The Night the Wolves Were Silent by Lingwiloke

Chapter 1

It is the first quiet night in longer than Elrond cares to remember, the first night that promises rest undisturbed by the screams of the wounded and dying, by the Enemy’s wolves howling ominously in the distance, by a call to arms spurring everyone to frantic activity. Word has reached them a few days ago – the forces of the Enemy have been defeated, he himself enchained once more, and Thangorodrim destroyed in the death-throes of the mightiest of the Enemy’s dragons, Ancalagon the Black. (“’Twas your noble father’s hand that struck the killing blow” , they told him and Elros, and he had felt a fleeting sensation of pride at the deeds of this man he hardly remembers, followed by a twinge of sadness he can barely understand, much less explain.) The announcement had been greeted by exhausted relief rather than cheers; most of their company still too weary and hurt for exultation.

Today, their small company has rejoined the main forces of the West, led by Eonwe himself, on their way to the coast. Under their protection, attacks from remaining servants of the Enemy that might have escaped the Valar’s wrath have become a reassuringly unlikely possibility. Still, Elrond has not been able to find any sleep tonight. After so long a time under the constant threat of war the quiet of the night seems deceptive, the calm before a storm rather than an indication for true safety. Every rustle in the trees outside their tent is a hidden threat, every shadow a foul beast on the prowl, and in his mind he can still hear the echo of wolves howling in the distance, striking fear in the hearts of the soldiers.

Sighing quietly, Elrond carefully extracts himself from under the scratchy blanket he is sharing with his brother – who is snoring peacefully, out like a light the moment his head touched the pillow - tugs on his clothes, and slips out into the night. Outside, he closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the fresh breeze tinged with the smell of pine needles and the promise of coming rain. It is a bright night, the gentle light of the full moon bathing the camp in a silver glow. For once, the stars are not obscured by noxious fumes from the North, or vanishing in distant flashes of too-bright colour that accompany the Valarin hosts on their warpath. Looking up, Elrond’s eyes search for a particular star: Gil-Estel they are calling it, the Star of Hope… He finds it hard to imagine that this distant light marks the course of his father’s ship, that this is the light that led him to Valinor, to finally spur the Valar into action. Among their companions, common opinion is that it is merely a matter of time before Earendil will come to reunite with his long lost sons, or call them to his side, now that the war is over.

Elrond is not quite sure what to make of that. Elros certainly does not believe or even wish it, or maybe he is wary of allowing himself to hope for something that might never happen. As children, it had been one of their fondest fantasies – their father returning from his travels at last, come to conquer all evil and take his boys home. A pretty dream that became more and more unlikely with each passing month, each passing year; but seemed still far more real than Maglor’s tales of their mother turned into a bird, to fly off with the Silmaril at her breast. That these tales he had believed to be pretty lies told to console a scared child now apparently are far closer to the truth than they had ever imagined still makes Elrond’s head spin.

But trying to revive these childish longings now – when there is actually a chance, a very real chance, that they might be fulfilled - he feels only a vague unease, and an unwillingness to dwell on these possibilities for too long. Instead, he finds his thoughts straying to a different one he called ‘father’ once, to a pair of brothers whose names he has hardly dared mention for years now, except in the privacy of his brother’s company. The thought makes him tear his gaze away from his father’s star with an involuntary twitch of the head. He does not like to admit it, even to himself, but he misses Maglor. Some days, the reality of it fills him with shame how can you, they murdered half your family for a mere gem, they held you hostage, there is so much blood on their hands it could tint the ocean red other times, there is a smouldering anger that creeps up his throat until he feels like he will choke on it you left us, mother, you left us with them, you should have been there, father, but you weren’t, you never were and mostly, he tries not to think too deeply about it at all.

Not that it matters much, now. He has not spoken to his foster parents (his kidnappers, his distant relatives?) in years, not since they sent him and Elros to join the young High-king and his people in Balar, “where you will be safe”.

A sudden noise jolts him out of his thoughts. For a moment, he almost believes in a trick of the mind, an illusion brought about by his wandering thoughts; but the small brown bird that now tugs on the sleeve of his tunic is all too real. A skylark - Maglor’s favourite. They would often gather around when he sang, especially when he played one of his merrier tunes, as he would often do when Elrond had been a small child still. His brother Celegorm, he would say sometimes, when he was in a particularly agreeable mood, would have been able to talk to them as one would to a friend, and he had taught Maglor a little. But mostly, Maglor preferred only to charm them with his music – There’s enough chatter in this house without my adding to it, he would say, smiling at them indulgently.

“What brings you to me, little one?” , Elrond finds himself asking, although he has never learned to speak to the feathered folk in a way they will understand. Absently, he extends a hand towards the bird, which hops onto it immediately, quite unafraid, and chirps at him. He smiles. “I am afraid I cannot understand you, little fellow. I am…” He trails off in confusion. Balancing on one leg, the bird holds out the other one as if in some kind of peculiar greeting. A tiny scrap of paper is bound to it with fraying thread. Can it be…? Holding his breath, Elrond unwinds the thread and catches the folded paper in his hand, as the bird instantly gives a thrilling cry and flies off. Elrond glances backwards once, in the direction of the tent and his sleeping brother, then, biting his lip and with fingers made clumsy by excitement, he unfolds the message.

He recognizes the flowing, artful script in an instant, even in the wan moonlight.

Father!

***

In the morning, when news reach them of the theft of the Silmarils, when Elros gasps in shock and then curses and smashes his fist into the wooden tent pole in impotent rage, Elrond only looks on, expressionless. His right hand is clenched in a tight fist, crumbling the paper, and the words on it:

I am sorry.