Chapter 10 –  The will of the Valar

“Because he doesn’t feel it’s the right choice for him,” Gil-galad repeated for the fifth time. He had somehow managed to keep his voice calm and neutral throughout the conversation, but he was beginning to do some serious teeth-clenching. The one person he would consider to be more stubborn than Glorfindel was Círdan, and he was currently having this opinion reinforced by the silver-haired Elf.

They were in the large office Gil-galad referred to as his workroom, the scene of many similar discussions, all of which had ended with Cirdan’s viewpoint prevailing. This meant that, for the Teleri, the probability of his opinion being disregarded was somewhat less than unlikely. Tea had been brought in upon his arrival and he was currently sitting with a large cup in his hand while his fosterling paced the room. He sighed to himself and prepared to explain yet again. This matter was far too important to leave unresolved.

“Ereinion, consider please,” he said firmly. “The Valar are not fools. They would not do anything so unusual – nay, so unheard-of – as sending one of our kind back in this manner without a solid reason. I cannot be brought to believe that this purpose would merely involve passing on the sword skills of Gondolin, interesting though I do not doubt that study to be.”

Gil-galad had reached the end of the room and was looking out of the window in the general direction of the stables. Something appeared to have caught his attention, but he soon turned back resignedly.

“If he’s determined he doesn’t want the position, I can hardly insist that he accepts it, Hiren. What is wrong with letting him do something he feels comfortable with while he settles in? Especially if it gives him an opportunity to start mingling with the warriors without the pressure of leadership.”

Cirdan shook his head in disbelief. “Ereinion, you are the King. If you insist upon something, it must be done. We have discussed this before.”

He had lost no opportunity to discuss it, Gil thought wryly. He rarely contradicted his foster father. This was partly due to a reluctance born out of respect but also, partly, because it was seldom that they disagreed on a course of action. True, they were often motivated by different reasons, but Cirdan had raised him after his father’s death and Gil was content to appear to give way in a discussion, when in fact he had simply seen an aspect that had originally been overlooked. If Círdan took this to mean his view had prevailed Gil was prepared to let him believe so.

This practice, which had started as a courtesy born of a warm, open nature and a desire to make sure Cirdan continued to feel important in his life, was slowly becoming problematic. He had known for some time that it needed to be addressed, but had previously lacked incentive. Glorfindel, he realised with something like surprise, provided a motive more than sufficient to make him dig in his heels and insist.

Gil returned to his seat, ignoring the tea that had been poured for him. He would have preferred a glass of good, strong dwarf brandy, but mid morning was hardly the time for that particular indulgence, never mind how much his backbone needed stiffening. Mentally he took a breath.

“When you raised me, Hiren, there were two things which you paid particular attention to as I recall it. Accepting responsibility and making decisions.” He turned and met his foster father’s eyes, “In this instance I have decided that Glorfindel should choose his own path, and I take responsibility for any consequences. I believe that whatever the Valar have in mind will happen without me trying to second-guess them.”

Círdan opened his mouth, glanced at Gil-galad’s set face, and was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Ereinion, he had noticed, tended to be altogether stubborn and non-communicative when the subject of Glorfindel arose.

“Ereinion, if you have conceived a personal dislike for this gift from the Valar, or have concerns relating to the amount of time he appears to spend with your impressionable cousin, then I fear you are simply going to have to rise above them. If this is behind your reluctance to insist on his involvement with the army…”

Gil-galad took a deep breath, and considered his options. Eventually, knowing from past experience that once Círdan had an idea in his head it not only lodged, but swiftly became immobile, he sighed and admitted defeat.

“Hiren, sit down. There’s something I think I had better tell you.”

~*~*~*~

Elrond sat in silence for a few minutes, looking down while he smoothed his fingers back and forth over the grass as though considering its texture. Glorfindel took advantage of the lull in their conversation to stretch out on his side, propping himself on one elbow. The normal morning sounds of life in the Palace complex continued as usual, but somehow failed to intrude on the tree shaded area en route to the stables.

“This happened after we joined Ereinion, only days after Maedhros handed us over to him,” Elrond said eventually, breaking his silence. He glanced at Glorfindel. “I may as well tell you about that, too. Ereinion is one of your favorite subjects, after all. Don’t blush, you know he is. And if he isn’t, then you need to question the way you spend your evenings.”

