Chasing Mirages by Russandol

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Acceptance

Elrond surprises Eönwë; years later, he has visitors.

 

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25. Acceptance

 

Over the following days I met Elrond several times to discuss work matters, always in the presence of Luinhir or other colleagues. He was preoccupied with delays in relaying messages from and to Edhellond and other coastal towns, due to persistent storms of unprecedented severity. The heavy sea had all but grounded Lindon’s fleet during the past few weeks, so that Gil-galad and his Council had authorised the investment required to establish a more regular use of slower and more perilous overland trading routes.

Elrond had not spoken of my request again and I thought his intention was to let the matter be forgotten. In the meantime, the only reason why I had not attempted to flee the city at the first available opportunity was his warning against rashness, cleverly poised on a reminder about his nascent trust.

On the fifth day, Bruithros knocked on my door and curtly relayed my lord’s command to attend him in the library at once. When I joined Elrond, he was gathering some documents, obviously in haste.

‘The King wishes to see me. I was hoping we could talk at leisure, but our chat must wait now.’

He rifled a stack of parchments and sighed in annoyance before beginning to systematically sort through the content of every drawer in his desk.

‘Marbles of Vé, where is that blasted letter from Círdan?’ he cried.

A quick survey of his desk allowed me to spot a corner of parchment covered in the lord of Harlindon’s distinctive flowery curls protruding from the pages of his diary.

‘Is that it, my lord?’ I pointed. He grunted, pleased, and nodded his gratitude absently while flicking his eyes over what looked like a very long requisition list. I stood, waiting to be dismissed.

‘Join me at the harbour wall after weapons practice this afternoon, Erestor. You know, at the end by the tower, where you like to sulk.’

‘Very well, my lord, I shall be there, trying not to sulk,’ I replied, pointedly.

Seemingly in high spirits, he ignored my insolence and walked out with all his papers. After a quick visit to the kitchen to break my fast, I also left the house to go to work. I was chafing at the bit, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.

 

~ o ~

 

That evening after sunset I was facing West on the harbour wall, watching Vingilótë’s white flame low upon the sky, azure below the dark line of incoming clouds. The sandstone city beneath had faded from glowing amber into dull shades of ochre and black. A myriad lamps were beginning to be lit along the buildings edging the curved shore, and the beacons blazed on the tower above me and on its twin across the water. The mighty harbour defied the fury of the sea abroad, thunderous against the impassive ramparts, its blasts of harmless spray soaring up only to fall, defeated, on the stone path where I stood. Violent gusts of wind swirled around me, tangling my flapping cloak around my legs and sending stray strands of my hair lashing against my face.

I was beginning to suspect that Elrond might have forgotten about our meeting when I saw him arrive at a brisk walk, skirting puddles along the glistening stone slabs of the wall. He still wore his court robes, which explained his unusual absence from the training grounds.

‘My lord,’ I greeted him, bowing.

‘Erestor, you are soaked!’ he bellowed above the buffeting wind and waves. ‘Let us get under cover.’

The sentry guarding the door to the tower saluted Elrond and moved aside to let us enter. We climbed up the winding, narrow staircase until we reached a circular chamber almost at the top. Its walls were pierced all around by wide arched windows opening up to the wrathful sea on one side and the sparkling silence of the city on the other. A hymn to Elbereth, sung by twinned voices, drifted down from the open trapdoor that led to the room above.

Elrond walked towards a table and chairs set on the far side of the huge iron stove that stood in the centre of the room. A most welcoming fire burned behind its heavy grills. Carefully, he peeled off his drenched robe of rich blue silk and spread it to dry over the back of one of the chairs.

‘Get rid of that cloak,’ he commanded.

‘My lord, I do not...’

‘You are dripping, Will you do as I say?’ he snapped.

I bit my lip to stop the angry retort that almost flew out. I was tired, uncomfortable and, above all, anxious about delaying my departure any longer, authorised or not. My patience had run its course. Now, I just stared, wilfully leaving an order from my lord unheeded. Briefly, he watched the drops run down the sodden woollen fabric and make a small puddle at my feet.

