Ada by ziggy

Chapter 1

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Ada

Third Age. Imladris

It was one of those early Autumn days when the rain soaked everything. In the empty and silent gardens of Imladris, great raindrops splashed onto the broad leaves and soaked the grass of the lawns. The late roses bowed their heavy heads under the weight of the rain loaded between petals that slowly dropped onto the lawn. No one was about. The rain had the gardens to itself.

It was too early in the season for a fire really but Elrond felt cold in his bones that was his Mannish heritage and he turned from the tall window that overlooked the cold drenched garden and stared into the hearth where flames licked cheerfully at apple wood and ash.

Strangely it reminded him for a moment, of Amon Ereb; perhaps it was the cold for the wind that had swept in from Thargelion along the Ered Luin and nothing to stop it, had been bitter cold. And the first frosts always reminded him of those long ago days.

He sipped a sharp white wine from the slopes of the Ered Luin, the thin soil giving it a pleasing acidity. He stared out of the high windows and his heart ached for the loss and tragedy of his dearly beloved foster fathers.

He had tried. In his way. Tried to heal them both.

Now he would have found it easy to ease the ache in Maedhros’ missing limb with what he had discovered about cell migration and bacteria. Of course the lack of blood flow to the limb at the time of amputation would still have been the significant factor, he thought clinically, but his heart was wrenched with grief and loss…It was not the amputation that had driven Maedhros to that moment of absolute despair.

Elrond put down his glass with a shiver that tiptoed down his spine, a ghost’s touch and he almost looked around to see if Maedhros was standing there watching him, smiling in wry amusement.

But he knew that no one was there. That body, those arms that had lifted him out of misery and fear, that had cradled him against that strong, indomitable heart, was gone. That heart, those arms, that smile, all burned away so that nothing was left.

I might have saved him, thought Elrond. As he always did. If we had known what they were doing, I might have stopped him. That night I overheard them, if I had listened longer, thought harder…I might have saved him

But in all truth, he could have done nothing. Neither he, nor Elros, nor Närmó, could fight the Oath. And the Oath had awoken with the news of Bauglir’s defeat.

It had been a bitter-cold midnight when Elrond had awoken, his spine prickling and nerves alert. At first he thought it was the sad ghost of Caranthir again, for Elrond had seen it tilting its head to listen to the endless sorry, sorry, sorry, whispered by Maedhros against the softly echoing walls of the ruined towers, the empty halls. But there were quiet voices at the hearth where their beloved captors sat huddled together, head bent towards each other.

‘…must be done now.’ Maedhros’ voice hushed and desperate as Elrond had never heard him. ‘….defeated and brought low….’

Then Maglor, too quiet to hear, just a murmur and Maedhros interrupting. ‘…you think I have not thought that! They will never give in. Why should they? No one else has yielded to our request….’

Maglor again.

‘I do not want you with me.’ Maedhros, almost a murmur but just enough to hear. And then silence.

Elrond lay very still, barely breathing.

And that was what gave him away of course. There was a rustle and then steps moving softly towards where he and Elros lay. Then a warm hand stroked his hair and a hum of a lullaby. He wanted to laugh and push away Maglor’s hand for he had long grown out of lullabies, but he found himself falling asleep.

Three days later, they had travelled to Lindon.

‘To see what is happening in the world,’ Maedhros had said. ‘We can no longer stay here. Thargelion is laid waste and Angband’s convulsions crack the earth.’ Indeed, they had felt the rock beneath their feet shudder and quake like the earth itself sought to throw off Melkor’s dominion. Maedhros’ pale grey eyes were very distant then, and he gazed away at something that no one else could see. ‘It is said that the Sea has overwhelmed Losgar, and Mithrim is beneath the waves. Dor-lómin… Hithlum….’ He blinked and looked back down at the gravel, the hard stone.

Maglor said nothing but he breathed through his nose and shook his head slightly. ‘Those places have long been lost to us,’ he said. And that was all he said.

Elrond bowed his head. He could never think of Maedhros, Maglor, without a surge of loss, of love and of the conflicted misery of betrayal; for they had left the twins with Erestor, tricked them all. While Erestor was taking them to Balar, their beloved captors went alone into the Valars’ camp to retrieve the Silmarils. And they did not come back for their boys, nor for Erestor.

It was only later that they heard the story that Maedhros had killed himself.

