Our Old Shipwrecked Days by Agelast

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Chapter 1

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Elrond awoke to see Erestor at the foot of his bed, dripping rain-water into the bedsheets. Still half-asleep, he started to reached for the knife under his pillow and realized, too late, that in these ostensibly peaceful times, he no longer kept one there.

“What do you want?” he said, glaring at Erestor, who only shrugged impassively.

“There’s talk of a shipwreck, I thought you might want to see.” Erestor was one of Gil-galad’s men with whom Elrond shared but a slight acquaintance. He was regarded as something of a wit, by the court, and Elrond had once been the butt of his jokes. This did nothing to endear him to Elrond.

He did not know how Erestor had gotten into his rooms.

“Are there any survivors?” Elrond asked, tumbling out of bed. He flung a robe hastily over himself and pulled a cloak over that. Winters on the coast were milder than elsewhere, but a chill wind and the surf would go ill for his efforts.

“It is … odd,” Erestor admitted as they headed out of Elrond’s rooms, and down the passage below. The doors were thrown open and already, many people with lit torches seemed to be heading for the beach. Neither Gil-galad nor Círdan were present; they had been called away to witness the first begetting day of Galadriel’s child -- her first.

Elrond had been, more or less, left in charge.

The moon lay hidden by a bank of silver clouds and the wind whipped at Elrond’s cloak. The rain had cleared, leaving only puddles in its wake. They followed the line of torches down the steep cliffside to the beach. As Elrond was climbing down, he looked up to Erestor, puzzled by the other’s silence.

“Is it not a Númenórean vessel, then?” He had been prepared to see, perhaps, one of his brother’s kin among the wreckage, and fight the sea on their behalf. But Erestor only shook his head.

“See for yourself.”

Elrond turned to look. At the same time, the moon came out of hiding and bleached the rocky shore white and silver. Elrond gaped at the wreck before him, the moonlight making clear what the flickering torches could not. Before him was a wreck of a swan-ship, unmistakably of Telerin design.

There were some differences between the swan-ships that Elrond had seen -- in Maglor’s old books, in his own imaginings -- and this one. There were two lamp-stones welded to its eyes, dimming now against the moon-light. Its hull had been torn out and one of its wings was missing. Elrond looked away, grieved -- it was as if he was a witness to the death of a living thing.

He knew that there were jagged reefs just beyond the coast, that was probably the reason for the wreck. Though there was a lighthouse perched on the cliffside behind them, the night before had been foggy, and wracked with storms. And, so disaster had fallen.

It was smaller, too, than the large ships that Maglor, in his perfect hand, had sketched out for young Elrond, suitable not for a fleet of fishermen or host of warriors, but rather one person -- or two. Cautiously, he touched it, a thing from another world. It felt -- cool and smooth against his hands, almost seductively so.

“It was not manned?” Elrond asked one of the men who held aloft a torch.

Erestor spoken up instead, saying, “There is a bedroll and some provisions.”

“But no one is there, my Lord,” said the one Elrond had original directed his answer to, which earned him a cool look from Erestor. Elrond sighed inwardly, and cursed the day even a modicrum of power came his way. Not even here would he be able to escape this constant jockeying? More than ever, he preferred the retreat of the Houses of Healing.

Elrond pushed away from the ship with a sigh. “Fan out,” he said, “perhaps our visitor lies hurt somewhere close. There are many hidden places here, where he could have washed ashore.”

“If he is still alive,” Erestor said, with a sardonic smile.

“I think so,” Elrond said. “I do not think the Valar would send a dead messenger.”

A hush settled over the rest.

Elrond knew that he was taking a guess -- not a wild one, but still, just a guess. But once spoken, his words seemed to take on the guise and the importance of fact. The group spoke low and some nodded, casting suspicious looks at the water. They dispersed without another word.

To Elrond’s annoyance, Erestor stuck by him as he searched, saying nothing more. He had acquired a torch for the task, which Elrond was grateful for -- it was more a courtesy for himself, with less-than-perfect Elven vision, than it was for Erestor, who did not need it going forward.

They had walked almost a mile from the wreck when they came upon a small cave that opened up to the sea. Elrond felt a small tremor of trepidation looking into its murky depths. He would not have ventured in at all, except that he spotted a piece of wood, looking suspiciously like a swan’s wing sticking up in the sand.

“After you,” Erestor said, and then added, “my Lord.”

Elrond stepped forward and glanced over his shoulder at Erestor, who looked back at him calmly. “Erestor, you do not like me, I think.”