‘You are a mystery, Erestor,’ he began, pensively, and his eyes flicked up to study my face. ‘From the very first day when that hawk attacked you, to the foresight in which I saw you next to me in battle, to your bizarre oath and later, your unlikely perceptiveness about the reason for my grief, not forgetting your stubborn secrecy and your almost perpetual melancholy.’

He paused, frowning. ‘Now you disobey me, as though my command carries no more weight than the words of a petulant child.’ His tone had turned to steel. ‘Tell me what I should do with you. Give me a good reason why I should not hand you back to Gil-galad and have you locked up before your urge to flee overpowers your restraint, which is seemingly about to burst.’

I wavered. No doubt I could offer apologies and excuses for my behaviour, and provide vague reasons for my distress at reading the letter. But I needed more than his leniency.

‘I can no longer serve you, my lord,’ I said at last. ‘It would be best, for both our sakes, if you freed me from my oath.’

‘I am not allowed to do so, by order of our King, unless you are to sail to Valinor,’ he answered. Disappointment and anger must have shown on my face, or he must have noticed how I clenched my hands, because he hastily added: ‘But I have a proposition to offer you.’

I looked at him warily, but nodded my willingness to listen.

‘I shall give you a new assignment, away from Luinhir’s office,’ he said. ‘Do you believe I have been blind to your despair? You fret in Lindon, flapping your wings like an eagle in a cage, pining for a lost loved one, maybe the same one who bound you in true-silver?’

I did not refute or confirm. His lips almost curved into a smile.

‘No, you will say nothing. And yet, despite shrouding yourself in mystery, despite your yearning to leave, something inside me, an instinct I am unable to explain, tells me I should trust you.’

Elrond placed his hand over his heart, as though to mark the source of his intuition, and I briefly wondered whether Melyanna’s blood helped him sense a glimmer of my true nature under the wraps of my hröa.

‘You can trust me, my lord,’ I whispered, afraid to speak words that renewed my bond to him when I only wished to be released.

‘We shall see,’ he huffed. ‘I have not spoken of my plan to Gil-galad lest he throw me into the cell next to yours.’

Prickling with sudden excitement, I nodded, wondering where his words were leading.

‘Had you tried to flee when I told you not to be rash, we would not be speaking now. But you honoured the unwilling oath that binds you to me, and I cannot afford to waste that loyalty, which I have done so little to earn.’

He took a deep breath and gazed at me intently. My fate was about to be spoken. ‘Go, Erestor. Find him, your lover,’ he spoke, piercing me with a gaze which could not wholly mask his regret. ‘You are free to travel the length and width of Ennor for twelve full years, in my service. Bring back maps and lore from all the realms you visit, that one day we may use here in Lindon to understand other distant peoples. Gather information on trade, routes, customs, rulers and gods. And when you return, maybe with your beloved, I hope that you shall rejoin the world of the living.’

‘My lord, I...’ I stammered, certain that I had heard his words correctly and yet not daring to believe them.

‘Do I need to repeat myself, Erestor?’ His smile was playful, no doubt from delight at my surprise. ‘You are usually better than this at understanding orders, even those you choose to disobey.’

I dropped to one knee and taking his right hand, pressed it to my lips.

‘I will return, my lord,’ I pledged, fervent in my gratitude, blinking away tears of joy.

‘I know you will.’

 

~ o ~

 

Elrond was a good as his word. He provided me with two horses, a generous sum of money, mostly silver, but also some gold which I sewed to a pocket hidden inside my clothes, abundant provisions, and a parchment with his seal declaring me his envoy and requesting protection wherever his name and ancestry may hold any value. We agreed it would be more sensible for me to forgo his colours, and instead adapt my garb to the lands I travelled. The garments he procured for me were plain but of good cloth, well crafted to shield me from the elements. He also gave me a sword, modest but of the best steel, the first proper weapon I had been allowed to handle since I entered Lindon, a decent bow built to match my strength, and a quiver filled with blue and white fletched arrows.

