Lost Youth

Chapter Three

Thanks as ever to Nemis for betaing this.

Sorry for the delay.  Real life got … well, real.

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The years that passed then were long and hard, and even the appearance of the Silmaril in the heavens did little to mitigate the growing dread in the hearts of the Elves.  And whereas Fingon's son had slowly but surely claimed their allegiance, the new High King was but an elfling, and fear threaded through their veins.

Those who knew him in those years did not doubt, for such was the light in his eyes, the glimmering silver of his gaze, and the determination writ hard in his face.  The young King grew fast, faster than the Eldar were wont to, and already at but thirty-five years of age, he was tall and slender, learned in lore and wise, far beyond his years.  And the much-loathed crown no longer fell over his ears in such a comical fashion, but rested atop his dark hair – when he could be persuaded to wear it, which was not often.  But many did not know him, saw him only from a distance, a half-grown child of mixed blood, whom they could not distinguish from his brother; an elfling not yet tried in battle.  How could he possibly stand against the Dark Lord when all others of his House who tried had fallen into darkness?  And thus it was that the Lady Protector hatched a plan…

"What does this say?" The elfling's shoulders tensed as he stabbed at the genealogy with one finger.  "What in the name of Mandos does this say?"

"Hmmm… well, 'tis the table of your family, my liege," Gelmir answered evasively.

"And what does it say of me?"

"Eärendil, son of Tuor and Idril Celebrindal of Gondolin, and Elwing, daughter of Nimloth and Dior, heir of Thingol; their younger son, Elros, and the elder, the High King, Elrond Gil-estel."

"Precisely."  Elrond crumpled the sheet of parchment between his long fingers.  "Are you not content to endear me to a populace which wants me not as their king by my forsaken inheritance alone, that you have to appropriate a title for me which rightfully belong to others?"

"My liege…" Gelmir started, wishing that he were anywhere else.  He was a kind man and gentle, but these strange, fey elflings were beyond him, especially the kingling who baffled his every move, far exceeding him already in wisdom, wrathful and coolly blank by turns.

"No.  No more of this 'my liege'.  The title, which you so unfittingly bestow upon me, belongs half to my birth-father who sails, we know not how, the heavens, and half to adar Gil-galad who has passed beyond us to the Halls of Awaiting.  You cannot make me him; I cannot be him.  I am no Gil-Estel, for hope has fled away in these lands."

"Elrond," the tutor reproved him, "you are a scion of the House of Finwë and you cannot do it injustice with your doubt.  These burdens belong to you alone…"

"The House of Finwë!" Elrond laughed caustically.  "Is it possible that I could do it injustice?  A line of kinslayers and fools, excepting the late lamented king, may Mandos release him soon."  He toyed with a quill, twisting it between his fingers until the fragile feather bent and broke beneath his touch.  He cast the fragments at the tiled floor and begun to tug angrily at his braids. "Sometimes I wonder whether I do more ill to it, or it to me."

"Yet it is your inheritance," Gelmir bent forward, speaking earnestly.  "You cannot forsake it…"

"Although I would…"

"…Whether you would or no.  This duty runs in your blood, and you will belong to its fate until your very death.  'Tis yours to bear."

"Then 'twould be better for me to die," Elrond spat bitterly, his young frame slumping.

"Say not so, Gil-estel, say not so."  The boy scowled at the title before the elder could prevent it from slipping between his lips.  "Your death would avail us naught."

"Would it not?" pondered the elfling.  "It seems to be that Elros would be a better king than me by far, and that nothing would be lost in my passing.  I am no Gil-galad, let alone Gil-estel.  There is no hope for these benighted people in the continued beating of my heart."

"You cannot die," Gelmir urged him.  "You cannot…"

"Leave me be, my lord.  Leave me be.  I wish for silence."

The tutor slipped from the room, casting one last glance back at his charge, who was now methodically shredding the crumpled genealogy, and looking at the rich tapestries with blinding hatred.

Elrond discarded the ruined document and flung himself into the window seat, gazing out over the wind-swept yard to the bay beyond.  The hue of the lashed waves matched his eyes as exactly as the foul weather did his heart.