“On the contrary, my Lord, I greatly admire and respect you. Not many would make such gains in the High-King’s court -- and care so little about it.”

Elrond sighed. That was the bone of contention between Gil-galad and him. This last summer, he had refused to be named Gil-galad’s heir and the king had taken it ill. It was not that Elrond disliked Gil-galad -- not at all! But the thought of ever being a king made Elrond feel sick with anxiety -- it was not something he would choose at all. That had been his brother’s choice, not his.

Elrond supposed that Erestor, like the rest of the court, thought that he was but a foolish brat, in need of a good-talking to, or else a swift kick in the rear. Perhaps he was even right…

But Elrond had no more time to think of this, however, because up ahead, he heard a low moan and a faint splash.

They found him behind a large rock, on the wet, pebble-strewn ground. He was an Elf, a Vanya by the look of it -- his long, golden hair was in tangles around him. Elrond approached him quickly began to check for injuries. All the while the Vanya was still unconscious, his eyes moving under his lids. He jerked when Elrond touched his right arm and Elrond frowned, fearing a break.

"I think we can move him," Elrond said to Erestor, who stooped over them and shone a light on the Vanya's face. Now several things happened at once. First, the Vanya stirred and tried to sit up, using the front of Elrond's cloak as leverage. He also shouted in Elrond's face, in funny-sounding Quenya, “Where is Eärendil?”

Erestor, quicker than a thought, fell upon the injured man and said, in a voice both soothing and loud, “Do not worry, my lord. He is safe. They are all safe!”

The Vanya relaxed for a moment, letting go of Elrond’s cloak. He blinked, slowly, at them and smiled. In health, Elrond thought distantly, it would be a dazzling thing to behold. “Well, chaps,” the Vanya said, “here I am.” And then he fainted dead away.

It was not an easy task to carry him across the beach -- carefully enough not to jar his arm, but somehow Elrond and Erestor managed it before the sun rose over the windswept shore.

They brought him to the Houses of Healing, which was only a few steps from the beach, so that the patients could hear the sound of the sea and be at ease. The healer on-duty was Sílaer, who was Elrond’s chief instructors. A small, compact woman, one of Círdan’s kin, she took in the scene in one glance and gave the orders to rouse the other healers. Soon, a crowd gathered around them, and Elrond and Erestor were relieved of their burden. Elrond followed them to the nearest room, glancing back only once to see Erestor hovering near the main doors, unsure as what to do.

It was remarkable then, to see such a change in him, Erestor who was so confident in court, looking so lost within the sick ward. Some Elves, Elrond knew, could never be wholly at ease in places like this -- where immortality and mortality intersected. It did not seem quite right, Elrond supposed, to them. He took a step away -- he knew better than to worry over his patient now -- and went to Erestor.

“Thank you for your help,” Elrond said with a small smile.

Erestor nodded slowly and said, “I must see to it that the king knows of our guest.”

Elrond frowned, but knew he could not protest. “That would be wise.”

“Do you know who he is?” Erestor looked at him, his gaze sharp.

Awkwardly, Elrond said, “He was concerned for my father -- and his hair -- I cannot help but assume…”

“Glorfindel. And sent straight from Mandos.” Erestor paused before continuing, “What an honor.”

And Elrond’s sense of honor prickled at the mocking note in Erestor’s voice. Repressively, he said, “We cannot know for certain, until one of us has had the chance to speak to him.”

“And that I will leave to you,” Erestor said, and left.

Elrond did not stop him this time.

Instead, he went back to the room where Glorfindel was taken -- if it was Glorfindel, that was -- and asked Sílaer what her opinion on the matter was.

She was optimistic -- “He almost drowned before you got to him -- I would think that the piece of wood must have knocked him out of the boat during the storm. But other than that bruise on his arm, he is certainly hale and will recover fully.”

Elrond nodded and then frowned. He did not quite know if he should tell Sílaer who this man was. Was it his place to say? Finally, when the silence between them grew too long, Elrond said, “I saw his ship -- boat, really -- it is… unique.”

“So I have heard. A visitor from Valinor! And the world is not yet aflame, I am happy to report. What is this about, Elrond?”

Elrond said, quite honestly, that he did not know. Sílaer patted his shoulder and told him to rest, but instead, he kept busy the rest of the night. He was still in training, after all, and not considered being above emptying a chamber pot or two, no matter how high his birth. Elrond found this to be a highly satisfactory turn of events. No one here was over-awed at him nor did they try to curry his favor. Here, he was simply a student, like the rest.