On the morning of my departure, a mere few days from our meeting in the tower, he accompanied me for two leagues beyond the gates to see me safely on my way.

‘I envy you, Erestor,’ he said. ‘To gaze at the horizon each day and be free to choose where your steps will lead you, far away from maddening courtiers.‘

‘I will return,’ I repeated, earnestly.

He gave me a smile that brightened up his face, before nodding gravely in final farewell. I bowed and watched him canter down the path back to Forlond, with a vague tug of regret about the time we had wasted in contentious misunderstanding. But my guilt was short-lived.

Spring was beginning to stir, the worst of the storms was over, and my heart soared with freedom and hope as I rode East, admiring Yavanna’s wonders that budded shyly in pale shades of green, heralding renewal everywhere I looked.

I travelled many leagues to many distant lands, further than Khand and Southern Harad. I stood on the very edge of Kiinlúum, but dared not enter to witness what had become of my home and Mairon’s. Several times I heard the same whispered tale, always after the narrator hastily sketched the gesture against bad spirits, of a great black beast, a shadow with eyes of fire and jaws red with blood, fleeing across the border of the realm and into the deadly desert on the night when the last ahaw was slain. This fiendish creature had left no trail for me to follow; frustrated, I headed back West.

I crossed the narrow entrance into what later would be known as Udûn, and beheld the desolate ash plains beyond, and the looming mountain, its fire then dormant. In those times, the unnamed, barren lands of shadow were empty beyond a handful of nomadic shepherd tribes. They travelled swiftly between the scarce water sources, around which sickly patches of green, blurred by shifting mirages, clung to the hollow blocks of black lava as though sprouted out of sorcery.

Everywhere I searched for wanderers, hermits, foreigners, tricksters, healers, even lunatics, and any men who might leave an aura of mystery, wonder or fear in their wake. I enquired after new chieftains, sorcerers, tyrants, and renowned craftsmen. I met many people, kind and cruel, some who helped me, and a few who would have robbed or even left me dead or dying along the road as food for the crows and wild dogs, had I not been on guard. I stood before petty kings who inflicted misery onto their people to satisfy their lust for riches or power, and stumbled upon bloody rituals to appease darkness and thus keep the terror of death at bay. I rued, appalled, the lingering shadow cast by Melkor’s evil, while I was relieved at my failure to find Mairon lurking in lands crushed under such bleakness.

Once, on a far southern shore, I heard rumours of a lonely fisherman, and I sought him out in the isolated cove where he reputedly lived. From afar, I stared for a long time at the slate roof of the small house he had built himself, watching a lazy column of smoke pour out of the chimney. Later, I saw him come out, and recognised him despite his tanned skin and his auburn hair, once raven black, now bleached by sun and salt. Dressed only in a pair of coarse trousers, he took a seat on a boulder on the shingle beach and began to mend his nets. The breeze brought to me the faint sound of his whistling, a slow tune I recalled from Tirion.

Curious, I walked down the hill along the overgrown path. When the man saw me, he put his work to one side and watched me approach. He did not speak his name and neither did I as we exchanged greetings, appraising each other. I asked for directions to the nearest village, we made small talk, awkward at first, and he shyly invited me to share some grilled fish for dinner. I accepted gladly, welcoming both his company after months of lonely travel and the opportunity to speak to him again, even as strangers.

When he stubbornly rejected money in return for the food, I offered him a shirt. He ran his calloused fingers over the row of swirls embroidered on the soft white linen before handing back the garment.

'It is too fine for me. I have no use for it here,’ he said, sweeping his arm in a mock grand gesture to show me his domain. I was relieved to see he was smiling, amused. Fumbling, I searched inside my bags and gave him a small knife instead. His eyes lit with pleasure as he tested the razor sharp edge. ‘A good Noldorin blade is a generous gift for such a meagre meal. I will remember your kindness.’

