Lost Youth

Chapter Five

Thanks to Nemis for betaing this.

Sorry that it's been such a long wait.

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The heather whipped hither and thither by the fierce gusts of the east wind. The rank stench of death, of putrefying flesh, stone dust and bubbling sulphur bogs; the bitter twist of old fear. A fist of smoke rising high into the air, towering over the mountains, ominous and billowing, reaching towards him, grasping, seeking. His heart leaden in his chest, his boots clogged with thick mud, rooting him to the spot. Waiting, simply waiting, while the filth oozed up between his toes, impenetrable, thick as mortal night.

And then hands, warm against his chilled skin, small and soft; perfect almond-shaped nails burying themselves in the wretched earth digging his feet free, dragging his legs up by the bootlaces. Muddied hands, now little more than paws, cupping his face, smoothing away the trenches scored by frustration and fear.

A finger pressed to his lips, and a fleeting kiss.

"Wait."

And she was gone.

Elrond awoke abruptly in the sepulchral pre-dawn light, his hands clenched in his sheets, his whole body alive with sensation. Slowly, he prized his fingers free, trying desperately to steady his erratic breathing. He blinked at the ceiling, not even sure why he had awoken this early, knowing only the dream-maiden's touch. And then it came back to him, and he stiffened unconsciously.

Today. Today he would become… Today the full weight of Gil-galad's crown would come to rest upon his head, and he knew that he was not ready. He knew that he could no more do this than he could walk barefoot over red-hot coals. Before, he had had the liberty to learn, to be merely a figurehead, to show bravery without actually being brave. Now, it must be real, and his heart was filled with fear.

The young king scrubbed his hand across his mouth as if to wipe away some foul taste, and sat bolt upright in the half-light. On the other side of the room in which he had spent his last night, there was a muffled complaint; the dark lump under the covers shifted and cursed, and then pulled a feather pillow over its head. Elrond smiled a little and swung his legs over the side of the bed, working the knots out of his shoulders and his lanky legs. Moving through the shadows, he peered at his reflection in the mirror. Dark hair shrouding a pale face scarce visible in his early light. Gangly adolescent limbs sprouting wildly from the cuffs and hem of his dressing gown, still only approaching the muscularity of adulthood. Long slender fingers like shafts of light twitching nervously against the heavy brocade. Large, frightened eyes shining back at him.

He turned away, one hand touching his temples to ward off his incipient headache. He could never be Ereinion Gil-galad, and to his own eyes seemed but a pale facsimile of his foster-father, peredhel and younger even than the springy pines that guarded the long path up from the seashore. His tongue seemed thick and swollen, too large for his mouth, his throat parched, and his legs boneless.

Somehow, although he knew not how, he gathered up enough wits to steer himself to the bathing chambers. The hot water seethed and roiled about him, flushing his skin a pale pink as he dunked his head, surfacing in a spray of pine-scented droplets. He floated on his back, absent-mindedly watching the steam curl in abstract patterns above him, listening to the dull beat of his heart in his ears and remembering his dream. A small smile curved his lips, and he swirled the water about him with one hand. When the heat was no longer bearable, he heaved himself from the rippling pool and skidded across the tiles. He paused on the brink of the next pool, shivering slightly in anticipation and braced himself for what was to come. Inhaling deeply, he lanced forward through the brightly-lit air, cleaving the surface of the water with a smooth stroke. The waters scythed away from him, lapping noisily at the edge of the pool; the sudden silence rang in his ears. Down, and down again with broad unfaltering strokes, until he could swim sinuously along the bottom with one hand trailing across the smooth marble, his lips compressed into a tight line, lungs burning for air.

He broke the surface spluttering and gasping, his face blue with cold, his teeth chattering. The air stung icily on his dampened face as he swam towards the shallower parts. Grappling blindly for the scrubbing brush, he soaped his hair, hissing as he re-submerged his head. The bristles were rough against his skin, harshly working the lavender soap into a lather, raising a pink flush along his arms and down his back in wide stripes. Goosebumps pricked his flesh as he dunked himself again and again, hoping to find in the physical extreme some measure of relief from the butterflies causing havoc in the pit of his stomach.