And Maglor…Maglor had never come for them.

Elrond thought he had always known that Maedhros was heading that way, his unbearable sorrow overwhelming him, guilt and grief stretching him upon a rack in ways that perhaps only Morgoth could have foreseen. For it was Morgoth who had bribed Uldor, and Morgoth ’s hand that opened to give the order for Fingon’s death…

But in Maedhros’ mind, it had been his own mouth that gave the order.

Elrond sighed and leaned one hand against the cold stone lintel of the wide casement, remembering that first time he had realised that the Red Devil his mother had told them about was merely a man torn with grief..

He and Elros had been very small then, the age of his own boys now, and not long taken from Sirion to Amon Ereb although they had stopped believing the Feänorian demons would devour their hearts and strangle them with their own entrails. That night had been bitter cold and Elrond awoke feeling something, a misery that felt like drowning.

He found Maedhros stroking Elros’ head while he slept and a thick fog of despair was drawn about Maedhros like a cloak. Even then Elrond perceived it. He had reached out to the stump with its soft skin, like something unformed or unfinished, and stroked away the dull ache he knew was in the bones of the man who had driven his mother to the edge of the window, had leaned put after her screaming revenge, had scooped him up out of the flames and blood and screaming and taken him away. And then he had told Maedhros Nelyafinwë Feänorion, Scourge of the Gap and Hammer of the West, kinslayer, kidnapper, murderer, that he should stop scratching it.

Elrond smiled to think it now: the temerity of his own small self, the gentleness of the man who had no gentleness for himself. For even then, Elrond had perceived that Maedhros daily excoriated himself with guilt and self-recrimination. The child Elrond had been then had somehow known the bitterness and contrition that Maedhros was feeling and yet, that same towering legend that had the Orcs of Beleriand running at the mere sound of his name and the coldness of his eyes, had pulled a hostage child onto his lap and cupped his one good hand around the small icy feet to warm them, pressed them against his belly to take away the cold. This for a child taken in bitter defeat from the woman who had eluded them and denied them all hope of fulfilling the Oath.

Elrond’s chest was tight with grief and loss. Sometimes he could not bear it. Half closing his eyes, he sipped his wine, knowing that he was raking over the very old coals that had defined him as a man, seeking a flame, a warmth that he had not felt since…Well. Since he and Elros had waited on the grey shore of Balar with Närmófinion, pacing restlessly, anxious first, then angry and then finally, afraid.

Rightly so.

When the news had come that Maedhros had killed himself, Elros had flung away and run, hard and fast into the distance. Elrond had sunk into himself, wrapped himself into the cloak that Maedhros had insisted he have, to wait for Maglor

…Here, Maedhros had said and thrown his thick, worn cloak around Elrond but with a glance too at Elros, assessing, weighing up the quality of Elros’ cloak, wondering what he had to give him. And then giving Elros his own knife, etched with his initial and forged long ago by Curufin. ‘You have lost yours,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I will get you one of your own when I can, but this will do for now.’…

The knife was Elrond’s now. Left him by Elros. The only thing he had left of either of them.

Of course, when the last remaining sons of Feänor left the boys on that grey shore, they knew they were not coming back and Elrond thought still that he should have recognised the madness in Maedhros’ eyes, the terrible weight in Maglor’s gaze. Närmó had been suspicious but Maedhros had made him swear to stay with the twins and guard them until he returned. Or Maglor.

It was because he had not intended coming back for them.

He still did not know what Maglor had ever intended. Or where he was…Although sometimes there were rumours. Sightings of a First Age warrior, helm clasped close around his cheeks, bursting into a fray and saving beleaguered Elves and Men, or a glimpse over the Hithaeglir’s High Pass, a warrior passing like mist. And lots of tales that he wandered, maddened with loss along the seashore forever.

Elrond had tried to stop listening to them, for the betrayal still hurt, and his love and grief still overwhelmed him sometimes.

He stared out of the tall window, looking out over the drenched garden and its heavy-headed late roses.

0o0o

Suddenly the door was flung open and Elladan burst in and fled to his father. The little face was red with crying and Elrond bent down and gathered his own child into his arms. When Elrohir appeared in the door, concerned, alarmed, Elladan had already snuggled into Elrond’s neck, his tears drenching the soft wool robe.