I rode away in a pensive mood. I had refused to deliver Manwë’s summons to Macalaurë, son of Fëanáro. The contentment he had found in his humble, solitary life was too precious to destroy, whatever his crimes had been in the past. How could I ask him to trust the Valar’s promise of justice after what Námo had said, after what they had done?

Beyond that encounter, the tale of my adventures during those years may be told another time. For now, it suffices to say that tantalising clues and ambiguous signs spurred me several times into wild chases, but they all led to bitter disappointment.

After ten years of wandering, I began to be racked by doubts. Although I was able to list several sound reasons to prompt Mairon’s concealment, I ached at the mere idea that he might believe I had betrayed him.

Whenever I was forced to divert from my chosen route by a landslide, or an overflowing river I could not ford, or a mountain pass blocked by avalanches, I had to remind myself that these setbacks were not part of a conspiracy by the Valar. If their spies had reported my disregard of Námo’s mandate, in all likelihood I would have already become an enforced guest in his Halls.

Every sunset robbed me of a sliver of hope and every night I lay awake, restless, weighing my promise to return against the dwindling odds of success. My only gladness was that my fears about Mairon’s wrathful retaliation had so far proved unfounded.

On the first day of the twelfth year since my departure, weary, lonely, and dejected, I made my decision. With a heavy heart, I took the road back to Eriador.

One morning, when my breath no longer misted before my eyes and my steps did not crunch upon crisp, glittering frost, I espied the rugged Emyn Beraid over the blue outline of the Ered Luin beyond. I was nearly there.

From that moment, every step forward became harder to take. Temptation urged me to turn around and head back East to search further. Elrond might believe me disloyal or dead, but I would be free from the servitude Manwë and his Doomsman had decreed. Yet, I did not wish to repay the generosity of Eärendil’s son with deceit. I spurred my mount forward, stubbornly refusing to heed my growing doubts. After showing the well-worn credentials endorsed by Elrond’s seal and signature, I was immediately allowed through the gates of Forlond.

I crossed the threshold of his house with my heart thudding loudly in my chest. Was the eagle flying back willingly into the cage, whence there would be no escape this time? At last I found myself standing before the library and, casting away all misgivings, I knocked. When he answered, I flung the door wide open and stepped in.

‘Erestor!’ cried my lord when he glanced up from his work. Dropping his quill, which fell with a large ink splotch that ruined the page he had been writing, he rushed towards me with a broad smile and embraced me tightly, before pulling away to gaze at me.

His eyes were puffed from too much reading, and I wanted to reach out and smooth the crease on his brow with my thumb; he always frowned a little when concentrating on a task. His robes were strewn over a chair; he had come to his library straight from his audience with the King. I suspected he was burdened by work. Maybe he would consider accepting my assistance?

‘You look well,’ he chuckled. His joy died abruptly, as though he feared ill news. ‘But you return... alone.’

‘I am well, my lord Elrond,’ I laughed, pleased at his warm welcome. ‘I did not find whom I sought, but not for lack of trying. Instead, I found...’

I searched my mind, looking around the familiar room for clues to the right answer. I had come into being outside and before Time, free as thought, fast as light; now I lived as one of the Children, a mere speck bound to the surface of Arda. The endless leagues on the paths of Endórë had taught me to open my eyes again to the beauty of the world and the care I owed its people since the days I saw it sung into existence. My resentment at Manwë’s injustice had made me blind to this joyous duty.

Hope would still feed my perseverance until the day came when Mairon and I would meet again, but yearning for him would no longer rule my life.

I returned my attention to the anxious face before me.

‘I found patience,’ I said.

‘A commendable virtue, of which I possess scarce amounts,’ he replied, relieved. ‘Maybe you care to tell me some of the other wonders you discovered during your quest, and in return, I can bring you up to date with the news and gossip of Lindon? I shall call for a repast and some wine.’

‘With pleasure, my lord,’ I answered, glad to be back.

