dawn. His face was still wet with tears and sweat. Drained, he walked back to his quarters on bones that suddenly felt hollow. His sleep had been heavy and dreamless.
"I'll do as you ask," he told the king as he stood before him and the others the following afternoon.
"Bless you,' sighed the king, "I know it was difficult for you." He had taken notice of Elrond's pinched face and red eyes. "Let us begin."
Queen Galadriel stepped forward. She seemed to glide rather than walk. As she drew near, he could smell her, a heady, spicy scent of fresh cinnamon. Her soft red hair glowed like muted fire, and her lavender eyes spoke of compassion and love.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
"I shall never be ready, but there is nothing to be done for it."
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes."
"It is good that you answer honestly. The king has chosen well." Her voice swam over his ears like honey.
She placed her cool hands on either side of his head. Instantly, he was filled with a white heat that radiated to every part of his body. He expected pain, but there was none, only a queer stretching sensation. He could hear her chanting softly, but the words were indistinct. They filled him with a long sought for peace, and he felt a rush of disappointment when she took her hands away.
He understood immediately that something was different. Even if his body had not felt suddenly awkward and unfamiliar, the expressions on the faces of everyone around him would have given it away. Everyone seemed pleased except for Prince Thranduil, who scowled discreetly behind his father's back.
"Behold what you have become," said Elendil, his voice little more than a croak.
He walked to the mirror the king had pointed out on legs that had suddenly become unwieldy. What he saw there in its polished made him gasp. All trace of his humanity was gone. His once round face was now long and angular. His hair, once thick and unmanageable, lay easily on his shoulders. His broad fingers had tapered into long, slender digits. The biggest change, though, had been his eyes. The only trait from his father, his hazel eyes had turned a rich, glittering brown. He greeted these changes with a mixture of wonder and sadness. For good or for ill, the last tie to his father had been severed.
Few outside of the king and his witnesses had been pleased with the declaration of Elrond as second heir, least of all Prince Thranduil, who brooded constantly. Sharing his inheritance had not been part of his plan, and he said so to anyone who would listen. Their relationship, already tepid at best, now grew chill. So great was his jealousy that soon he refused to be seen in the same room with his new brother. In spite of his biological son's reticence, Elendil never wavered in his support for his adopted son, a fact for which Elrond had always been grateful.
The calamity wise Elendil feared did indeed come to pass. A scant two years after his adoption into the royal family, orcs were sighted as far west as Bree, and a desperate envoy of men arrived in Mirkwood to plead for help. Sauron had already conquered the dwarves and a few small bands of men. The men of Bree and Gondor and the elves were all that remained to resist Sauron and his plague of darkness. For many long days, the men and Elendil conferred in tense, hushed tones. Finally it was decided. In March 3434 of the Second Age, the armies of men and elves massed on the slopes of Mount Doom for a desperate last stand against Sauron.
Everyone except Elrond was surprised when it was he, and not Prince Thranduil, that went into battle alongside the king. Elrond had always suspected his "brother" was hoping he would die in battle, thereby solving all of his problems. Thus, it was he who witnessed the king's bravery in battle, he who stood alongside the elves as they struggled for their lands and freedom. And it was also he that saw his second father die much like his first, pierced by the poisoned tip of an orc's arrow. It was he who shrieked his rage at the wind, and he who threw himself wildly against the enemy that had slain both of his fathers. It was here that the outcast mongrel truly became an elven king.
After Sauron was defeated(or so they had believed), he returned to Mirkwood, heartsick and bearing the king's body. It seemed the king had one last gift in store for Elrond. Anticipating his own demise, Elendil had made a will. In it, he made a startling bequest. Instead of granting the entire estate to Thranduil, he divided the expansive kingdom in two, rendering the part known as Rivendell to Elrond.
Elrond had been dumbstruck. The area known as Rivendell was the richest, most verdant region of the elven kingdom, a fact not lost on Prince Thranduil, who had been nearly apoplectic with rage when that particular revelation had been made. His reaction told Elrond it would be wise to leave for his new realm as quickly as possible, and so he did, taking with him a few hundred men he had won over with his bravery in battle.