Between going to the dispensary to get a fresh supply of athelas -- it was amazing how useful that herb was!-- Elrond wracked his brain over what he knew about Glorfindel. In truth, he did not know much. At Sirion, Elros and he had a nurse named Meleth -- who had been also been their father’s nurse, and hailed from Gondolin. She was very willing to regale the two boys of stories of her former home -- except, naturally, of its last day.

She was very fond of describing Lord Egalmoth’s fabulous outfits to her disbelieving charges, or sing to them such songs as Ecthelion of the Fountain had composed.

On the subject of Glorfindel, however, the gregarious Meleth was mostly silent. She would greet all inquiries about him with a sad smile and change the subject. The pain of his passing, Elrond knew, was shared by all of the surviving Gondolindrim -- his sacrifice had taken on a life of its own, separate even from all the the horror and death that had come before.

But now Elrond had a chance to see the man himself!

After all his tasks were done, Elrond stole quietly into the room where Glorfindel slept. All the other healers had departed and the still form on the bed did not stir. Elrond pushed a chair closer to the bed and sat down.

Tiredness crept upon Elrond like a cat, rubbing its head against his shoulders and back, which had begun to ache. He decided that he would only rest his eyes for a moment -- he knew Glorfindel could wake any moment -- Elrond yawned, largely -- he must be ready -- and he was asleep.

Elrond dreamt an old, familiar dream, one that he thought must have been once based on a memory. The sun was bright in his dream, so bright that it hurt to look at, and so he pressed his eyes closed and turned his head away. Someone was calling his name and caught him -- Elrond gasped as he felt himself be lifted and whirled around and embraced. He caught the smell of the sea that always accompanied his father’s wake -- and salt and wind, and a hint of sawdust that always made his nose ache to sneeze.

Elrond woke with his father’s name on his lips, as the late-morning sun spilled across the room.

There was a bevy of healers present, changing bandages and taking away a meal. They took care to be quiet, but Elrond felt guilty, immediately, for getting in their way. He rose from his chair, but he was stopped from leaving by one of the healers, who handed him a tray of food and commanded him, sternly, to eat.

He sat down and ate. It was not a bad meal, though someone had forgotten to add a little salt to the porridge again. The apple, a sweet red specimen from farther inland, crunched in his mouth very satisfyingly, however.

In between bites of apple, Elrond realized that he was being observed.

Glorfindel was looking at him curiously. Neither of them spoke.

In the warm light of morning, Elrond was not sure why he had thought Glorfindel was a Vanya at all. Yes, his hair was the color of gold, but he had a face of Noldo, with sharply cut features, a nose as curved like a hawk’s, and with challenging, grey eyes that were only a little amused.

He reminded Elrond, disconcertingly, of Lady Galadriel.

They shared the same bright, penetrating sort of stare that was impossible to escape. Elrond decided then that he would not attempt to do so. Instead he rose with as much dignity as he could -- his neck felt stiff and wrong -- and pushed the chair closer to the bed.

After checking to see that the patient’s arm had been rebandaged well, Elrond looked at him inquiringly and said, “Well?”

Glorfindel answered, in good, if antiquated Sindarin, “Well what?”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I almost drowned. Where am I?”

“At the king’s palace -- well, near it, anyway, in Lindon. Who are you?”

“Which king?”

“Ereinion Gil-galad, High-King of the Noldor, son of Orodreth, the late king of Nargothrond,” Elrond said. “Pardon me, my lord, but the Valar sent you here woefully unprepared.”

Glorfindel opened his mouth and closed it again. He said slowly,“It’s as much my fault as theirs, I suppose…”

“And your name?” Elrond said, feeling that he ought to know.

“Laurefindil,” was the reply, in crisp Quenya. Maglor had the same way of speaking, Elrond remembered suddenly. “Glorfindel,” he added, a tad sheepishly.

Elrond nodded, and replied back in Sindarin, “Pleased to meet you. I am Elrond.”

Glorfindel gave him an expectant look.

In a rush, Elrond finished quickly, “The son of Eärendil, but that isn’t important right now because --”

“Eärendil? You are his son?”

“Yes.”

“Eärendil had a child, and that child was you?”

“My mother, Elwing, did, actually,” Elrond said irritably, “two of them.”

“Lord Glorfindel, please forgive young Lord Elrond’s eagerness -- he means well,” said a familiar voice from behind Elrond. He could not quite suppress a groan, before he turned and glared at Erestor.

