Lost Youth
Chapter Four
Thanks to Nemis for betaing this, and for help with the Quenya.
I'm going to try a little of Kalurien's reverse psychology here: No, no, of course I don't want you to review. It's never occurred to me that you might review…
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Elrond slumped lower into the throne, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. His slender fingers worried restlessly with a loose thread as he wondered idly how many of the brilliant silver-gilt stars he could unravel before the Dwarves could finish their stilted presentation. With a sigh, he realised that it would be enough to clothe the heavens in splendour and bathe the earth with light. For a species renowned as taciturn, the Naugrim could be remarkably long-winded when the fancy took them.
The distant look in the eyes of the Lady Protector suggested that even she was paying scant attention, instead preferring to calm her husband, who was clenching and unclenching his fists within his voluminous sleeves, the name of Doriath hovering on his lips.
The king pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, attempting to ward off the incipient headache, the dull sense of unease which had plagued him since he had arisen that morn. Try as he might, his attention would not heed his best efforts and persisted in wandering. Restlessly, he counted the number of Elves thronging the room. Really, he should have persuaded Elros to take his place, but the prince had scowled at him most uncharacteristically, and mumbled something about fishing nets and the need to repair the rigging of Círdan's ship before escaping into the bright sunlight. He, however, was trapped here, as trammelled by the raiment of his office as by the stiff custom of the court. If anything, it seemed to grow more and more formal by the year, as if the people of Balar hoped to stave off the impending disaster with all this froth and flummery.
"…If you would but send troops to protect the convey-lines the we could have the metal ready for you. As it is…"
"We have no such troops," Galadriel interjected smoothly. "There is nothing we can do for you, Master Dwarf, nothing more than we have already done."
"I lower myself to plead with you, and you say me nay?" Ralin growled, his thick ginger moustache curled into a grimace.
"I was not aware that you were pleading."
"To an Elf, no less; to a slayer of my kin…"
"The Dwarves drew first blood in the deep halls of Menegroth." Celeborn's calm face was marred by an expression of deep hostility, and red spots danced in his cheeks.
"Enough." Elrond rose to his feet, drawing his robes tightly around himself to ward off the chill sea breezes sweeping through the open windows. "We shall all fail and fall into darkness if we choose to ignore the realities of our situation. To believe that either party is being deliberately obstructive avails us naught."
Ralin scowled and rested his hand on the butt of his axe, his stubby fingers tapping impatiently against the inlaid gemstones.
"However, we will have no army without new weapons, and no new weapons without the metals for which Durin's folk delve so valiantly. Thus, if we are not to be caught asleep in our beds like children when the shadow comes upon us, we must agree to spare some of our scarce warriors to guard those who would aid us."
Celeborn looked as if he had just bitten into a particularly juicy apple only to find that it was actually a lemon.
"Have you any power in this matter, Elven King?" the Dwarf asked sceptically. "'Twas my thought that you are but a babe in the reckoning of your people."
"Young is the head that bears the crown, but true flows the blood of his forefathers in his veins; and heaviest burdens are easiest borne by those from whom we least expect such valour," Galadriel answered enigmatically, moving to stand beside her ward. Elrond shot her a grateful smile.
"Then it is done, Master Dwarf. Twenty soldiers shall sail with you."
Ralin looked pleased beneath the encompassing carpet of his beard, yet the High King could not but hear his whispered aside to one of his companions. "By the blood of Durin, did he have to mention that ruddy boat?" The Dwarf shuddered, and hunched his shoulders.
"What is next?"
An Elf in the garb of one of the Gondolindrim stepped forward and bowed profusely, his neatly braided silver locks almost sweeping the floor. In his outstretched hands, he held a dagger, hilt first. It was marvellously wrought, a true work of craftsmanship, a luminous sapphire gleaming amid the mithril, which was engraved with entwined oak leaves. Elrond took it carefully, turning it over and over in his hands. When he drew it from its scabbard the blade flashed, the intricately carved Quenya tengwar throwing silver sparks across the vaulted ceiling.
"I am honoured, my Lord…"
"Afilion, my liege."
"…My Lord Afilion. But for what am I endowed with such a wondrous gift?"
"My liege, have you forgotten?" The Elf looked shocked. "'Tis in honour of the day: the forty-ninth anniversary of your begetting."