Glorfindel gave him a dark look, though biting back a smile, and returned his attention to the puppy. There was a story here that would be told in its own time and not before. Elrond gave the smile a satisfied look and nodded.

“Everything changed after the time they’re calling the War of Wrath, when the Powers came out of the West, and the earth moved and shook and the sky was darkened. Eventually Maglor feared for our safety and hid us inland. At the end, we were sent to the High King, who happened to be our closest kinsman left this side of the Sea.” Elrond, sitting cross-legged, his back very straight, spoke quietly. His eyes were fixed on some distant point, and his usually mobile face was empty of expression.

“We were sent to our new guardian under cover of night, not with Maglor, who had always taken care of us, but with Caradur, a Sinda Maedhros had befriended and who stayed on past the end, unlike most. He never liked us much. Maglor told us in parting that he would receive a warmer welcome from the High King than he felt ready for, but that he would see us later, when matters were more settled.”

He smiled wryly. “You would have liked Maglor, Glori. Ever the optimist. I knew there would be no ‘later’, but why shatter his illusions? Things went quietly enough till we were close to the King’s camp, then Caradur insisted that we announce ourselves in style and ordered Elros to raise and carry Maedhros’ banner. And he refused. He usually did as he was told – I was the one who said no and was beaten – but this time….this time he told Caradur to see to it himself.” He paused, his expression reflecting the respect he had felt for his quiet, cooperative brother that day.

Glorfindel, who had recently learnt the horror of how Elrond and Elros came to be raised by the Sons of Fëanor nodded agreement The attack on their home had been carried out beneath that same banner, on the night the Haven burned and Dior’s daughter had sought death, whilst her children were captured and carried off mere hours ahead of aid. Elwing’s son had been right to refuse.

Elrond shrugged slightly, as though casting off memory.

“It was almost midnight when we finally arrived. There was no moon, and all we found to begin with was an open space and a few fires, in fact it looked like no major campsite I had ever seen before. These were Elves who had come out of the West and chosen to fight alongside the High King’s army I remember most that they had no tents, and they lit no watch fires. It may have been lack of need or just not their practice, no one seemed to know. Once we were pointed in the right direction, though, the King’s encampment was easy to find.”

He grinned slightly. “You’ll understand why when you’ve known him longer. There were guards set about, and everything was well lit, orderly. That’s his way; he’ll wander out in dead of night to make sure they’re awake on watch or that the fires are built up properly. He’s been a soldier most of his life, he’s a good commander.”

Laslech chose this moment to get up from where she had been lying to amble over and collapse next to Elrond, rolling easily against him. Glorfindel had no idea why anyone thought this was Elros’ dog. The animal had decided from the beginning where her world was centered. Elrond rested a hand lightly on her back, and continued talking.

“We were taken straight to his tent. You couldn’t mistake it, there was an armed guard at the entrance because, saviours from the West or not, there were strangers in the camp. We had spent so much time being hidden from him, being dragged away at speed from anywhere he might be, that I had half forgotten it was because he meant to rescue us, and I can remember feeling nervous. And tired, really tired.”

Elrond drew his knees up, wrapping his arms round his legs, and his eyes grew more distant with memory.

“We went in and a tall Elf was sitting on a chest, polishing a knife. I thought he was probably younger than he looked, and that he also seemed tired. His hair was in two simple braids down the front, and he had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen in my life. He sat looking at us for a while, then he nodded and said, ‘Skinny. We’ll have to feed you up a bit.’ And then he smiled, Glori, and it felt as if we belonged there.”

The feeling so clearly mirrored his own on first meeting Gil-galad that Glorfindel actually blinked, before nodding and smiling at the memory.

“He’s always like that, isn’t he?” he said. “He knows how to make situations feel comfortable.”

Elrond raised both brows in surprise. “He was sent to the relative safety that could be found with Círdan when he was very young, after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Then, when his father died, he became an orphaned dependant with no home to return to and no close kin to speak for his safety, surrounded by Elves who looked down on Noldor ambitions …surely he told you about it?”

Well, no, Glorfindel thought. We seem to focus mainly on my troubles, don’t we? Aloud he said, “We’re still busy getting to know one another, Elrond. Confidences take time. Anyway, I’m curious. What does all this have to do with the Valar?”

