Chapter 5 - Vows Not Lightly Made
In Elrond's study, Aragorn was sitting in his habitual place on the hearth stone. He rose when they entered, coming forward to look into Legolas's face. Elrond quietly withdrew, murmuring that he would fetch some wine.
Seeing Aragorn's expression, Legolas said reassuringly, "I am well, mellon nín, rest easy. I needed only a little time to gather my thoughts." Aragorn, though he had understood Legolas's reasons for wishing to be alone, nevertheless relaxed at his friend's reassurance.
He was startled when Legolas said in a deliberately melodramatic tone, "And, I was consumed with the terrible humiliation that you caught me in a moment of," he coughed, "inaccuracy!"
Aragorn's laughter joined Legolas's. "How many times do you miss? I will use it to keep you in your place when you become too arrogant, Elf!" he retorted.
Legolas narrowed his eyes, "If you tell a soul, you feckless Human, the next time I practice, the target will be moving!"
They turned as Elrond approached, one eyebrow raised. Quietly, he said, "Though I am glad to hear your laughter, I did not summon you here for such. I would ask that you both sit and be silent, for there is much to say," They both heard the unspoken, And by its end, I doubt you will be much inclined to laughter.
Both Legolas and Aragorn sensed the emotion beneath Elrond's words. It felt like anger. Aragorn for his part, had rarely seen his father so distressed, and realised that its cause must be grave indeed. Whatever it was Elrond had to tell them had caused the Elf-Lord much pain. Chastened, they took their seats before the fire.
They saw that Elrond held a carved wooden box and a tooled leather harness. Legolas noted that the decoration matched that on his knife.
Elrond poured wine before taking his own seat. He stared into the deep-red depths of his glass, looking back across the centuries. Finally, he sighed, raising his head, eyes filled with memory. Legolas sat up in his chair as Elrond's eyes sought his, curiosity warring with trepidation.
"Most of what I am about to tell you, few now know, or ever knew. I have asked Estel to be here because this concerns him also in that in part it is a tale of old hurts between Elves and Men; hurts which affect the present and, I fear, the future." At Legolas's nod he continued, "Much of it I gleaned from Thranduil's mind on the occasions I healed him after the final battle fought by the Last Alliance, as is often the case with healing of such depth. Some of it he likely would not wish others to know, and I do not betray that lightly. Yet it is important that you understand. The rest, I was witness to."
In a window seat of one of the private family chambers, an Elf sat with his back against the tapestry-covered wall looking out over the formal gardens. Though darkness had settled gently over Lindon many hours ago, and it was nearing midnight, Thranduil could still see the land mapped out in his mind's eye, the land which comprised now the only surviving portion of Beleriand.
In the time since he had come here, Thranduil's world had changed utterly. He thought of his father, Oropher. There was love between them, as father to son, but it had never been an easy relationship and they had often been at odds. With Gil-galad, Thranduil found that he was loved without condition or judgment. He had responded by learning eagerly everything the Noldor and his household had to teach: Of the running of a Kingdom in both peace and war; of diplomacy and negotiation; of the command of armies; horsemanship; music; history; lore and more else than he cared to enumerate.
Yet it had been his weapons practice to which Thranduil had gone most eagerly. For these Gil-galad saw to himself, making time amongst the many demands on his energies and attention, to instruct Thranduil in the use of sword, knife, spear and bow.
Often, they would train in the sand-covered training yard amid other Elves or alone under the watchful eye of Elrond, or on occasion, Círdan. Thranduil had proved a gifted and willing pupil; few now in Lindon could outmatch him.
But the times Thranduil treasured most were when he and Gil-galad took horses and rode into the foothills of the Ered Luin, to make camp in the wooded glades, sparring under the starlight, each simply enjoying the company of the other.
There were others here also whom he had come to love, in particular the High-King's Herald, Elrond Peredhel, with whom Thranduil studied history and lore. The two had formed a close friendship, bordering on brotherhood.