"Oh… oh … I thank you for remembering when I did not." He flushed with chagrin. So that was why Elros had been so hostile: for in forgetting his own begetting day he had naturally forgotten that of his twin. Afilion was considerably shorter than him, thin and wiry, with haunted eyes, and as he looked down into them, his own showing his acute discomfort, he caught something mirrored in those ancient, wordless depths… Bitterness? Malice? Triumph? But before he could ponder upon it, 'twas all too late; too late for anything. With surprising strength, the other gripped his wrist, and, while his muscles were still lax from shock, turned his extended hand against him, driving the wickedly sharp blade up between his ribs. He felt metal grate against bone, tearing flesh in its relentless progress. He staggered backwards, clawing at the protruding hilt. He tried to pull it out, but he could not remember whether that would be his end, and anyway his hands no longer seemed to be under his control.
Dimly, he was aware of hoarse screams of rage and denial, of the horror-struck faces that seemed to whirl around him. But it was all too far away and it mattered not. He tottered forwards and caught himself against a pillar, even the chill marble seemingly warm against his out-flung left arm. The fingers of his right hand curled loosely around the hilt, brushing against the burning stone which now seemed to be a ruby, so slicked was it with his blood. He could not breathe, could not see as blinding light exploded behind his closed eyelids. There was nothing, nothing at all.
So it ends thus. Forgive me, Adar. Forgive me. And Elros … ai, brother-mine, I beg your mercy upon my memory: I should have given you a gift…
Indeed, it did seem to the assembled Elves that it would end there, in madness and blood, in darkness beneath the light of the day, and in the swift dispatch of their last chance beneath the blow of a fell gift. They watched in abject horror as their Gil-estel heeled like a proud ship in a wrathful gale, his grey eyes clouding fast, blood sluicing across his tunic until the deep blue fabric was as black as night. Only the stars of Ereinion Gil-galad, which he insisted upon wearing in the place of his own livery, shone incongruously yet as all light went out of their world.
Galadriel tried to move, to reach out and steady her mortally wounded ward as he staggered towards the pillar, tiny whimpers of pain that he heard not escaping from his lips. She would have done so, in both body and mind, but she found that 'twas as if the ice of the Helcaraxë had finally overwhelmed her, spreading through her bones and holding her in place. And 'twas all too late.
Finally, it was Ralin who moved. Tearing his axe violently free of its peace-bonds, he hurled himself at the assassin, his coarse russet braids flailing hither and thither, his gnarled face contorted with the rage of a thousand men. With a battle-cry as ancient and deep as the mountain roots, he pinned the Elf to the tiled floor, raising his axe for that final, vengeful swing. Almost unnoticed in the turmoil, Gil-estel slid to the floor in a crumpled heap, a crimson smear staining the pillar.
"Stop!" A voice bellowed from the doorway. Afilion peered around his assailant's shoulder. Perhaps He had come and 'twould all end here. The voices would cease and all would be silence once more. He began to cackle mirthlessly his ruined voice rising in pitch and volume.
"Your doom lies not before you, impostor. Watch your back, for soon you will follow your worthless brother-king beyond the Circles of Arda whither the ill-made souls of the Sickly go. Little bastard halflings. Your grandmother was Maeglin's by right, and no feckless manling should have taken her hand in wedlock. 'Tis reserved for Elf to take Elf to their marriage bed, and for Men to rut in the woods like the foul beasts they are."
Ralin's thick fingers loosened on his axe-shaft, and instead clamped around the Elf's neck, choking off his howled obscenities, his bitten and fire-hardened nails biting into the soft flesh, drawing deep red crescents over the pulsing jugular.
"Cease your babbling, Elf, or you will feel Dwarf-steel, and I shall cease it for you."
"Not yet." And all heads swivelled once more to gaze upon the tall, pale figure in a sea-stained work-tunic, dark hair unbound, trembling like a sapling before the first breath of winter, standing under the arch. "For if my brother lives not, then my sword shall taste of this traitor before any, and it shall drink its fill."
Elros swayed, one hand raised in a defensive gesture. "No!" His princely demeanour deserted him, and he was once more merely a lad, young in summers, salt-grimed and afraid. He raced forward and dropped to his knees besides his brother's prone form. A forgotten hank of greased rope slipped from his hands. "Awake, Elrond, awake." He slid one hand under the bedraggled head, the other shaking his blood-drenched shoulder, but the king's eyes remained resolutely closed, his mouth agape and twisted with pain. "You cannot be dead. I know that you are not dead, for my heart beats yet."
Galadriel sank to her knees beside the peredhil, her ivory skirts trailing in the pooling blood. Celeborn stood behind her, deathly pale.
"Nay, he lives yet, although I cannot say for how long."
"He will live," Elros ground out between clenched teeth. "He will live, e'en if I have to extinguish the light of every soul in Balar to make it so."