So it was that he came to be King Elrond of Rivendell, a title that had placed him in his present situation, lying under his cloak and ruminating on how best to salvage a terrible situation. He'd made a mistake in not telling Saryn the whys and wherefores of her husband's departure. Perhaps if he'd calmly explained the situation, she would've been amenable to awaiting his return in Rivendell. Instead, he'd imprisoned her in the tower like a callous tyrant, stopping his ears to her pitiful wails. Now she was on the loose in some forsaken bog, most likely dead. And carrying Legolas' child no less. He was sure how he could bring himself to tell the young man. What a mess.
That's not the only mistake you've ever made, said the same sly, calculating voice inside his head. What about Isildur, eh? You could've spared everyone untold heartache now if you'd only pushed him into the burning, gaping maw of Mountain Doom then, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. You were too much of a coward.
He pushed the thought away viciously. It hadn't been cowardice that stayed his hand; it had been compassion. He could not bring himself to slay a man who had, until moments before, been his ally. Nor could he entertain the idea of the bloodshed that would ensue once men found out that their prince was no more. He could have done it, he supposed, could have shoved Isildur into the glowing crater, ring and all, but there would've been no honor it. He had been afraid the sons of men would have seen the lie in his face and killed him for it.
Even if that were so, said the voice in a mocking sneer, how do you explain that night in the freezing rain, the night you abandoned your greatest responsibility. And slowly, inexorably his mind tried to turn to that fateful night when his honor had failed him.
He resisted with all his will. He would not, could not face that night. Not yet. Not until he reached Lothlorien and Galadriel. Perhaps not even then. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He had never before felt so helpless. So alone.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to think, and think clearly. Saryn's flight had rattled him to the core. The wounded elves had been brought past as he'd been surreptitiously packing his supplies. A pitiful lot they had been, clutching wounded arms and legs and grimacing in pain. His first instinct had been to stay behind and tend to them, but in his heart he knew he could not if he wanted to reach the mines and Lothlorien in time.
When he had been sure that no more could be done in Rivendell, he'd mounted his horse and set off for the Passage of Elbereth, a long-forgotten cavern that led from the castle at Rivendell all the way to the mines of Moria. Built during the First Age, it was widely used as a trading route. After the advent of the Dark Lord Sauron, it served as an escape route for wretched creatures fleeing before his scourge. When peace had returned, the usefulness and need for the passage had diminished until it was forgotten by everyone. Everyone except himself and Gandalf, that was. He'd ridden for days through the inky blackness, vainly hoping that perhaps the escapees had stumbled across this road as well, but they had not. Less than an hour ago, he'd emerged from the cavern to find himself within sight of Moria. Now he waited for daylight.
He started at a soft rustling behind him, but relaxed when he realized that it was only the sound of his mount, Ghidra, munching contentedly on the tender grasses. Events of the past months had made him a nervous wreck. He hardly dared sleep for fear of some sentry bursting in to tell him the Ring had been lost. You mean like last night? said a soft, sly voice inside his head. Yes, like last night. Exactly like last night, as a matter of fact.
He made himself as comfortable as possible under his rich maroon cloak and laid back, his hands beneath his head. He pondered the routes the pair may have taken. Now that she knew Legolas was headed for Mordor, she was no doubt heading on an intercept course to Lothlorien. With the huge head start the party had, it was highly unlikely she would reach him. Unless…but no. Surely she knew not of that place.
What if she does? She was with Telvryn, after all, and if memory served, Telvryn's grandfather was a gatherer of ancient elven lore. There was little doubt he knew of Basylis and his bog, and the old man was notoriously loose-lipped about all he knew. Telvryn had merely to stroke his ego, and the fellow would divulge anything. If he'd told his grandson about the treacherous bog, then that was where they would now be, for Saryn's grief was persuasive. It had nearly snared him the night he locked her in the tower. If they had truly gone into the bog, there was little chance either of them would be seen again.
Realizing he could do nothing about events already past, he turned his mind to other things. He reflected on how strange it was that he should be here at all, all things considered. Born of an elven mother and a human father, his beginnings had been less than auspicious. Though elves were willing to trade with men and entertain friendship with them, they frowned upon intermarriage with other races. Things were made worse by the fact that his mother, Elwind, rumored to be the fairest maiden in all of elvendom, died in childbirth. Now, he had been a mongrel without a mother.