“Yes, Erestor, it is amazing that you should know the very moment I that need you. Lord Glorfindel, let me introduce you to Erestor, one of the king’s men,” Elrond said. He wanted to continue, but could not. He realized that he knew precious little about Erestor besides the things he had already stated.

Erestor had already been a fixture at court by the time Elrond had arrived there and besides the development of a sort of cordial enmity between them, there did not seem to be much else to offer.

So he coughed to hide his embarrassment.

Erestor bowed in Glorfindel’s direction, which the latter dismissed with an tolerant wave.

Erestor began, in a very humble voice, “I am afraid my biography is lacking, my lord, especially compared to the two of you. I was born in Lindon after the war, my father was the architect for this castle, my mother made pots, and together they have sailed to Valinor to enjoy their retirement. I am not one of the king’s councillors, I am merely … useful to him. At times.”

“So, a spy then. How lovely,” Glorfindel said, beaming.

“I prefer the term ‘information-gatherer’,” Erestor said.

“They used to call them spies in my day.”

“Well, you are very old,” Erestor said, stepping towards Glorfindel with a meaningful look in his eye.

“And should be resting,” Elrond said, grabbing Erestor’s arm and pushing him out of Glorfindel’s room. “I’ll be with you shortly,” he called back to Glorfindel before closing the door behind him.

“What are you doing?” he hissed at Erestor, poking a finger at Erestor’s chest.

“He’s the one who accused me of being a spy!” Erestor protested.

“Well, aren’t you? I mean, I always assumed…”

“But how does he know that?”

Elrond remembered Glorfindel’s gaze, bright, penetrating and -- now that he thought about it, very shrewd. Of course he was not the sort to miss anything. “Well,” Elrond said, “you can’t come in as smug as you like and not think --”

“I am not smug, you are smug --”

“What are you two doing?” Sílaer said, coming upon them with her arms full of bandages. “Elrond! I am disappointed to see you squabbling with Erestor like a couple of schoolboys.”

Guiltily, Elrond took her bandages from her and followed her down the hall to where they were needed. He trained his features to be as calm and kindly as Sílaer’s usually was, but when he passed Erestor, he could not help but pull a face.

Elrond was too far away to hear Erestor laugh, or so he told himself later.

*

As was often the case, trouble seemed to come all at once. There was an accident in the shipyards, and a young man, a maker of figure-heads, had his hand crushed. Many tense days followed as Sílaer and Elrond worked to save it. In the end, they managed it, but barely, but the road to recovery would be a painful one, and slow. Then, a shipload of Númenóreans came in, with various ailments to their name -- scurvy, mostly.

And so Elrond came to the small medical library at the end of the day exhausted and smelling strongly of limes. He wished for some privacy and quiet, and seeing that the library was empty, it seemed that he would get his wish. He took a book from the stacks and settled down to read.

It was then he was interrupted by a now-familiar voice.

“Elrond, is it? May I sit?” Glorfindel said and he slid into the wooden bench next to Elrond. Elrond had only time to give a bare nod before he turned his attention back to his book. Glorfindel began to drum his fingers on the table-top. The sound he made was unpardonably loud in the hushed quiet of the library.

Elrond hadn’t read a single word from his book of herblore.

This went on for several moments before Elrond conceded defeat and put his book down.

“Most patients do not come to the library,” he said. “Although there are some who do, and they are the ones that you must be careful about. They read a set of symptoms that match theirs and suddenly they are convinced that they are stricken with the most awful diseases and will die immediately.”

“Oh yes, that reminds me, do you think I might have a flux of the humors?”

Elrond considered it for a moment. “Unlikely. The theory of humors went out with High King Fingon, I’m afraid.”

“My mistake.” Glorfindel look over to the book that Elrond had been reading. It was open to an illustration of rosin rose, though it was very well done. The golds and greens still seemed bright, though the age of the book was apparent.

“But how do you think I’m doing?” Glorfindel said.

“I think you are doing very admirably. In fact, you are in the pink of health, so much so that your bed has been given up to someone who has more need of it --”

“Yes. And I have received some rooms in the palace -- down the hall from yours, I gather. But I am told you are rarely there.”

Elrond raised his eyebrows and wondered when Glorfindel had had the time to inquire about him. Carefully he admitted, “I sleep here most days. But I shouldn’t worry about your lack of companions. You are already very popular with the court.”

Indeed, by now, everyone was his friend, including the king, who had returned to Lindon in precipitate haste.