 

 

Lindon, Year 600 of the Second Age of Arda - Spring

‘My lord,’ I called out, walking into the library without waiting for a response to my quick rap. Once I closed the door behind me, I added: ‘Have you fallen asleep over the ledger again, Elrond?’

‘And what if I have?’ he grumbled. ‘Is this the respect a lord gets from his men these days?’

‘Of course not, my lord,’ I answered, executing an exaggerated bow. ‘But I thought you should know that our lookouts have sighted a large ship outside the mouth of the Lhûn, and one of the patrols has approached her and is guiding her to Harlond. With the current wind, she will drop anchor around noon the day after tomorrow.’

‘So?’ he replied sharply. ‘Círdan has a fine harbour, after all.’

‘This is an unusual vessel, Elrond,’ I explained in a mockingly patient tone, as a tutor teaching a difficult lesson to a distracted child. ‘Her name is Entulessë and she waves the flag of Númenor.’

I could not avoid smirking at his look, an almost comical blend of shock and wonder.

Three hours later, having obtained leave from Gil-galad and instructions to convey his invitation to the Númenóreans to visit him in Forlond, we were aboard a fast courier ship, sailing across the gulf towards Mithlond.

At midday on the second day from our crossing, Elrond stood in the place of honour at Círdan’s right, and I was immediately behind and to his side when the heavy plank was lowered from the two-masted ship amongst the loud screech of pulleys. Her slender shape and alien build reminded me of the vessels of the Teleri. A dry, shrivelled wreath hung from her prow, no doubt a blessing of some kind, or an offering to Ulmo, and the rigging was decorated with colourful garlands and banners.

On the stone pier around the Lord of Harlond were gathered most of his court officials and captains; a large, colourful throng from all walks of life, lords and commoners alike, crowded the harbour, eager to see in the flesh the Edain from the Land of Gift.

I espied the faces of the sailors on deck staring at us and the town beyond with eyes wide as plates, like those of a child entering a dream made of sugar of many colours. Their captain, a tall man with curly chestnut hair trimmed at the shoulders, could not avoid a similar expression of stunned amazement as he stepped briskly down the plank followed by four of his officers, equally mesmerised. By the time he stopped at a respectful distance before Círdan, he had regained his composure and gave a perfect courtly bow.

‘Welcome, Mariner,’ spoke the Lord of the Falathrim, hushing at once the excited chatter and cheer from the assembly.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ replied the man, his impeccable Sindarin marked by a melodious accent. He bowed again as he offered a rolled parchment, surely his credentials. ’I am Vëantur, Captain of the King’s Ships. I bring to you the greetings and good will of Tar-Elendil, fourth King of Númenor, and his wish to renew the alliance between our peoples, long sundered. After weeks filled with empty horizons and hearts longing for the cry of the gulls, my men and I rejoice at stepping ashore in the lands where our forefathers once lived and died as your friends and allies.’

A warm murmur of approval rose amongst the assembly.

Círdan gave his slow, customary scan of the parchment’s contents and gravely declared his acceptance of Vëantur as the ambassador from the King of Númenor to the realm of Lindon. He welcomed him formally, as Lord of Harlindon, and introduced Elrond as herald of the High King. The mariner’s eyes widened when he heard the name of my lord, and bowed low again, as he gracefully accepted Gil-galad’s welcome and his invitation to visit him in the northern half of his realm.

‘My lord Elrond,’ said the captain, once these formalities were over, ‘it is an honour and a wonder to meet the great-great-uncle of my lord Tar-Elendil, and brother of our beloved Tar-Minyatur. My King, your kinsman, hoped for this momentous encounter, and entrusted a parcel to me, to be given into your hands only. It is locked in my cabin for safekeeping, and I shall retrieve it at the earliest opportunity.’

However, Elrond had to wait until the end of a long, merry feast of welcome, during which Círdan proved to be a most generous host. Food was served all through the evening, not just within his home by the harbour where the whole crew of the Entulessë had been invited, but also without, for the crowd that had gathered to celebrate. Lively music and dance spilled out to the streets and wine flowed in abundance to repeatedly toast visitors and residents alike.