Elrond held out his hand to Elrohir and smiled. ‘Your brother is upset, that is all. Perhaps you can tell me what happened?’

Elrohir’s still chubby little hand in his, he led one child and carried the other through his study to where the deep, comfortable chairs were either side of the fire. He pulled Elrohir up onto his lap so he had both his boys crammed against his chest and he bent his head and kissed the tops of their heads, first one and then the other.

‘I…I fell,’ hiccupped Elladan, and Elrohir said, with his always overdeveloped sense of responsibility, ‘It was my fault. We were climbing and I reached down to pull him up and my hand slipped. I dropped him.’

‘Did you do that on purpose?’ asked Elrond kindly, examining Elladan’s wrist. A sprain perhaps, no more. Elrohir’s big wide eyes stared at him in horror and Elrond smiled at him reassuringly. ‘Then it is not your fault, Elrohir, but an accident.’

‘It was an accident,’ Elladan agreed and squirmed round to enclose his brother in his embrace. ‘You were trying to help me.’

But Elrohir was still distraught and that was how Celebrían found them, her two boys cuddled together on their father’s lap. Smiling, she lifted Elrohir from his father’s lap and sat in the chair opposite. She found her husband’s gaze, her smile still on her lips, and Elrond thought he had never been so content, so happy. The grief of his early life slipped into the background and he sat contentedly, Elladan’s sleepy weight curled around him. Elrohir’s round anxious eyes were still upon his brother whilst Celebrían was telling Elrond something about the household staff, something had happened in the kitchen and someone was upset. Elrond half listened and watched Elrohir instead.

‘He reminds me so much of Elros.’ The words were out before he realised and he glanced up to find his wife’s eyes, startled, upon him for he so very rarely spoke of his previous life. But he wanted to speak. ‘He watches everything, just like Elros.’ He laughed softly and Elrohir watched him with the same eyes, full of avid curiosity. ‘He used to watch Maedhros practising and then he would make me drill against him with one hand tied behind him. He alternated so both hands were strong and he could fight with either one. Maedhros approved enormously.’ He glanced at Celebrían for she did not like him to tell the children about his foster-fathers; in her eyes they were kinslayers and kidnappers. So he did not add that Elros had also practiced walking and talking like Maedhros and that he used to raise an eyebrow just so, that was just like Maedhros. And in truth, it was a mannerism that Elrond too had acquired.

‘I am like your brother, Elros?’ Elrohir’s childish voice was keen with fascination and pride.

‘You have the look of him in your eyes,’ Elrond said gently and a sudden fear seized him. Was it a look of mortality? Would Elrohir choose the Way of Men in time?

Celebrían seemed to have had the same idea for she flashed a glance at him that was all Galadriel. ‘Will you ride your new pony with me tomorrow, Elrohir?’ Celebrían said quickly, before the fearful thought had time to settle. ‘I am going to the Thurin-hoth tomorrow and it is a lovely ride.’

‘Yes!’ Elrohir was excited and distracted as she hoped, and as always, he asked a little anxiously in case his mother said no, ‘But what about Elladan? He has a sore wrist and might not ride.’ The conflict in his voice was painful, desperate not to disappoint either.

Elrond intervened. ‘I am going to the armory tomorrow. Elladan can come with me.’ And now he saw he had not eased Elrohir’s mind at all for the armory was a rare treat. ‘I will take you the next day,’ he added quickly to spare his son the pain of an easier choice.

It was enough of a distraction for both his wife and son as they plotted their trip to the waterfall, and laughed.

For Elrond though, he was still in the past and thinking of his childhood in Amon Ereb. Cold and meagre though those days were, they were still some of the happiest of his life.

‘What are you thinking that you are so far away?’ Celebrian’s voice floated into his thoughts and he started. Shaking his head, he came back to the present and Elladan’s comforting weight in his lap and his wife and other son both staring at him bright-eyed and curious.

‘Miles away and years past,’ he smiled and stroked Elladan’s smooth head, letting Vilya soothe his son. There was the strange prickling sensation that he felt in his fingers whenever he used Vilya and he wondered at how much more there was to learn, for he knew he had not mastered the Ring’s potential, had no idea in fact, of its real power.