Squeezing the water from his sodden hair, he waded towards the side, and was brought up short by a pair of feet in soft slippers blocking his route. Elros stood on the side, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning widely. "Well." The younger peredhel settled himself down on the edge of the pool, his feet tucked up underneath him and the hem of his dressing gown dangling carelessly in the water. "So here we are: the day of your glory, Gil-Estel. The idea of your sovereign will being done without let or hindrance leaves me bereft of my wits, gwanur-nín."

Elrond scowled at his brother's harsh-voiced teasing. He lifted one hand in mute warning; it trembled with nerves. He turned away, his jaw set, his lips grey. Death was in his eyes, and sorrow, old pain and new. His movements were uncharacteristically jerky as he clambered from the pool, wrapping himself in a thick towel as if in mithril armour.

"Cannot you not see?" he began in a clipped voice, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. "Can it be that you cannot see, brother-mine? I have no sovereign power; my every breath, the last beat of my heart even, are not my own. Destined darkness looms large, and here I stand, contending against it, yet knowing that I strive in vain. This is no power to be wished for, no gilded throne of pampered princes to watch with laughing eye the merry dance and dancers." His voice climbed hoarsely, ragged with emotion. "No death can be more certain than that to which I go. Will it please you then to know that when I, in Mandos' keeping, await a newer dawn, my fated crown shall be yours to hold and bear, my burdens yours with my out-spilled blood?"

Elros' face softened almost imperceptibly, and some inkling of regret at his hasty words penetrated his consciousness. Impulsively, he stepped forward and, before Elrond could demur, wrapped him in a bear hug. Slowly, the elder twin's hands fell in surrender and he returned the embrace tentatively.

"Come on." Elros prodded him back to awareness. "I do not wish to be subjected to the scathing glances of half the world when my brother arrives at his acclamation clad only in a towel." His twin chuckled weakly, but followed him, padding softly through the still-silent corridors, leaving only a trail of water droplets behind him.

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"Just stand still!" Elros grasped his brother's shoulders and forced him into immobility. The young king opened his mouth to remonstrate, but his twin waved a hairbrush threateningly in his face and he gave in, albeit reluctantly.

"'Tis not right," he murmured, tilting his head obligingly as his brother tugged the collar of his robe this way and that.

Elros flung his hands into the air in a gesture of exaggerated exasperation. He paced the room angrily, his own robes flapping around his feet, snapping to and fro. Elrond craned his head over his shoulder in an attempt to watch his frantic movements, and shifted uneasily in his flowing formal attire. Much though he was accustomed to wearing such robes, he was not used to these, chosen as they were to match his own colours, the blue and silver and grey of Eärendil's line. His eyes drifting away from his impatient brother, he gazed a little wistfully at the star-broidered mantle lying discarded across his bed.

"Do not speak so," the younger peredhel said at last, wheeling to face his twin. "Neither you nor I do any dishonour to Adar Gil-galad this day, and yet if we sally forth half-hidden in borrowed livery, we will dishonour him and Adar both. The same malicious whispers reached your ears as mine, when the folk of Hithlum spoke, not knowing that we listened: that we were but nothings among the blood-kin of Finwë, half-bred brats of Moriquende princelings. Would you have it said that Adar Gil-galad did himself and his people a disservice when he took us in? Would you have it said that 'twas only by that that the crown came to you? Would you thus deprive our people of their rightful king, e'en before you step to the throne?"

"Aye, I know. There is no need to go on." Elrond ducked his head, biting his lip. He did know. He had rehearsed these very same arguments to himself the previous night, staring at the ceiling before sleep took him. And yet then they had not seemed to have the weight of truth they had now; he had been afraid, and turned back before the intimations that clouded the darkness before him. It had still felt like a betrayal to wear his colours on this day, as if he were usurping a throne which was not yet empty. He straightened almost imperceptibly. 'Twas not his to choose whether he would go forth from this chamber this day or no; 'twas not his to choose whether he would sit on the throne or no. There was no other who would do this; no other who would take up the crown and lead where others had to follow, to Angband and beyond. This was his alone; there was no other to share the burden with, not even his brother, no matter how much it bowed his shoulders and pained his heart. Gil-galad was gone, his fëa fled beyond the sea, his hroa broken. He was the only one left; he was alone.