It was well past midnight when a beaming Vëantur sought Elrond and offered him a flat, oblong bundle, carefully wrapped in thick paper tied with blue ribbon and sealed with the crest of Númenor. My lord took it in his hands and slid his fingers to break the wax. The Númenórean reached out hastily to stop him.

‘It is personal, my lord,’ he warned, glancing pointedly at me.

When he left us, Elrond bid me good night and hastened across the vast galleried courtyard toward his accommodation, the lavish set of chambers where Gil-galad stayed during his visits to Círdan. I walked slowly in the opposite direction, as my room was in a different wing of the building, where lesser visitors were lodged in small but comfortable apartments.

I was not wholly surprised at the urgent knock on my door that yanked me out of my sleep a few hours later.

‘Erestor, it is me!’ hissed my lord’s voice with a marked slur.

When I opened the door, I found him still dressed in his fine robes, clutching several pages of tightly written paper in one hand and a wooden frame in the other. He thrust it towards me and I grabbed it, fearful he might drop it. After turning it the right way, I peered at the detailed family portrait it contained.

I recognised Elros at once, aged only very slightly from when I had seen him last. His right arm was wrapped fondly around the waist of a woman whose eyes sparkled with joy while her smile and a dimple in her cheek spoke of kindness and a sense of humour. Around them stood their children and spouses, and before them all, their many grandchildren, of all sizes and in all poses, including a girl on a rocking horse and a scowling boy fiercely wielding a wooden sword.

‘He looks happy. They all do,’ I said, gently.

I glanced up at Elrond and saw him shudder. His eyes were ablaze with pain, not dulled by the effects of however much wine he had ingested.

‘Happy, Erestor? Most of them are dead. Dead! I already grieved for him once. But now, again... Do you want to know what he says?’ he cried, angrily waving the letter before my eyes. ‘About life? About...’ he almost spat the last word, ‘death?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ I said firmly. ‘I do. But there is no need to shout it to the four winds.’

I pulled him into the room and closed the door. He stood unmoving except for a slight sway, until I steered him gently towards a small table by the window, and made him sit on one of the chairs. I picked up two earthenware cups and the jug of wine the servants had left next to a bowl covered with a white cloth and filled with nuts and crisp flat cakes. I rang the bell, and asked for more wine and nibbles; it promised to be a long night. The white nectar from Harlindon was light, fruity, and had the reputation of not giving a hangover.

‘Now, Elrond,’ I said, pouring a cup full and pushing it towards him, ‘tell me everything.’

I have often heard that it is not possible to drown your sorrows in wine. Maybe it is true, but that night, Elrond almost did. Almost.

Nothing would bring Elros back, but with the stubborn lucidity found in the bottom of his cup, Elrond swore himself into a duty that would keep his brother’s memory alive and give him solace. He would watch over Elros’s children’s children, if only from afar. Our minds flew that night over the marvels of Númenor, from Armenelos to Andúnië and the peak of Meneltarma, on wings powered by the potency of the Harlindon white.

With a pang, despite all the years since she had been gone from the world, I remembered my sweet Nikteháa, her soft skin, her beautiful smile, and her dreams to visit the Land of Gift.

‘You are not made of stone, then,’ proclaimed Elrond with solemnity at the sight of my moist eyes, and we embraced in a haze of drunken camaraderie and mutual sympathy.

In the morning we awoke lying closely together on my bed, still dressed. He swept aside my arm, draped heavily over his chest, and sat up slowly, running his fingers through his untidy hair. I briefly flinched at the memory of kissing, brought back by the sight of his swollen lips, no doubt mirrored in my own, if the soreness I felt was any indication.

In tacit agreement, we pretended this slip in propriety had never happened. Elrond left my room with a curt dip of his head and a faint smile on his face.

When, more than a century later, he met Aldarion, his nephew through five generations, Elrond was able to rejoice, instead of merely lamenting his brother’s choice and his own loss.