"You are awake late as usual, mellon nín." A quiet voice recalled Thranduil from his thoughts and he looked up, towards one of the arched entrances at the far end of the large room.
As if Thranduil's thoughts had summoned him, Elrond entered, dressed for riding.
Thranduil unfolded himself from the window seat and came forward to greet his friend. The two Elves embraced and as they drew apart, Thranduil said, "As are you Peredhel. You must have ridden hard to return tonight. Is all well with Círdan?"
Elrond nodded, turning to a nearby table. He poured wine into two silver goblets, handing one to Thranduil. He seated himself in the window seat the other had just vacated. Thranduil sat opposite, folding his knees up and resting his arms across them, fingers wrapped around the stem of his goblet.
Elrond sat, eyes closed, head tilted back against the tapestry covered wall of the embrasure. He was unsurprised that he had found Thranduil here, had counted on it in fact, for what he had in mind. The Prince often sought solitude when the rest of the household had retired. He thought of how the Prince had changed since he had come to Lindon.
Thranduil had found the father's love he had always sought in Gil-galad and the love of a brother in Elrond. In recent centuries, this security had seen him develop into a skilled and innovative leader. Yet when Thranduil was worried about those he loved, the insecurity born of a difficult relationship with his father, was wont to resurface. Wary, sometimes even mistrustful, Thranduil's affection and loyalty were not easily won. Once given though, they were wholehearted and fiercely defended.
Elrond could feel Thranduil watching him. He knew the weariness he felt showed on his face. Opening his eyes, he smiled warmly at the other Elf, "I assure you, meldir, all is well."
More than well, he thought. In going to Mithlond with Gil-galad's message, Elrond had also had a purpose of his own, though at first he had not realised it.
As Thranduil relaxed, Elrond closed his eyes once more, hearing again the conversation he had had with Círdan.
***
Elrond had come up to the highest point of the city. From his position, seated in the lee of one of the towers, he could see out over the dark waters of the Gulf of Lhûn. His eyes were drawn as always to his father's light, bright in the clear night. His gaze moved on towards the foothills of the Ered Luin and beyond it, mind on the two who had occupied his thoughts so much in these past months.
He turned his head as he caught a gleam of silver at the edge of his vision. Círdan did not speak, or even glance at the seated Elf, merely leaning his arms on the wall before the tower and looking out as Elrond had done across the Gulf.
For a while, they did not speak. Elrond realised that Círdan, perceptive as always, had noticed his mood and had come to discover its cause. He watched as the wind off the sea eddied about the Lord of the Falathrim, lifting the silver strands of Círdan's hair, recognising him for a friend. Elrond wondered what it was the sea winds whispered to him. He too wished for its counsel.
Círdan did not turn and Elrond sighed in frustration. Ever had it been thus. Since Elrond's childhood, when he and Elros had come to Círdan's household, the shipwright had been possessed of an unending patience. Elrond suspected it came from watching the sea in its endless, ever-changing moods. At times it irritated him; now was one of those times.
Still without turning, Círdan chuckled, the quiet sound reaching Elrond in the still night. Elrond stood and went to the wall, leaning on it next to the older Elf. Círdan still gazed out over the water, expression enigmatic as ever.
Elrond shook his head. He hadn't realised he had needed to talk about this as Círdan apparently had.
"You are remembering your brother," came the murmured words, hardly louder than the breeze.
" I feel close to him here," Elrond responded.
"And you wonder now what he would think of your wish to undergo the brother-oath with Ereinion and Thranduil." He turned now to look fully at Elrond. "Do you really need to ask, neth Peredhel?"
Young Half-Elf. Elrond did not feel young. He felt old, old and yet still unsure if he was betraying his brother's memory in wishing to swear the oath of brotherhood with two who had become as family to him. The oath was rare. Rarely did any who knew of it, Elf or Dúnadan, bind their blood with that of another in the ancient ritual. Friendship and existing kin were usually enough.
But Elrond no longer had any whom he could call close kin and he wished to set the seal on the kinship he had formed with Gil-galad and Thranduil. This time, friendship did not seem enough and his heart called for the commitment the brother-oath would bring, making them family as surely as if they had been born so.