In the week following Glorfindel’s rescue, Elrond had been summoned to tell the king what had happened, he saw Erestor skulking in the background, having already made his statement. Elrond, annoyed that they hadn’t gone in together, ignored him and kept his whole attention to the king -- and to Glorfindel.

Glorfindel had spoken only a few times during his audience with the king, but at the end of it, the entire court was convinced of his especial significance.

Gravely, Glorfindel explained to them that the Valar predicted dark times ahead for the peoples of Middle-earth. There had been a great furor over this; most thought that the dark times had finally passed, for Eru’s sake. But in the end, Glorfindel’s bright vivacity and charm was enough to make his (rather vague) message palatable for most.

Elrond persisted still, saying, “I have heard there is a line every morning for people who are eager to spar with you --”

Glorfindel looked pained. “Do you not spar?”

Drily, Elrond said, “Not unless I have to.”

“But you should -- dangerous times and all. Come out tomorrow, I’ll put you at the head of the line.”

“Tempting, but,” Elrond hesitated. “But you were a patient of mine and it would be …”
He blushed.

Glorfindel smiled. “Be at ease, son of Eärendil! I am not proposing marriage -- not yet --”

“No, of course not,” Elrond said, horribly embarrassed. How stupid he was to suppose that -- well, Glorfindel of all people -- he knew Elrond’s father as a child, for Eru’s sake, and he was a hero out of legend…

Glorfindel, apparently unaware of the turmoil that he had made in Elrond’s head and heart, said, “I recognize the hand.” He flipped the pages back to see the inscription on the flyleaf. Galdor of the House of the Tree made me, it said, and Glorfindel nodded, satisfied.

Glorfindel read quietly for a while before giving the book back to Elrond. “It is amazing,” he said, “what gets saved in times like that.”

“There were not many books that survived the fall of Gondolin and then the burning of the Havens,” Elrond agreed. “I would not put the number above five or four.”

Glorfindel nodded. Then, thoughtfully, he said, “What made you choose to be a healer? I have heard that Gil-galad wished to make you his heir.”

Elrond shrugged. “When I was younger -- I thought -- well, I wished very much to make things whole. My brother and I were forever bringing home injured birds and beasts for Maglor to heal for us. But he was a bard, not a healer, and so eventually I began to try to help them myself. The camp healer advised me, but with things being the way they were… I picked up a thing or two during the war, but… I didn’t truly start learning until I came here. You should hear Sílaer talk of how I used to suture wounds! Completely wrong, according to her.”

Glorfindel’s expression softened and and the corners of his mouth rose. “She is very dedicated teacher. You are fortunate to have her.”

“And I do know it!” Elrond sighed and stood up, carefully putting the book back in its place. Glorfindel was still waiting for him when he returned. “What will you do now?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “I’m not sure. I am grateful, of course, of the king’s generosity. I have nothing to repay him with.”

“No,” Elrond said with a laugh, “I meant this evening. I’m sure you’ll find some way to earn your keep otherwise. Shall I take you home?”

“No need for that,” Glorfindel said, getting up at last. He headed for the door before turning, a glint of mischief in his clear grey eyes. “Instead of going home, could you … show me around?”

Elrond felt a niggling feeling of warning in the back of his mind, the same sort of feeling he would get if Elros dared him to do something especially dangerous. He ought to say no, to laugh a little to soften his rejection. He knew that despite Glorfindel’s confidence, he was not quite ready for adventure.

Elrond ought to say no.

“Yes, all right,” Elrond said instead, walking to the door. He overtook Glorfindel easily, and noticed that Glorfindel took a few discreet sniffs of his hair. Elrond stopped dead and wondered what he should do -- was is some kind of cultural difference he was unaware of -- or perhaps Glorfindel was just strange …?

“You always smell of something different, every day that I see you -- yesterday it was lavender,” Glorfindel said, catching Elrond’s puzzled expression. “Today, it is … lemons?”

“Limes,” Elrond said. “For the scurvy treatment.”

Glorfindel nodded. Seriously, he said, “Is it strange to notice?”

“Er,” Elrond said. “It is a little flattering. Although I hope you do not happen to smell me when I’ve been doing something less pleasant than squeezing limes…”

 

*

 

“Have you thought of my proposal at all?” Gil-galad asked at dinner, some weeks later.

Elrond hmmed attentively and continued to cut his meat into ever smaller pieces.