As effortlessly as if he had been a tiny elfling, the Lady Protector hefted the slumped lad into her arms, and rose. "The Halls of Healing. And take this traitor to the cells."
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Elrond wondered, with an incurious detachment, if this was what it had felt like when he and Elros had sat on their foster-father's chest, this merciless quelling of every breath before it even began…
"Gil-galad?"
But there was no response; no Star of Radiance gleamed suddenly in the swirling darkness. He was as alone as ever with the distant pain and the seeping clamminess at his breast. Not long now, surely 'twould not be long before the darkness claimed him forever.
But suddenly, slim hands crept down his chest, soothing the pain away. He looked up and caught a glimpse of bitterly bright silver hair as a kiss was pressed to the tip of his ear. He shivered in delight, and reached up to clasp the hands of the dream-maiden, the sight of whose face he had never been vouchsafed. She was so very warm against him, so very real, and he sighed with pleasure.
"Ai, are you my fate come upon me?"
Her laughter drifted towards him as if from afar.
"Await me in the newer light, melethron-nîn; in the newer light."
"What mean you?"
But she was gone, and the pain ripped through him, cascading through his veins and down his nerves. Its vicious severity drew him inexorably back.
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He awakened to the steady drip of water on his forehead, and the agonised roar of blood in his veins every time he tried to draw breath. He opened his mouth to speak, but found his tongue adhered to the dry roof of his mouth. A beaker was tipped obligingly against his lips and he swallowed greedily, not caring that stray rivulets poured down his face and soaked the bedclothes.
"Urgh," he groaned at last.
"Welcome back, Gil-estel."
"I know you." He tried to fumble for the memory, almost drowning in the fuzziness of his own thoughts. The healer sat beside him, her golden hair caught back in a simple queue, the dark smudges beneath her eyes attesting to the long nights of her vigil. "Who are you? What is your name?"
"I…I am Araliel." He caught the slightest hesitation in her voice, the tremor that shook her capable hands, and wondered upon it. "I found you reading my volumes of Quenya lore of healing one evening last autumn.
"So is this decision of yours to drown me with spongefuls of water your revenge?" He began to chuckle, and decided against it as the pain returned three-fold.
"You had a fever from your wound. I was assuaging the last vestiges of it." She grinned appreciatively, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"My wound. Ai… now I remember. How long has it been?"
"A sennight yesterday," she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Seven days? Ai, Elros will never forgive me for ignoring his begetting day for seven days!" He propped himself up on his elbows, bracing himself to counter the pain of movement, but Araliel pressed him back down into the pillows.
"Move not, Gil-estel. I wish to keep the pretty embroidery on your ribs in place, lest I be forced to ply my needle once more. And see, Elros is here." She gestured to the figure who slumbered in a chair, his long legs akimbo, grey eyes staring almost wistfully at the ceiling.
"And the … the other?" Elrond asked after a long silence.
Araliel bowed her head. "Dead."
"By whose hand?"
"Naught but his own. He smashed the plate on which his dinner was conveyed to him, and slashed his throat with the shards."
"And do we know…?"
"A little, although more from the others of Gondolin than from him. Once he was a valiant warrior, brave and true, and for his valour Sauron took him and inflicted horrendous torments upon him, before setting him loose with lies in his heart. The other gleanings of the Hidden City thought him quieter and less eager for battle, as 'twas only to be expected, but knew naught of the blackness that dwelt within him. The dagger was a true gift, Gil-estel, and given with the free hearts of your father's people, even if it was put to evil ends."
"Where is it?" he whispered.
"We will toss it in the sea…"
"Where is it?"
She rifled through the mass of unguents and herbs on the low table and retrieved a small cloth-wrapped bundle. Pulling the coverings aside, she held the blade up to the light.
"It reads 'Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Eldalie, utúlie'n aurë! I aara termára!'"
"May the dawning never be done," he repeated softly.
Elros stirred and murmured in his sleep. He blinked lazily and then stared in amazement at his brother, who was very much alive and awake.
"Elrond!" He cast himself at his twin, who tried to restrain a shriek of pain at the sudden onslaught. "You are here."
"And still I have not a begetting-day present for you. I am surprised you have not tried to murder me yourself." His smile faded as the joke fell flat.
"Never say that." His twin gripped his shoulders harshly, his face bleak. "Never say that. When I felt… I nigh on fell from the rigging. A pretty sight that would have made: one peredhel bleeding his life out on the council chamber floor, the other squashed to a pulp on Cirdan's wretched yew planking."
"Now who is jesting?" Elrond teased.
Their commotion had, it seemed, roused half the palace. Ralin stomped through the door, his broad, homely face wrathful.