But there was more to the oath than that, and another reason it was so rare. For in swearing the oath and allowing blood to meld, those who so swore also linked their souls; so that if one died, the fëa of that one, while travelling to the Halls of Mandos, would leave an imprint on the soul of the one who was left behind; a link however tenuous, to the one who had departed. And while it could bring comfort, also did it bring much pain, a reminder that while the link could still be felt, still to some extent be touched, never would the one who had been lost be truly present until the ending of Arda. Fleeting feelings, whispered thoughts would be left, tenuous and half felt. Most Elves did not wish the added grief such a lingering link brought, for in it also there was an increased risk that the one bereft would choose to follow the one who had been lost to Mandos's Halls and in these times, there were already too many losses.
It was a risk, the oath of brotherhood, a chance that death, if it came, could bring the most rare and fleeting comfort and the most exquisite pain. It was a risk Elrond was willing to take. For a King and friend who was also alone and a young Elf whose kind did not often even trust those of the same blood as Elrond. Elrond had not thought to feel again the closeness of brotherhood. He had no wish to replace Elros, but he knew his brother would understand the impulse which now moved his twin. In his mind's eye, he saw Elros smile.
With an indrawn breath, Elrond turned to face Círdan, to find the Lord of the Falathrim watching him, waiting. Elrond nodded, feeling a weight lift at the making of his decision.
***
Elrond opened his eyes as the memory faded. He had become aware of another presence at the entrance to the hall and both he and Thranduil turned to look.
In the doorway stood another Elf; his tall, elegant form, beautiful even among the Eldar, framed by the softly lit ante-chamber behind him. He was dressed informally, in soft grey leggings and a thigh-length tunic of midnight-blue, sewn with silver stars. The only indication of his rank was a intricately wrought circlet of mithril and gold which contained the straight fall of his long, dark hair.
But there was no mistaking who this Elf was. About him there was an aura of power, deftly wielded; coupled with infinite patience, uncanny perception, and a gaze which contained the full force of a will few could withstand. The delicate lines and angles of his face held an unearthly beauty and strength and his expression, when he so chose, gave away little.
And there was about him a sense of 'otherness', subtle almost intangible, it set him apart.
Yet as he came forward, it was his warm smile of greeting they saw. That and the fact that, as was most often the case in more relaxed moments, he was barefoot.
Elrond cast a long-suffering glance at the ceiling, "My Lord Gil-galad, how do you expect to engender the proper respect in your household and warriors if you cannot even remember to wear shoes?"
Thranduil, who had heard this exchange many times before, ducked his head to hide a smile, even as the object of Elrond's censure approached them, grinning unrepentantly.
"Ah, but I leave it to you, my Herald, to point out my lack of ability to dress myself."
Elrond sighed dramatically, "It was ever my lot to prevent you from dropping Aeglos and falling over your own feet. It is a wonder you do not forget where you have placed your crown!" He rose and met his King in a laughing embrace.
They stepped back and Elrond resumed his seat. Gil-galad turned to Thranduil, who had stood, "Mae govannen, my son," he smiled..
Elrond considered the two before him. Despite the difference in their colouring, at times, he had to remind himself they were not father and son by blood. It was a difficulty most who saw them together had also. He doubted it would please Oropher if he knew.
The King poured himself a goblet of wine and as he did so, the other two moved in familiar, unspoken agreement. Thranduil seated himself cross-legged on the hearth rug; Elrond dropped bonelessly into one of the padded chairs before the fire.
Gil-galad turned, "And you chide me for my lack of formal attire! Look at you, my Herald, commander of my warriors, folded gracelessly into a chair…"
Elrond slanted a glance up and back at his King, thinking anew that what endeared Gil-galad most to his people was his ready smile and his oddly irreverent sense of humour. That and the uncanny ability to make all those who served him feel as though their doings and concerns were of importance to him. "Ah, but at least I wear my shoes…"
Gil-galad made a derisive sound and similarly dropped into another chair across the fire, moving as ever with the elegance of a cat. Elrond smiled and, gave him the shipwright's reply to Gil-galad's message.