His father, a soldier in the elven army under the great King Elendil of Mirkwood, tried his best to raise him in the elven ways, having forsaken human customs to be with his mother. Despite his father's best efforts, growing up had been painful. He had inherited his mother's keen hearing, and wherever he went, he gritted his teeth against murmurs of "half-breed" and "mongrel."
Just when he thought it could get no worse, it did. His father, a faithful and loyal servant of the king's, was sent to investigate rumors of strange, ruined, hateful creatures lurking in the valley of Mordor. He never returned. Search parties later recovered the torn, savaged, mutilated bodies of his father and the twelve other men in his party. Most were unrecognizable. That had been one of Middle Earth's first encounters with orcs.
King Elendil was a good and kind man, and in tribute to his father's faithful service, he had taken Elrond in as a page in his court. Though he was grateful for the shelter and acceptance he found there, he was devastated by his loss. Still quite young, only three hundred, he often wandered through the castle corridors weeping. If the king knew of these nocturnal travels, he gave no sign.
As the centuries passed, the benevolent king grew quite fond of young Elrond, who had grown into a handsome, strong, just man. For seven hundred years, he had been his faithful servant. It was still a surprise, though, when the king had summoned him into his private study. Even after all these years, he could remember thinking how odd it was that the king should want to see him there, when for seven centuries, he had always been called to the opulent throne room.
Things grew even more bizarre when he entered the study to find it quite full. Besides the king, there had been assembled a striking woman with flowing red hair, a bored blonde man to her right, Prince Thranduil on the left of the king, and a beaming wizard behind the throne.
"Sit Elrond," the king commanded when he entered.
He had sunk weak-kneed into the nearest chair, convinced he was about to be punished for some grievous infraction. What had he done? Had he forgotten to deliver an important message? Had he served the wrong tea? He racked his brain, trying desperately to figure out what he had done.
The king must have sensed his discomfort, for he said with a smile, "Calm yourself, boy. You have done no wrong."
He nearly wept with relief.
"Now then, first things first," declared Elendil in a business-like tone. These people you see before you are the royalty of the elven kingdoms, save one. You know my son. The lady is Her Majesty Queen Galadriel of Lothlorien; the gentleman, her husband, Celeborn."
He nodded and bowed, more confused than ever. Celeborn looked quite the twit, an impression he wisely kept to himself.
"And this," continued Elendil with a vague gesture of his hand, "is Gandalf, a promising young mage. I trust you have heard of him?"
"It pains me to say that I have not, Your Majesty," he confessed, eyeing the young wizard with curiosity. He was young, perhaps twenty, with long blonde hair and contemplative blue eyes.
Elendil raised a thin eyebrow at this, but only said, "Ah…it matters not. I have a proposition for you, young Elrond."
Elrond sat up straighter, intrigued.
"You have been under my care for how long now, seven hundred years?" he asked.
"Yes, my lord," he answered. He wasn't sure where this was going.
"You have become like a son to me," mused the king, looking at him fondly.
"And you as a father," he conceded. It was true. After the initial shock of his father's death, he'd been drawn in by the monarch's compassion. Slowly, he'd begun to confide in the king, releasing all of his pain, his anger, and his fear. In turn, the king confided his cares and worries to the young page and later steward. There was a strong bond between them.
"Have you noticed the dark clouds over Mordor?" asked Elendil.
This was an odd question indeed, and he wasn't certain what it had to do with their relationship. "Yes, my lord. I have seen the dark, churning clouds that hang like a pall over the mountains."
The king nodded, satisfied. "In all my time upon this earth, I have never seen clouds such as those. I fear they are a portent of a great calamity.
There was a long silence. He didn't know how to respond. Finally the king spoke again. "A request such as this has never been made before and will probably never be made again. But for the unease now stirring in my heart, it would not be made at all. There is coming a great battle, one that will cost Middle Earth much, and I have but one heir. If one or both of us should fall, Mirkwood would be left leaderless. This I cannot allow. Thus I ask you, will you be my second son and heir?"
Elrond sat thunderstruck. This was the last thing he had expected. The world grayed dangerously, and for a moment, he thought he was going to faint. His mouth worked but nothing came out. "I-uh-uh," was all he could manage.