They were having a late supper in Gil-galad’s private chambers. The king’s favorite meal, roasted beef this side of rare, with roasted carrots and parsnips, had been served by silent servants, who disappeared afterwards, until it was time for dessert. Restlessly, Elrond abandoned his meat and speared a piece of carrot. He looked over at Gil-galad, who was eating quite calmly.

That Gil-galad considered himself as something of an older brother to Elrond was neither objectionable nor inaccurate. But, really. Once the king had an idea in his head, he was as tenacious as a son of Fëanor after a Silmaril.

Not, of course, that Gil-galad, the faithful son of the late king of Nargothrond would appreciate such a comparison…

Elrond coughed into his napkin to cover his amusement at the thought of Gil-galad chasing after a Silmaril. No, that was simply in bad taste.

He said,“You know the objections people would have. I am related but matrilineally to the House of Finwë, and not all would be pleased if you declared me your heir.”

“Customs can be changed,” Gil-galad said, with an impatient wave of his hand. “My aunt is all for it. She says that your future is almost alarmingly open. It would be good to see you settled somewhere.”

“I’m just not the kingly sort,” Elrond protested. “My head’s just not made for a crown. My temples are too narrow.”

Gil-galad merely stared at him until Elrond subsided and gave him a sheepish grin.

“Elrond, cousin, believe me when I say that making you my heir is not -- it is not meant to be a punishment for you. Rather, it is to reassure my advisors that if I should die at some point, the kingdom should not simply crumble. You are of age, and of sufficient nobility -- and say if you were to marry Galadriel’s child, it would be very neat indeed --”

“She’s a baby,” Elrond said, shocked.

“In time, I mean, in time. I do not plan to die anytime soon. It is only to have them stop hounding me so much.”

“This is outrageous!”

“One can’t go from a minor princeling to the High King without having some sense of the practicalities of life, my dear.”

“I think it probably helped that everyone else died,” Elrond said, feeling rather venomous.

“Not as much as you would think,” Gil-galad said, pouring out two full glasses of wine for the both of them.

After a brief silence, Elrond said tentatively, “Ereinion, have you ever thought of -- well, marrying? It seems to me that this would be the easiest way to get an heir.”

“Easiest?” Gil-galad said, his face darkening. “Hardly that. If I were to marry, then I would be elevating some noble’s family far above everyone else. The backbiting and pressure would be enormous, unbearable.”

“But -- a wife? A companion for yourself, a queen for us? Isn’t that a good thing?” Elrond hesitated for a moment before saying, “Are you not sometimes … lonely?”

“I have never been the kind to need companionship,” Gil-galad said reflectively. “Perhaps it is selfishness, a flaw that I never could unseat, but I have never truly desired a wife. Or a lover, come to think of it.”

Elrond stared at him. “Really? Never?”

“No, not that I can recall.”

“All Elves marry, save for ill-chance or strange fates,” Elrond muttered faintly, but Gil-galad’s hearing was as sharp as a hound’s. He cocked his head, his gaze suddenly sharpening.

“And what of you, Elrond,” he said, his voice suddenly softer and infinitely more dangerous. “Is there a someone for you?”

“If there is, you would be the first to know,” Elrond said hastily, and taking a drink.

“Indeed. Well, what do you think of Glorfindel?” Gil-galad said, going back to his dinner.

Startled by the sudden change in topic, Elrond almost choked. When he was recovered, he said what came first in his head. “You will not accept his travel-scheme, will you? It is absurd. He is not yet ready.”

“I think it is a very good idea. I won’t want to be accused of hoarding the messenger from the Valar from all the Elven lands, and I know that many who are eager to speak to him.” Gil-galad took a sip of wine. “My aunt especially.”

Elrond had a brief vision of Galadriel picking apart a smoking heap of bones that had been Glorfindel and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Well,” he said grudgingly, “he cannot go alone.”

“Of course not,” Gil-galad said. “I am sending Erestor with him.”

At this point, Elrond did not bother to hide his disappointment.

Gil-galad noticed right away. “You are suddenly melancholy, cousin. Do you wish to go with them?”

“I cannot,” Elrond murmured. “I have my duties here.”

“But you would like to, isn’t that right?”

“It seems like it would be an adventure.”

“Certainly. A grand adventure. Alas for us whose duties pull us away from such things.”

Elrond gave a gloomy nod.

Gil-galad sighed. “You silly young ass. Of course you may go, if you wish. Eru knows if your healing skills will go untried with those two. Take some time off. Your studies will be here when you get back.”

“But Sílaer will skin me alive.”

“Well,” Gil-galad said dryly, “physician, heal thyself.”