A Rare Gift by Elisif

A Rare Gift

Read A Rare Gift

The sun is high in the sky, its forceful midday glare burnishing the surface of the sea to the bright white of half-forged steel. Even the engraved window-ledge on which I have rested one tired hand and the cane I hold tight to in the other as I gaze out upon the sea are hot to the touch, each and every inch of my surroundings duly informing me that it is time to sleep, to peacefully lay aside the troubles of the world, but I will not give in to tiredness. Not yet.

I inch forward in my seat, look out once more upon the land that skirts the sea here. Green shrubs dotted with bundles of pink blossom overgrow the sun-bleached ruins of some ancient and now forgotten temple, the pillars lying where they fell in a tumbles succession along the golden sands of the bay and wide, glittering sea. I had far rather this to look upon than some orderly palace garden of box-hedge and flower-bed, though the ruins, which I once saw in their now-forgotten glory, add a sense of loss to that of coming possibility that drifts in on the summer wind. In truth, I do not particularly mind; loss is a part of life, though it was not always so, and it is life that I am here to remember.

I inch backwards in my chair, study the mottled reflections of the sea in the silvered top of my cane. There is a knock at the door.

“My Lord King? There is a visitor here to see you.”

I shift forwards, turn my strained neck to face the maid; her fingers tremble whitened on the door-handle, her face is averted in the uncertain reticence that they all show me now. Running my fingers through my whitened hair in anticipation of whatever foreign dignitary or once-hallowed King has come for a final farewell, I tell her to invite them in, turn back towards the window.

The door creaks shut; I do not turn back.

“Elros?”

The maid is gone; in her place stands a stranger, cloaked and hooded, tired in stature as are… all those few nurtured in the old world of now ancient memory. And I know ere he even draws back his cloak that the stranger who has addressed me not by title but by my name is the one who gave it to me long ago.

“Father.”

I speak the word half-reverently; the world feels slowed to a halt as I watch him draw back his hood with the whitened fingers of one hand. His face, though still youthful, is weatherbeaten, browned to smooth leather by the unrelenting sun and never ceasing spray of the sea, clothes faded to the dulled blue of the harbour ere a winter storm, grey eyes heavy with even more loss than when I first knew them.

 “You look old,” I finally tell him, rising to my aching knees and inching forwards in my seat. Somewhere in his cold eyes, I see the echo of what may be a laugh.

“So do you, my boy,” he whispers, slowly laying his fingertips on my shoulder, cautiously fingering the richly embroidered damask of my cloak; his words are tentative, voice dry and cracked from long lack of use.

We remain in awed silence; there is a sudden crash from beyond the doors, and he reels backwards like a skittish horse and turns frantically back to the locked door; I draw back on his arm, mutter some words of reassurance that we are alone, that we are safe though I am no longer named a King in Númenor. 

He looks suddenly distracted; he walks curiously about the chamber with the uneasy air of one who has forgotten the rich trappings of a settled life, childishly reaching out to touch the silvered ornaments and brocaded curtains with his left hand, though the right remains hidden away under the folds of his cloak, just the way…  

His hand pauses on the beaded edge of one of the curtains. Looking out at the sea afar, he speaks, his voice growing in strength with each faltered word.

“It is a truly admirable thing, Elros, to rule well and to be loved for it. I myself could never do such a thing…”

I grapple for my cane, pull myself to my aching and tired feet, fingers dug tight into the warm silver ridges of the engraved map of my kingdom that adorns the cane-top.  

“It is no longer mine,” I tell him. “I abdicated the throne… twelve days ago.”

“I know,” he says, turning slowly back. “It is why I came.”

Silence.

I should be flattered, but rather I feel deep concern and the need to express it.

“It was folly to come here,” I say. “It cannot have been worth the risks you took…”

I continue, scolding him like a disobedient child, except that our positions are now reversed; I am now the old man and he is, for all my initial impressions, still youthful, in body if not in face. But that is far from new; our relationship has been backwards since my earliest memories of it, contrary to every expectation to the degree that I have often likened it to that tale someone whispered to me in my far-off childhood- was it Maedhros? His stories always tended towards the philosophical- of the Other World, the one where earth is sky, up is down, and dark night blessed day.

He turns his back on my scolding, leans further upon the ledge and looks out at the sea. It is some time before he speaks.

“I know the risks I took,” he says, quietly. “They will not see me,” he says.

Nor does he care, I suspect.

“But then-“ I reach for my cane and follow him towards the window, “I thought you swore-“

He turns back, grimaces.

“Swore, Elros? Never again. Nay, I promised never to come back among the people of the elves, but I said no such thing of the realms of men.”

My grip on the cane tightens.

“For my sake?” I say, hesitantly. He turns back, rearranges his cloak.

“Not entirely. Though I daresay there are practical advantages to that particular loophole.”

“Then- you have not spoken- to my brother?”

He shakes his head.

“Only in his dreams sometimes. It would not be,” he draws the cloak tighter over his hidden right arm, “prurient of me to return to him. If you so wished though, I could send word to him-“

“No,” I say, breathing heavily and clutching my suddenly aching side; he rushes over and takes me by the elbow, gently guides me back into my chair, takes my palm and reaches for to pour me a glass from the wine flask on the table. I do not know what saddens me more; the kindness of the gesture, or the simple fact that it is necessary. I know I have reached the end of my time, but it still hurts to see the realisation of it in another’s eyes.