"This is not a decision to be made lightly," interrupted Elendil, "for if you accept, you must forsake all traces of your humanity. No one of mixed blood has ever sat upon an elvish throne. When your father joined with your mother, she bestowed upon him the gift of immortality, a trait passed on to you. But your partial humanity made the gift imperfect. As you may have noticed, you look older than your peers of similar age."
He had indeed. While most elves stopped their aging process at no later than twenty-one, he looked nearly thirty. Only Celeborn looked older, once again prompting suspicions about his intelligence to arise in Elrond's mind.
"Ponder your decision well. Once done, it cannot be undone. You have one day to fix your mind upon an answer. Would that I could give you more, but there isn't much time. If you refuse, I will not love you any less."
With that he had been dismissed. For the rest of that day and most of the night, he roamed the realm of Mirkwood, his mind a maelstrom of confusion, anxiety, and guilt. It was clear that Elendil greatly desired his consent, and he was quite fond of the king, but still his heart could not shake the notion that to accept the offer would be to dishonor his father's memory. His father. The great man who had raised him from infancy. Who had instilled in him a love for the elves and a sense of honor so profound that not even Sauron could corrupt it. For the first time in many years, he wept for his father.
In the end the decision had come to him on the wings of a memory. He was standing in the same spot where, twenty-three hundred years hence, Legolas and Saryn would construct a bower, when the glade changed, replaced by a scene so vivid it took his breath. He sank bonelessly to the ground and watched the past unfold.
It was he and his father. He saw himself as a young boy, dressed in the soft grey tunic and trousers common to all elves. In his hand is a light pine bow, and he is smiling. Beside him stands his father, tall and proud, his hazel eyes gazing down at his progeny with pride and love. Neither of them are burdened with the knowledge that in two months' time, he will be torn asunder by the merciless orcs, and that Elrond will be driven to the brink of madness by the sight of his father's horror-glazed eyes as they bring the body somberly through the streets of Mirkwood. For now, they only revel in their time together.
"Ready?" asks his father, and man-Elrond watches in dreadful fascination as the boy he was nods in eager anticipation. Then his father pitches something into the air. The boy takes careful aim and lets fly, and there is a solid chuk as the arrow hits home.
"Splendid!" cries his father, pleased. The boy laughs, an innocent, uncomplicated sound that fills the gentle twilight breeze and elicits a groan of longing from the man huddled in the corner. The memory is huge, overwhelming. He is suffocating beneath its weight, and still it will not let him go.
The practice lasts until they can no longer see the target. As they walk back home down the familiar forest path, he hears the words that will forever change his destiny.
"People have often asked me if I regret forsaking the realm of men for that of the elves," his father is saying to the boy, "and I tell you I do not. Mark me, my son, I would sacrifice everything to protect this land and these people."
"Alright, alright," he had screamed then, terrified that if he did not break the memory's hold it would destroy him. "I will do it! Torment me no more!"
Everything went black, and when he had come to himself again, he realized it was dawn. His face was still wet with tears and sweat. Drained, he walked back to his quarters on bones that suddenly felt hollow. His sleep had been heavy and dreamless.
"I'll do as you ask," he told the king as he stood before him and the others the following afternoon.
"Bless you,' sighed the king, "I know it was difficult for you." He had taken notice of Elrond's pinched face and red eyes. "Let us begin."
Queen Galadriel stepped forward. She seemed to glide rather than walk. As she drew near, he could smell her, a heady, spicy scent of fresh cinnamon. Her soft red hair glowed like muted fire, and her lavender eyes spoke of compassion and love.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
"I shall never be ready, but there is nothing to be done for it."
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes."
"It is good that you answer honestly. The king has chosen well." Her voice swam over his ears like honey.
She placed her cool hands on either side of his head. Instantly, he was filled with a white heat that radiated to every part of his body. He expected pain, but there was none, only a queer stretching sensation. He could hear her chanting softly, but the words were indistinct. They filled him with a long sought for peace, and he felt a rush of disappointment when she took her hands away.
He understood immediately that something was different. Even if his body had not felt suddenly awkward and unfamiliar, the expressions on the faces of everyone around him would have given it away. Everyone seemed pleased except for Prince Thranduil, who scowled discreetly behind his father's back.
"Behold what you have become," said Elendil, his voice little more than a croak.