Elrond lifted his head and smiled wanly at his brother. "Do your worst with these wretched fripperies."

Elros grinned back, not entirely sure that his twin's black mood had lifted, but more than a little glad that it seemed to have done so, and handed him the wide sash that bound his robes at the waist. The elder shrugged into his heavy velvet mantle, draping it in smooth lines about himself, the broad cuffs turned back, their grey silk touched with gold in the morning light.

Finally satisfied with each other's appearance, they made their way to the outer room and settled down to wait. While Elros lounged deep in his seat, Elrond shuffled restlessly, his fingers tapping out an impatient tattoo on the carved wood. When the knock on the door came, he was surprised to note that his own voice, raised in response, barely seemed to tremble at all.

Círdan entered looking incongruous and decidedly uncomfortable in his formal clothing, his mariner's rolling gait modified to a stiff-legged walk. A smile creased his weather-beaten face beneath his silver beard and he nodded abruptly in approval. "It will be well."

Behind him stood Galadriel and Celeborn. The Lady Protector was clad in white as was her wont, in damasked silk of a subtle brilliance; today the arms of Finarfin's House were woven into the cloth on one shoulder. Her fingers just touched those of her husband by her side; her face was impassive, her eyes unreadable. She embraced the peredhel briefly; her lips were cold against his cheek. "What is yet to come will come. Although hope is dim, it may yet be that newer hope already grows unseen." Galadriel drew back and smoothed the last creases from his robes. "Are you ready?"

"Not in the slightest." But he smiled wryly, squaring his shoulders. Accompanied by the rustle of rich fabrics, his heart beating painfully in his throat, he stepped slowly forward, through the doorway into the corridor. Behind him, he dimly heard the soft whisper of cloth as Elros took Galadriel's arm, and, behind them, Círdan and Celeborn fell into step.

The king's footfalls echoed hollowly on the marble, chipped here and there from long years in which all effort, all skill went to the forging of weapons. The palace seemed deserted, no one moved in the corridors or bustled around the rooms. All was silent except for a distant buzzing, a half-heard murmur resounding through the very stone.

Elrond tensed, squaring his shoulders and swallowing convulsively. The midwinter sun slanted through the windows, casting dustily pale beams of light across their hair as they passed. The buzzing grew louder, almost feverish now. Before them was a massive pair of ironbound oak doors barring the passageway to the great hall. With a pitiful squeak of tortured metal, the dull crunch of wood and stone coming into unwonted contact, they swung open, revealing the corridor beyond. Rank upon serried rank of Elves were packed into the confined space, crammed one against another from wall to wall, pressing up against the high archway at the far end. Beyond, in the great hall, there appeared to be no space at all that went unoccupied, face after face peering over heads and round pillars. Here were the Gondolindrim and the Doriathrim rubbing shoulders; here the last gleanings of Nargothrond and Sirion; the Noldorin exiles alongside their Sindarin brethren from the woods of Beleriand. Fearful necessity was their only bond, and now this boy-king who stood swaying with nerves as he gazed upon them. As one, as if they sensed his agitated stare, they turned, a brightly hued throng in all the colours of the Houses of the Hither Lands, scarlet as red as blood, soft green, burning silver… As one, they smiled, their voices raised in a cheer of acclamation.

Elros slapped his brother's shoulder in support, and then they stepped forward. The crowd parted before them, opening a narrow path amid rustling fabrics, amid appraising eyes. The vaulted ceiling seemed very far away when they stepped out into the hall, the banners whispering and floating in a light breeze.

Slowly, so very slowly, the king made his way between the Elves pressing in on every side, acutely aware of his every step. His jaw already ached from keeping his smile fixed in place. Finally, the throne was before him, Araliel the healer to one side, gowned in green velvet, smirking at him. He smiled a little more freely, glad to see a familiar face, but the next moment, as Galadriel moved up to stand beside him, she had paled. Glancing sideways, Elrond saw that her wide, staring eyes were fixed on the arms embroidered on the Lady Protector's shoulder. He put out a hand to steady her, but she shrugged it away, shaking her head vigorously. "'Tis nothing."