Elrond, who had been trying to decide if he would get away with asking what Glorfindel and Ereinion discussed, or if they actually talked at all, came back to the thread of his story immediately. His face closed and he dropped his eyes. He rested his hand on Laslech’s head and starting to finger her silky ear.

“Not that night,” he said. “The following week.”

~*~*~*~

They had been given a place to sleep in the corner of a storage tent, as well as furs and a couple of blankets to wrap themselves in, a jug of water and two plates containing what they assumed to be leftovers from the evening meal. Their belongings were already stacked neatly in the corner. Gil-galad, who had come personally to see them settled, had looked around with a rueful expression. “It’s a bit rough, I know, and unwelcoming, but I wasn’t expecting you so soon and we weren’t prepared. Tomorrow I’ll see to it that you have a few basic comforts.”

The brothers had exchanged glances. They had slept in worse accommodation on a regular basis. Elrond, however, established his reputation immediately by asking, “Will we qualify to sleep in beds instead of on the floor?”

Elros kicked him but it was too late, as usual. Gil-galad frowned slightly at the slender, defiant-looking young Half-elf. Deliberately provocative, his instincts told him. Well, he had been through enough to have earned the right to a little provocation.

“You’ll have beds tomorrow,” he said evenly, a tone which, had he known, was to become a regular feature in his dealings with this cousin. “I have no intention of rousing two of my warriors to tell them they can spend the rest of the night on the ground. We’ve had a long week, they need their rest. I said I’ll see to this in the morning, and I will. For tonight, make do as best you can.”

~*~*~*~

They were on the road for a week. True to his word, the following day the King made certain that his cousins, the children of Eärendil, with their heritage as princes of both Gondolin and Doriath, were given their own tent and decent horses. Everything was quite basic, including the food. This was an army on the move at the end of a bitter campaign, not a pleasure trip, as Gil-galad pointed out to them.

At the end of the week they came to a predetermined spot on the seashore, set up camp and waited. They were divided, as always, into two groups – those who followed the High King, and those newly arrived from the West, whose sojourn on the Hither Shore was set to be brief. There was little, if any, interaction between the two; they marched together, but that was the sum total of their sense of kindred.

From early the following morning, Elves began to arrive. They gathered in small groups, and either erected tents, or else settled under the open sky in a manner more conducive to the Elven desire to be at one with nature. They waited beside the sea; tents and banners as far as could be seen, proud and bright against the sky. Lords from across the Sea, waiting to leave, alongside Lords living in exile, waiting to hear their fate; whether or not they could return home.

The twins had kept to their tent, at the request of their cousin the King. The weather was inclement, there was nowhere to go, it was no hardship to obey. Mid afternoon they heard the sound of silvery trumpets and looked outside, but whatever was happening was hidden from their view. Several hours later, though, one of the King’s senior commanders came to them and told them to make ready to be presented to one of the Mighty.

A short time later, dressed in their best – in other words their cleanest – tunics and leggings, and wearing the cloaks Gil-galad had found for them as soon as he saw the lamentable state of their cold weather clothing, they made their way to the edge of the camp as instructed. Unexpectedly, they were met by their cousin himself, and two of the quiet Elves from Valinor. Gil-galad looked the twins up and down quickly.

“Elrond, what is wrong with your hair? Why does it never look tidy?” he muttered, hurriedly trying to tuck wandering strands behind elegant, if slightly rounded ears. Admitting defeat, he glanced from the corner of his eye to their two companions and then, in very quick Sindarin, he said, “Don’t be alarmed by this. Eönwë the Herald sent for you. He probably just wants to take a look at Eärendil’s sons, have a discussion about your future, nothing to be concerned about.”

The fact that the High King himself looked anything but unconcerned was small comfort to them, either then or a scant half hour later when they were left at the entrance to a pavilion of some kind, set near the water’s edge, slightly away from all others.

The structure consisted of a frame of sorts, hung with some fine, shimmering fabric of a type unknown to them, which eddied and swirled softly in the wind, undefined colours rippling and shifting unsettlingly. The sand around it lay flat and calm, as though untouched by the wind, and there was an air of strangeness about it all that made Elrond, the more sensitive to atmosphere, shiver. Elros rested a reassuring hand lightly on his arm as the drapes parted before them and a tall, very slender, light-haired being gestured them forwards.