Trembling fingers reaching for the wine and motioning to him to sit down, I continue.

“No. We said our farewells long ago. I have written to him, but I have no wish to cause him more pain than I already have. I hate to think…”

He is not meeting my eyes; I follow his, fixated on the shifting reflection of the sea in the wine flask, the sea turned a warm, blood-red from the wine, warm and filled with life. I lean back still further in my chair.

“I am not afraid,” I tell him, softly. “I have the life I have lived, the memory of those who came before me and the thought of those who will. I only wish I could make things easier for Elrond… and for you.”

He lays a hand on the back of my palm, and too my surprise, he smiles slightly.

“Do not pity me Elros. So, so few I have known ever passed peacefully to the far shore when they reached day’s end. It is a rare gift indeed to see such an honour bestowed on one that I have loved.”

I laugh.

“Ever the poet, Father. I have been told that all the bards in Numenor are swarming at the gates below waiting to temper glorious verse of my reign and of my passing, but not one of them could ever craft verse to equal that which you compose without so much as trying.”

Again, he smiles.

“Old habits die hard,” he says. Then with heavy eyes- I have the sense that it is not just the hand that he is hiding from me-he adds: “Some more than others.”

A gust of wind blows in from the open window, seizes hold of his cloak, draws it sharply back and gives me a brief glimpse of the scarred, twisted wreck, of his right hand. I remember, gladly, those broad, elegant hands, the music they spun to burnished gold every night of my childhood, the ever-present embrace they formed together about me so many times… Too many memories. I am tired of remembering, tired, tired, all of a sudden, eyes weighted and bones heavy, head fighting to lift, light blurring before my eyes, though I recognise that he stands before me, hands on my shoulders, speaking words I did not here.

“Ada?” I say, looking upwards at his blurred face. Ada. The word is a ghost set free, a joyous dismissal of the feigned allegiances and cautiously crafted lies of five centuries that here at day’s end have ceased to matter. Ada, Ada, Ada.

“What is it, my son?”

“Will you sing for me?”

He nods.

“Which song do you want?”

Speaking is effort, but somehow I manage.

“The song about the ships- with the golden sails, waiting to carry us all home together. Do you remember it?”

“Of course I do,” he says, and with a voice of woven gold, my father begins to sing.

 

Practical applications of that particular loophole, I had told him. The Black Foe would have described my vow to sing him to sleep- settled on as a final gift back when I first heard of their choice an eternity ago, in memory of my own brothers who never had such a pain draught to ease their parting- in such terms had he been capable of love. There was truth in what he said of my making no promise to forsake men being, at least in part for his sake; this vow- not the only one I have taken but by Arda, I swear it will be my last- was made before another unthinkably foolish one of which I will forever bear the scars, and its retention informed my later decisions. But for once, it was love, not damnabale pride and youthful folly that kept me to that vow.

Once the battle is won, together

We will gather our sails of gold

The woes of ages past untether…

Once. The very word conveys an impossibility, a story-tellers lay of lands that never were and endings that never will be. Only a fool would ask for more than peace at day’s end, as I have risked all to assure for my son in all but blood, my beautiful boy.

Gather our sails of gold,

Return to our hallowed home of old…

I sing onwards, of golden sails and far shores, of battles at last won and lovers remembered and refound; of all I never saw, and all that I pray that they will one day see. Just as I always have, and always will, I sing.

I reach the final verse; with the departure of the last ship to the far horizon, his hand loosens. I kneel down and kiss his forehead.

“Quel kaima,” I tell him. “Sleep well.”

 

Elrond remains asleep; uncomfortably, his head awkwardly perched on his shoulder in what looks to be a wildly uncomfortable position, but I dare not wake him. It feels wrong somehow; he is always so poised and dignified in sleep, and it is I who we often joke, who sleeps with all the grace of a dead horse. This however, is no time for jokes; only for profound pity at the knowledge of the contents of the letter he yet clutches in sleeping hands.

I was arrived yesterday, while we in council; not wholly unanticipated, we both knew its contents though the messenger laid it on the table in utter silence. Elrond simply took it, crumpled it into his fist and swiftly left the council-chamber without looking back. Now, in heavy-lidded sleep, he still clutches the letter in whitened fingers, but the crumpled folds have been painstakingly smoothed out and the edges of the parchment are visibly frayed from repeated reading.

I long to offer him words of comfort, but only silence seems appropriate in the circumstances; I whisper a hushed blessing and prepare to turn and leave when he suddenly jerks awake, yawns, glances about the room and then back down at the letter in his hands, an expression of pained remembrance on his face.

I loosen my hold on the door-handle, step forward.

“Elrond?”

He does not look at me, stares vacantly somewhere into space. I pace forwards, take his palm into my own.

“I am so sorry…”

He does not respond; I rush over to his other side to offer what support I can and I am stunned to see that though he does not meet my eyes, he is smiling.

“Elrond?”

His eyes turn back in my direction and is grip on my hand tightens.

“I could have sworn that, for a time there, in my dreams, I could hear my Father singing.”