"What have I said about awakening the king, youngling? Mahal himself will be here any moment to stop your elven gibbering with an anvil in the mouth…" He trailed off abruptly. "Gil-estel!" 'Twas not in his nature to be emotionally eloquent at such times, and his deep voice was gruff in the attempt to conceal how much of an exception this was. "Half the island believes you dead, and the other half knows not what to believe…"
"And what of you, Master Dwarf?" Elrond extended one trembling hand. "What think you?"
"I think it would take a rock-fall to kill such a reckless idiot as yourself. Did no one tell you that gifts are rarely well meant?"
"We should have a little more of the wisdom of Durin's folk at the court, and fewer carving knives," Araliel rejoined. Once again Elrond detected that indecipherable catch in her melodious voice.
"They think me already dead?" Elrond turned the unsavoury idea over in his mind.
"Aye; you bled as much as a horse in an orc-hole," Ralin told him frankly.
"Then we will have to show them that I breathe yet." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed with desperate lassitude.
"My liege." Araliel's caustic tone belied the deference of her words. "My liege, if you move, you may prove them right rather than wrong."
"Nonsense." He caught his lip between his teeth. "I shall be well enough once I am upright. This bed has seen enough of me, and I of it. Brother mine, will you be so kind as to find me a robe?"
It seemed to take for ever to attire himself in the silvery under-tunic and the deep carmine velvet robe, and he barely restrained a scream of pain every time incautious fingers – usually his brother's – came into contact with the bandages binding his tender wound. At last he was garbed in the splendid raiment that he so hated, the dagger slipped into the sash that was wound around his waist, more to keep his bandages in place than for any decorative purpose.
"Well, Master Ralin, may I have the shoulder of such a noble Dwarf?"
"Not yet. Is it in the nature of the Elves to forget the most important things?"
Elrond looked confused, as the Dwarf buried his head in the cupboard, muttering about the peculiarity of the Valar in favouring such a lackadaisical race.
"Ah!" And he produced the crown, absent-mindedly smearing away the last traces of blood with his sleeve, and setting it firmly atop the Elf's fever-tousled hair. "Now you may have my shoulder, Master Elf."
With one arm looped around his brother's neck and the other resting lightly on the sturdy shoulder of Aulë's child, the High King limped out into the corridor. Immediately all eyes were turned to him, watching his every step, the every movement of his slender, graceful form. He was acutely aware of the power they gifted to him in that moment: not the power that burns, but that which elevates. He was nothing more nor less than the sum of their collective hopes and fears, which he could feel flooding through him. He was them.
A child, having scarce seven summers to her name, darted forward and kissed his hand. He blushed fervidly, remembering a stolen moment of time, between one heartbeat and the next, when he and his brother, the same age then as she was now, had held Maglor's hands tightly, gazing up at the star-splashed heavens.
Galadriel emerged from her chambers, rubbing blearily at her blue eyes, and it occurred to him that he had never before seen her in the slightest discomposed. But now she looked amazed, and he grinned ruefully at her.
Slowly, leaning ever harder on Ralin's stocky frame, he made his way out into the courtyard and, squeezing the shoulders of his supports one last time, released them, clambering up onto the mounting-block. He looked down at the sea of expectant faces, and raised his own to the afternoon sun, saluting Arien with one raised hand.
"We have seen the power that the Shadow had at its command, to corrupt the hearts and minds of the wisest among us," he began, feeling the power surging within him. "Yet, for all that, it did not prevail, and hope remains within us. I live yet, and Balar lives yet, and we shall endure from Age to Age. I am Elrond Gil-estel, and I plead with you to have hope in these dying days."
And with those simple words he felt the full weight of his ancestry, of blood and of faith, fall upon him. The crowd roared its approval, and he was glad that they did not chose to see the trickle of blood which streamed down his chin where he had bitten his lip clean through in the effort to quell the pain rising within him. He felt himself grow weak and dizzy, the cheers fading away under the onslaught of tumultuous blood.
"Well done, Master Elf." Ralin stood beside him.
"And know you will go back to bed, pen tithen," Galadriel added, smoothing her skirts.
"But…"
"Bed, child."
And so he went, more the High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth than ever before.
TBC
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Mahal – the Dwarves name for Aulë.
Pen tithen – little one.
Melethron-nîn – my lover.
Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Eldalie, utúlie'n aurë! I aara termára! – (Quenya) - 'The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar, the day has come! May the dawning never be done!' (The first part is paraphrased from Fingon's battle-cry at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad).
*smirks as she watches you wonder who the hell Araliel is*