Ai… I should not have spoken as I did…  'Twas not befitting.  But then nothing is befitting.  Nothing can be done to make this wretched situation any the better.  We will all fall into darkness and perish.  The light is already lost… His wrath was not assuaged, and, fuelled by his melancholy wonderings, he swung himself to the floor and made his way through the corridors.  The Elves who bowed courteously to him shrank back, their smiles fading on their lips, at the sullen storm brewing in their young king's face. ~*~ "I perceive this is of your doing." Galadriel lifted her head from the neatly stacked papers and looked at him inquiringly. "What is of my doing?" "This … this epessë … Gil-estel I have heard myself called by those who know no better," he said with a scowl. "The people need hope." The lady laid down her quill and regarded him over steepled hands. "I cannot give it to them.  If you want a figurehead, why do you not take up the crown?" "I am of the House of Finarfin; you of that of Fingolfin.  You are the rightful king." "I am peredhil," he replied scornfully, "and of more Houses than years.  There is nothing in me that is befitting of this title." "And your many Houses make your more the leader than I." "Then have a child.  He could lead all Middle-earth better than I, with the blood of Lord Celeborn in his veins." "It is not time."  She did not know where that enigmatic thought had come from, for she had not pondered it before.  "And besides, you are the rightful king of the Noldor in Middle-earth.  It is not yours to decide whether you the position suits you.  It is yours whether you will it or no." "I cannot take his place."  Elrond sank into the spare chair, covering his face with his hands.  "Adar would have been a legend if he had but lived."  He lifted the mithril circlet from his head and twirled it between his hands, tracing the abstract pattern absent-mindedly.  "I have no hope to give to Middle-earth, for I have none for myself." So very young he looked then, tears bright in his moonlit eyes, the heavy robes of his office drooping off slender shoulders; Galadriel almost reached out to smooth his ebon locks back, but some flicker of foresight prevented her. No comfort for this one, if he is to become what he will be "Think you that Ereinion had hope?  Turgon?  Fingon?  Fingolfin?  Nay, 'tis precisely because there is no hope, because hearts are cast low, that you must be our Gil-estel." "Gil-estel is a star, a Silmaril in the heavens, consecrated by the Valar," Elrond said sharply.  "I am but an Elf, and less than an Elf." "Nay: more.  Do you forget that the blood of Melian flows in your veins, truer mayhap than that of the Atani?" "How could I?" he asked wryly.  Not yet; he would not speak of the dreams yet.  Utumno, gleaming dark against the skies, and light before there were ever stars.  And soaring music which seared his very blood, a wrenching, screaming pain of delight, and there, there, on the very edge of being, a presence he could never quite grasp.  Ai, ai, thou who art more than all the Valar … ai, what is thy purpose in this, O Most Mighty? Not yet, for it was not his to tell, a terrible secret hidden deep in flesh and blood… "Yet, to the Elves who looked to Gil-galad with such surety, I am but an Edain child, young in years and poor in knowledge."

"And thus it is that I name you Gil-estel, for they must find in that name the hope which is within you, although they see it not."

"You lie, although you know it not."  Elrond stood to leave, his countenance desolate, his eyes raking the neat shelves of books as if he might find some solution to the problem that tormented him therein.  His hands fell helplessly to his sides and he bowed his head in anguish.  "They speak the truth who despair.  There is no hope in me."

~*~

Elrond found his brother easily, although Gelmir had not known where to look.  He tramped over the tangled rocks, the hem of his robes trailing in the water, picking up traces of the slimy seaweed.  With a single smile, Elros dismissed the Edain children who had clustered around him.

For a long time the twins sat in silence.  The elder reached down to tickle an anemone, disregarding the stinging pain which shot through his finger.  The gentle ripples lapped at his hand, as he wafted it through the drifting green tendrils of weed.

"Think you that we are like this pool?" he asked at last.

"I do not understand."

"Locked away from what we might be, a shallow puddle in which the appearance of life is preserved, although the tide of things leaves it bereft of all hope, bereft of the sea to which it belongs," Elrond muttered.

"Yet it is so beautiful," Elros replied, smiling.  "So very short-lived, before the sea rushes in once more, yet so very beautiful, Gil-estel."

"Not you too," Elrond snapped, punching his brother none too likely.

"What would you prefer?  Gil-amarth?" the younger asked, levering himself upright and picking fragments of seashell out of his dark tresses.

"'Twould be more apt," his twin sighed.

"Oh really?  Then perhaps I should throw you in the sea, Gil-estel-amarth."  And with surprising strength, Elros hefted his brother into his arms.  With a few short strides, he was at the water's edge, the soft sand squelching under his bare toes.  Wading deeper into the sea, he dropped Elrond abruptly.

"I believe Feliathlion would say that was treason."  He surfaced, spluttering.

"Feliathlion says stealing your potatoes off your plate is treason," he laughed.

"And so it is."

"Even when you have no intention of eating them, my king?" Elros inquired sarcastically.

"Especially then."  Elrond trod water.  "Why are you not wearing these frustrating robes?

"Because I am but the younger brother of the king, not the king himself, Gil-estel."

"I shall get you for that."  And before Elros could react, he threw himself at his twin, dunking him thoroughly in the seawater.

"Hey!  You son of an orc!" The elfling flicked his black hair out of his eyes.  "You will pay for that…"

As the elflings busied themselves with attempting to drown each other, a pair of sad green eyes watched from the shore.

"Aye, be children for the little space which fate allots you," Celeborn whispered, ignoring the sand clinging to the hem of his robes.  And, unbeknownst to all, a solitary figure on the far shore echoed his sentiments, looking out over the lonely waste of ocean.  He was not welcome on the Isle of Balar, and he knew it full well, yet still he watched for the elflings.  Grey eyes prickled with tears, soft with sorrow.

"Be safe, my sons.  Be safe."

TBC

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Translations:

Gil-amarth – star of doom.