Confused, he raised a quizzical eyebrow, but she would have none of it.

"There are matters of import at hand; do not waste your time on this."

Moving with a studied grace despite his conviction that he would collapse, Elrond Gil-Estel knelt before the assemblage, his night-dark hair streaming around his face. His starlit grey eyes were very bright, his jaw set and grim. He bowed his head to the people who were entrusted to his care.

Elros stepped forward, and in his hands was the crown that his brother had worn since Gil-galad's death. His pace was measured, his face unusually sombre. He held the circlet up for all to see, and then lowered it carefully onto the king's head, gleaming bright against the darkness. Only his brother could see that his hands were trembling. The younger twin spoke in a low voice, yet it carried to the furthest corners of the room. "Here is your king. King he has been; king and leader shall he be if you will it. Will you take him?"

The roar was deafening, torn from a thousand throats at once, resounding through the empty corridors and out, out to the sea beyond. It rippled the banners and startled the wheeling gulls.

Elrond Gil-Estel rose to his feet, a tall, wan figure with burning eyes. The crowd fell silent.

"I thank you now for this trust and pray that it shall be repaid." It seemed almost impossible that he would be able to speak, such was the fervour with which his heart beat in his throat. "Today is not a day for celebration. Too many have died to bring us here; too many of us have lost all we had. We stand on the brink of a precipice. We know not what we must do if we are not to fall, only that we must not fall. And yet, for the memory of those who have died, and for the sake of those who live still, we shall not fall, but rise again. Beyond the darkest night, we shall prevail, and the light lit in us shall burn forever."

He exhaled in relief, trembling fitfully as the applause swelled and diminished around him. Almost unnoticed, Galadriel surrendered the seal to him with a formal curtsey. One by one, various representatives of the Elven kindred stepped forward and swore fealty to him. Last of all there was a tall Elf, Noldorin dark under his plain hooded cloak. He wore no festive finery and exuded the faint waft of horses and damp woodlands. When he extended one hand in a salute, it could be seen that his forearm was riddled with old scars, the mementos of battles layered one upon the other. He did not kneel, but simply held out a folded sheet of parchment, clean and crisp and butter-soft. "My lord bade me to give this to you, and to urge you to read it. I am to tell you that there is no matter more serious than this."

Elrond accepted the letter, and turned it over to break the seal. In his haste to stifle his cry of surprise, he bit down on his tongue until he tasted salt and iron. The heavy red wax was imprinted with the arms of Maglor, son of Fëanor. His hand crept to the hilt of his sword, his eyes bright with suspicion, but he broke the seal, hearing the dull crack of the brittle wax as if a thunderbolt overhead. The handwriting was as beautiful as ever, slender simple letters in the hand of a craftsman. As tiny elflings, he and his brother had spent hour upon hour tracing the graceful tengwar with jam-smeared fingertips.

"They always come when you expect it least. Stay close and be careful, pityonya. Always be careful. Kanafinwë Makalaurë."

There was a strange tightness in his throat as he passed the letter to his brother.

Celeborn's eyes were as ice. "Is this a threat?"

"Nay." Elrond swallowed painfully. "'Tis a warning, 'tis true, but not of any further ill deeds on the part of the kinslayers, but of the movements of the Enemy." Old sorrow welled up within him; he had heard those words long ago, on a starless night, huddled by a smoking fire amid the dripping trees. Battle-strengthened arms blocked his escape into the dark forest, holding him close. A golden voice whispered in his ear, promising him that no ill would come to him if he but stayed close. And here were the words again, echoing across the years. He looked to Elros, and saw that his eyes too were bleak.

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The feasting lasted long into the night, the fires burning high in the fireplaces. Hearts were lightened for a while by the candlelit celebrations. Amidst this all, the peredhil were still and silent, caught up in melancholy memory. Three princes of the Noldor had been as fathers to them, yet none remained to guide them in this dark hour. Thus it was that they were not surprised when Galadriel informed them that she and her husband would sail for the mainland in a sennight. They bowed their heads, and murmured their gracious thanks for so many long years, and were not at all surprised.

The past and the future were drifting ever closer together and they were trapped between in an ever narrowing now.

TBC.

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Reviews are, as ever, most welcome.