Afterwards they had disagreed about many of the details: the clothing worn by the Herald, the décor of the interior of his pavilion – Elrond always maintained there were plants growing in pots and placed at intervals around the perimeter, while Elros maintained to his dying day that they grew unfettered in the sand and looked as though they had been there for years. The ground beneath their feet was patterned and coloured, giving the appearance of a mosaic, though still having the consistency of sand, and two globe-shaped lamps hung down from the frame on threads as fine as silk, casting a soft silvery glow, closely akin to moonlight.

The being – for he seemed in some indefinable way far more than an Elf – appeared to study them for a time and then sank gracefully onto a cushion, gesturing them to sit as well. The lamplight turned his pale hair to a shade close to silver, and caused his violet eyes to glitter strangely. He smiled, and it was not a comforting sight, infused as it was by no true warmth.

“Children of the Mariner,” he said softly, and his voice whispered and echoed with a faint, strange accent. “Bearers of the blood of both First and Second born, descendants of Melian. A choice I am given to lay before you. It has been decided, for your father’s sake, that to you alone of those termed Peredhil will it be given to choose the kindred amongst which you will be numbered. Know that all choices are good, and all choices will be binding from now until the Breaking of the World.”

There was no sound save the murmur of the sea inside this pavilion, where they sat amongst the unnaturally blooming flowers, and even the waves seemed to have drawn back to a distance, the sound coming faintly through the strange, swirling drapes. The Herald sat surveying them, his face expressionless, resembling something carved from marble.

“You may choose, of course, as your hearts dictate. None shall presume to sway your choices. However,” he continued, studying their faces, “I offer you these words in guidance. If you choose to follow one and the same path, then the eventual fate of Middle-earth, as you call it, is hidden in shadow and sorrow even from the eyes of the Lords of the West.”

He paused to give his words weight, and now even the sea appeared to have stilled. The strange, silvery lamps continued their unflickering glow, the wind still skittered around about, moving not so much as a single grain of sand from the coloured mosaic that surrounded them. After giving them time to digest his meaning, he continued.

“Should you display the courage and will of your father, and should you choose separately, one to be a Lord of respect and standing amongst the Firstborn, the other to be a King amongst Men, first ruler of a land the Valar, even now, are setting aside for the use of those of the Secondborn who have kept faith, this result would see the ones you name Valar most satisfied. Out of this choice, and this alone, do they see a sweet, final harvest for those who remain on this Hither Shore.”

“Separately?” Elros’ voice was little more than a whisper. They had been together since before birth, shared the fears, horrors and small triumphs of their harrowing and unusual life, the thought of being separated…

“One, an Elven lord of respect and renown, the other a King whose name will live down the ages of Men and Elves both. Your separation would be a small price for the promise of a final dawning of peace at the end of the labours of both your people.”

“How long do we have to decide?” Elrond asked bluntly, and Elros felt a rush of love for his brother and his habit of confronting things head on rather than attempting a more subtle approach.

“There is no time to spare for this,” the Herald replied inflexibly. “You must decide now.”

They looked at one another in silence, the horror of the choice being asked of them creeping up on them slowly like the incoming tide. Elros found he was holding his brother’s hand tightly, and loosened his grip a little. They communicated by facial expression alone, as they had learned to do in the time since they had been taken from their home by those who had come with fire and sword and changed their world.

“We have never been apart. How dare you ask this of us?” Elrond asked finally, driven by the edge of fear he was seeing in Elros’ eyes. He had never sounded less certain about being defiant. There was a coolness within this strange pavilion that was slowly chilling his blood. All he wanted to do was to get this over and done with and leave. He was far from certain how much he trusted their newly encountered cousin the King, but Ereinion Gil-galad, for his many faults, would never look at them with this air of cold implacability.

“The choice must be taken,” the Herald said firmly. “There is little time left, and this is all I will have to spare for you. You may choose to remain together, and disregard the needs of future generations; that is your right. But, whatever your decision, it must be made now.”

“We need to talk to someone – we can’t decide this without guidance…” Elros let his voice trail off. In truth, no one would be able to help them pick the best road. This nightmare was theirs alone. He glanced at Elrond, who at that moment looked very much younger than their years. He was starting to be afraid, and it was showing. Elros hated it. His usually insanely self-confident brother never showed fear, even when he had pushed Maedhros past endurance, past the rescue of Maglor’s interceding voice. He took a deep breath.