When he had finished, Gil-galad nodded and was silent for a few moments. Then he looked at his friend, one brow raised in query. "Now," he said, "You did not summon me here at this unearthly hour knowing also Thranduil's penchant for night-time thinking, to give me a report on the new ships. What is it you wished to speak to us about, muindor?"
Brother. Elrond smiled briefly and then grew serious. He reached down to his pack near the window seat. His expression had gone suddenly serious and the other two, sensing his mood, allowed their amusement to fade.
In Elrond's hand, in white scabbards, their hilts of pale wood inlaid with gold, were two knives. "These were crafted for my brother and me, a gift from our father. They are a pair, closely bonded, and I…." He hesitated, his usual eloquence deserting him and then he looked up, coming to his feet slowly.
"My lord Gil-galad, my friend and King and my Lord Thranduil, heir to the Woodland Realm, I would pledge oath of brotherhood with you, that our blood and souls are linked unto the ending of Arda."
The other two were stunned. Yet as he spoke the words, a feeling of rightness came to them, as if a hitherto unrealised part of themselves had made itself known. They stood, coming forward to stand with the dark-haired Herald.
It was a simple ritual, an affirmation rather than a pledge, utterly sacred. Elrond drew both knives, laying them on the table. With one he drew a line across the fleshy base of his palm so that a thin stream of blood appeared on the smooth skin. Turning to Gil-galad who held up his left hand, he drew a similar line across the King's palm. The two Elves then held their palms together," Blood and soul be bonded. May the Valar witness as I take you now as my oath-brother."
For a moment, the two Elves stood silently. Then Elrond wiped the blade, sheathed it, and placed it in Gil-galad's hands.
He turned to Thranduil, drawing the other knife and repeating the formal gesture and words before placing the sheathed weapon in the Prince's hands.
Elrond bowed his head. They returned the gesture. The pledge had been made and witnessed by the Valar, it could not now be broken. Elrond felt it settle into place within his fëa, watching the faces of the other two as they felt the same subtle shift in perception, the gentle touch of the other's mind. It was complete.
Elrond stopped speaking and looked up. His fingers were curled into his palms, lightly touching the places where the cuts had been made so long ago.
Aragorn and Legolas were silent, awed and touched by what they had heard. Though both knew that Elrond had been the High King's Herald, they had not known the true depth of love and friendship between the three Elves.
Legolas was silent a moment, trying to absorb the enormity of what he had heard. He looked down at the blade he held with new awe, envisioning again the scene Elrond had just described. "I did not know. But…." he hesitated, raising his head to look in confusion at Elrond, "There are things I do not understand. To my knowledge, my father has never spoken of your bond. Why?"
Elrond's expression was filled with sorrow and regret. " My tale is not yet finished. By its end you will understand. And you will come to see why your father reacted as he did to your mother's death. Yet there is one more thing you must know before I continue. A short time after I had sworn brother-oath with your father and Gil-galad, they came to me as I knew they would," Elrond looked into the fire, "They swore the oath as father and son."
Legolas caught his breath. "But…"
Elrond did not take his eyes from the fire, "In all honour, Gil-galad wished to explain to Oropher, in the hope that he would understand why the oath had been made, but Thranduil vehemently opposed it and so Oropher never knew. It is testament to the lack in his relationship with his son that he never sensed it."
Legolas, though still a little stunned, nodded.
Elrond's gaze went to Aragorn whose dark hair partially veiled the thoughtful expression on his young face, "And now I must tell you of the final days of the Last Alliance. You, Estel, will understand much of the significance of what I tell you now."
Aragorn looked up, grey eyes serious, as if he prepared himself to hear something he dreaded, "Go on, ada, though I fear this will not be easy to hear."
"It will not," Elrond agreed, "But hear it you must, both of you, for I feel it will yet have an effect in the world, and sooner than any of us may realise."