‘I will put them to bed,’ Celebrían said softly. She stood, the folds of her gown falling so gracefully around her, her long hair gleaming, that he almost choked with love for her. But he did not want to let Elladan go just yet, still raw from his own memories of loss and grief, so he cradled his child, soft with sleep, and gently rose and accompanied his wife. When Elrohir reached one hand up to Elrond, he shifted Elladan gently on his hip so he could clasp Elrohir’s, feeling the bones beneath as the chubbiness of childhood passed.

In the bedroom the boys shared, Celebrían moved quietly, folding things and putting things away that were scattered over the floor in their play. Elladan had not really awoken, only stirred softly, as he was dressed in his night shirt. ‘Hush,’ Elrond said and again, let Vilya spread a warmth and peace over the room.

‘Ada,’ said a voice, bright with wakefulness.

‘You are awake then, little knight,’ Elrond said softly without turning. He pulled the blankets up over Elladan and turned to face his other child. Elrohir’s eyes were wide open, alert and curious. But he watched the stars in the sky, Vingilot, the brightest star, hung close to the Moon, dimmed by its nearness.

‘Is that really your father?’

Elrond hesitated. He knew that Celebrían loved the idea of the Silmaril being carried by Eärendil. It was her father, Celeborn, who promulgated this and if he were not such a generous and kindly father-in-law, and, Elrond added to himself that any man married to Galadriel had earned his spurs indeed, he would be less forgiving. But the memory of Maedhros was so recently in his mind, he was gentler than he might have otherwise been. ‘No,’ he said, and moved to the edge of Elrohir’s bed, and his child shuffled along to make room for him.

He leaned back against the headboard and drew Elrohir to him so they could both gaze out of the window at the stars.

‘That is a star. It is made of gases and fire. Like the sun. The first Silmaril to be freed from Morgoth is in Aman,’ he said definitely. Who knew? But he did not believe the story that Vingilot was floating in the sky, his father at the prow with a Silmaril set upon his head. It was a fable and he had been brought up by Feänor’s sons in the ways of Science. ‘Look, the trajectory of Vingilot, for that is what we call the star,’ he said smiling, ‘is like this.’ He sketched in the air with Vilya and a line of sparks appeared. It was the least of her magic. Elrohir’s face glowed with delight. ‘If you notice, it crosses at an angle which will never take it far enough West for it to reach Aman.’

‘So it cannot be Grandfather after all?” Elrohir looked disappointed and Elrond’s heart squeezed for he had placed his child in a position of believing either his beloved mother, for they were closest, and his father. He wanted to give him comfort, to tell him that yes, that was Eärendil and he watched over his grandchildren -as he never watched over us, Elrond thought - but he could not go against the grain of his upbringing. ‘If you look through the spyglass that Erestor has, you will have to ask him very politely and tell him why you are looking, he might let you see. While you are there, ask him if you may look at the other stars. They are a wonderful sight.’

‘Like diamonds?’

‘A bit. But even more wonderful. There are comets and meteors to see, and distant galaxies, whole swathes of stars. If that star, which the Lorien Sindar do call Eärendil, was the only star, how empty would be the night sky.’ As he spoke, he remembered Maedhros rather than the distant mariner, sitting in the mud with Elros, stick in hand and gesturing to the far flung pebbles he had thrown to show a distant galaxy. I wish we had that old starglass, he had said with fond longing. I could have shown you the wonders of the night.

Elrohir’s face was caught in rapture and he stared out of the window. ‘Then I am glad for I have thought how lonely Grandfather would be up there in the dark on his own. I would not like it. I much rather think of him in Aman with Grandmother Elwing.’ There was a pause. He stopped and glanced up anxiously, searching for a sign of the distress he thought Elrond must have felt. For Elrond knew that Celebrían spoke to her children of their ancestry but he did not; he found it painful to think how easily his parents had abandoned them, and having been found by his foster fathers, how hard it was for them to leave Elrond and Elros- and yet they had left nevertheless.

But if he did not speak, then who would remember? If he did not tell them, his children would not know how much HE owed to Maglor, Maedhros. And he could not have his children think so badly of them.

So he nestled Elrohir’s head against his shoulder and began. ‘Once, long long ago, there were two small boys, twins…’

‘Like Elladan and me.’

‘Yes. Just like you. They lived in a city by the Sea and they could hear the sound of the waves, the seagulls, all the time.’

‘Like you and Elros.’

‘Yes. Just like Elros and me. In fact, this is Elros’ and my story.’

 

0o0o

End