“So, you are telling us to decide today in favour of a future that one of us will definitely never live to see?” he asked quietly. The silvery head nodded wordlessly. Elros considered the Herald, then looked thoughtfully at his brother. Elrond was the one who carried traces of their foremother Melian, not him. Elrond had feelings that were more than intuition, sight that looked through deception as though reading an open scroll, and a voice filled with enchantment.

Elros had other strengths: calmness, thoroughness, a sense of duty and responsibility. He loved his brother dearly, but his mind found it difficult to entertain the idea of Elrond as a King. A great Elf lord someday, perhaps, but a Mortal King? He shook his head, an unconscious smile of affectionate denial on his lips.

“We have to do this,” he said softly to his twin, meeting wide grey eyes with his own, calmer stare. “And we have to do it properly. And we can’t be selfish about it. If you would rather, I will choose for us.”

“…but this isn’t right…” Elrond began, but he was quietly interrupted by his brother.

“We are in no position to judge if it is right or not, my brother. All we know is the preference of the Valar. I think we have to carry out their wishes. And, knowing me, knowing you, I think it would be best if I took the path of our Secondborn kin, while you remain within the shelter of Elvenkind.” Elrond made a gesture, but then dropped his hand and simply sat staring at his brother with disbelieving eyes, shaking his head slightly in denial. “I think you have the possible makings of an Elf lord one day,” Elros explained gently, with a sweet, sad smile, “and that I will make a far more likely King than you.”

~*~*~*~

“And that was it?” Glorfindel asked sitting up, outraged. “But that was no choice at all. That was…..”

Elrond nodded, quite calmly. “A ‘choice’ handed to us when we were barely of age, and amongst strangers. There was no one we could turn to for advice. Had Maglor been there we would have gone to him, but he and Maedhros were busy plotting the theft of the Silmarils, and we had only known Ereinion for a week. In your words, no choice at all. We just fell back on the habits of a lifetime; Elros always tries to do the right thing, I always used to follow his lead.”

“But what did Gil say when you told him? Surely…” Glorfindel was finding it difficult to drag out the appropriate words for this. Elrond’s matter-of-fact description of the Herald, his pavilion, the way the options were put to them, had chilled him with its quiet, implied horror.

Elrond shook his head. “We never told Ereinion. At the time he was still an unknown, and before we left we were told to hold our peace, let the matter stay between us and the Valar. Later, it was just better left unsaid. He would have felt guilty for not going along to support us. As it was, we just told him and Círdan that this was how we had chosen, for our own good reasons. You’re the first to know otherwise.”

He looked up at Glorfindel as he said this, his face younger than its years, very uncertain, but with a hint of stubbornness to the line of his mouth.

“I only told you because you needed to be warned. You were so willing to believe that their motives would be fair and good and right. I had to show you that sometimes they aren’t fair, and they don’t always make sense – they just maneuver their pieces as they choose, and we must pay their price. Barring accidents, I will live forever, or close enough. And Elros – will have a life span longer than Men count normal, but still less than nothing as we reckon it.”

Glorfindel looked down at the hand resting on the puppy’s – Elros’ puppy’s – head. Elrond had drawn his fingers back to avoid hurting her, but his knuckles were white. He was holding himself very still, as one does when attempting to control the response to great pain. Glorfindel reached out unthinking, to touch, to offer what comfort he could, but Elrond wasn’t there, his rising marked by a startled yelp from Laslech.

“I’ve talked about this enough now,” he said in a tight, controlled voice. “It happened, it’s done. I just wanted to warn you not to trust to their guidance. Rather make your own road, let things happen as they will.”

Glorfindel, too, had risen, and they were watching one another almost cautiously. As he looked into strangely blank grey eyes, instinct told the blonde to talk calmly about simple things for a few minutes, give Elrond a chance to regain his balance after sharing this story which had been locked away inside him up until now. However, the opportunity for this vanished instantly at the sound of an approaching voice.

“Ah Glorfindel, a few moments of your time, perhaps? There is a concern I would like to discuss with you. And Elrond, I hardly need to mention that yellow silk is hardly suitable outdoor wear.”

~*~*~*~*~

Part 11

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Betas: Ford of Bruinen, Enismirdal, Red Lasbelin