He walked to the mirror the king had pointed out on legs that had suddenly become unwieldy. What he saw there in its polished made him gasp. All trace of his humanity was gone. His once round face was now long and angular. His hair, once thick and unmanageable, lay easily on his shoulders. His broad fingers had tapered into long, slender digits. The biggest change, though, had been his eyes. The only trait from his father, his hazel eyes had turned a rich, glittering brown. He greeted these changes with a mixture of wonder and sadness. For good or for ill, the last tie to his father had been severed.
Few outside of the king and his witnesses had been pleased with the declaration of Elrond as second heir, least of all Prince Thranduil, who brooded constantly. Sharing his inheritance had not been part of his plan, and he said so to anyone who would listen. Their relationship, already tepid at best, now grew chill. So great was his jealousy that soon he refused to be seen in the same room with his new brother. In spite of his biological son's reticence, Elendil never wavered in his support for his adopted son, a fact for which Elrond had always been grateful.
The calamity wise Elendil feared did indeed come to pass. A scant two years after his adoption into the royal family, orcs were sighted as far west as Bree, and a desperate envoy of men arrived in Mirkwood to plead for help. Sauron had already conquered the dwarves and a few small bands of men. The men of Bree and Gondor and the elves were all that remained to resist Sauron and his plague of darkness. For many long days, the men and Elendil conferred in tense, hushed tones. Finally it was decided. In March 3434 of the Second Age, the armies of men and elves massed on the slopes of Mount Doom for a desperate last stand against Sauron.
Everyone except Elrond was surprised when it was he, and not Prince Thranduil, that went into battle alongside the king. Elrond had always suspected his "brother" was hoping he would die in battle, thereby solving all of his problems. Thus, it was he who witnessed the king's bravery in battle, he who stood alongside the elves as they struggled for their lands and freedom. And it was also he that saw his second father die much like his first, pierced by the poisoned tip of an orc's arrow. It was he who shrieked his rage at the wind, and he who threw himself wildly against the enemy that had slain both of his fathers. It was here that the outcast mongrel truly became an elven king.
After Sauron was defeated(or so they had believed), he returned to Mirkwood, heartsick and bearing the king's body. It seemed the king had one last gift in store for Elrond. Anticipating his own demise, Elendil had made a will. In it, he made a startling bequest. Instead of granting the entire estate to Thranduil, he divided the expansive kingdom in two, rendering the part known as Rivendell to Elrond.
Elrond had been dumbstruck. The area known as Rivendell was the richest, most verdant region of the elven kingdom, a fact not lost on Prince Thranduil, who had been nearly apoplectic with rage when that particular revelation had been made. His reaction told Elrond it would be wise to leave for his new realm as quickly as possible, and so he did, taking with him a few hundred men he had won over with his bravery in battle.
So it was that he came to be King Elrond of Rivendell, a title that had placed him in his present situation, lying under his cloak and ruminating on how best to salvage a terrible situation. He'd made a mistake in not telling Saryn the whys and wherefores of her husband's departure. Perhaps if he'd calmly explained the situation, she would've been amenable to awaiting his return in Rivendell. Instead, he'd imprisoned her in the tower like a callous tyrant, stopping his ears to her pitiful wails. Now she was on the loose in some forsaken bog, most likely dead. And carrying Legolas' child no less. He was sure how he could bring himself to tell the young man. What a mess.
That's not the only mistake you've ever made, said the same sly, calculating voice inside his head. What about Isildur, eh? You could've spared everyone untold heartache now if you'd only pushed him into the burning, gaping maw of Mountain Doom then, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. You were too much of a coward.
He pushed the thought away viciously. It hadn't been cowardice that stayed his hand; it had been compassion. He could not bring himself to slay a man who had, until moments before, been his ally. Nor could he entertain the idea of the bloodshed that would ensue once men found out that their prince was no more. He could have done it, he supposed, could have shoved Isildur into the glowing crater, ring and all, but there would've been no honor it. He had been afraid the sons of men would have seen the lie in his face and killed him for it.
Even if that were so, said the voice in a mocking sneer, how do you explain that night in the freezing rain, the night you abandoned your greatest responsibility. And slowly, inexorably his mind tried to turn to that fateful night when his honor had failed him.
He resisted with all his will. He would not, could not face that night. Not yet. Not until he reached Lothlorien and Galadriel. Perhaps not even then. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He had never before felt so helpless. So alone.