A tale of grief and hope by Sognante

A tale of grief and hope

Read A tale of grief and hope

Númenoré was beautiful. On the occasions that he had visited his brother and family on the island, he couldn`t help but wonder at what he and his people (their people in a way and yet in a thousand not) had accomplished in the span of a couple of centuries. The spiraling towers that seemed to reach to Varda`s stars, the streamlined and efficient roadways from one place to the other, the fountains of clear, sparkling waters, the splendid gardens with their fragrant flowers, and the temples to the One and several Ainur that they so devotedly kept pristine and holy year after year.

 

There were many more wonders and gifts bestowed to the land, not limited only to the ones that the Atani here had shaped with their hands: the evergreen that flourished between the buildings, the neverending surrounding sea that shined like glass with the Sunlight and the twinkling white sand on the shores that melded so seamlessly with it. The birds of all colours that chirped happily everywhere, the gallant and strong horses that galloping at all canter could take anyone swiftly from one extreme of the island to the other, the trees that at autumn would become a rainbow and at summer would be filled with the freshest of fruits. Meneltarma, with its sanctity crowning the land.

 

When he came here he could relinquish the mantle of diplomat and herald, of commander and politician. In Númenor he could only be the brother of the king, the uncle to his children. He could be free.

 

A myriad of memories came to his mind, so vivid, for that was the memory of the Eldar, unchanging despite time. Visiting for the very first time, being shown around enthusiastically by Elros throughout Armenelos, Andúnië and Rómenna (and every city thereafter), told about every construction that was going to be built, seeing even some halfway done at an amazing speed. Coming decades afterward when everything was done and marveling at the beauty created so swiftly, though his brother always complained that there was more to be completed and embellishments to be added; that only he would call three decades a quick time to complete the residence of the King (what were three decades, though? Nothing at all, nothing. A mere blinking of the eye. He never told his twin that).

 

Being present when he took a splendid beauty with a swift mind to be his wife, the isle alight with joy and hope. He remembered how Elros`cheeks went aflame in some of the anecdotes of the speech he delivered at the reception, and his eyes wet with tears at some others. His laughter so bright and his eyes filled with a love for his sister in law that he had yet never truly known.

 

The cries of his firstborn echoing inside the palace and all his children thereafter. How his face had been filled with such happiness it seemed he would burst from it when he had presented each of his four babes to him.

 

When Elrond had held each of his nephews and then his only niece in his arms, he felt a warmth that never had he experienced with any other, save his twin. When he caressed the wispy, dark hair that crowned each of their little heads, when he allowed his finger to be grasped by their tiny hands, when they opened their eyes and had been gifted with their gaze and their smile, he had known a bliss for which there were no words.

 

When those four children had come into the world, he had tried fervently to come as often as he could to the island. Gil-Galad never reproached him his absences. In fact, he encouraged them, for when he went back to be his right hand in Middle-Earth, always his step was lighter and his spirit calm.

 

How he had enjoyed playing with them! To run behind them in corridors, his brother joining him when there were no duties that had to be overseen. To throw them into the air and hear their laughter, so pure, so wonderful, and knowing that he had put it there.

 

He loved them all. And had known pride and dread in equal measure when, after a period of time when his duties had consumed him, he had come back to Númenor to find the eldest of his nephews a man, composed and tall, not the adolescent he had left the time before; his two youngest brothers not long behind him.

 

It was then, after an afternoon of catching up with each of the boys and his twin, learning all that he had missed, that his brother had looked at him with a grin, long after they had been left alone to drink wine in Elros`quarters. He had felt his excitement through their bond and was filled with it too.

 

“What has you grinning so stupidly, dear brother, that you look more a buffoon than a king?”

 

“Very funny, Elrond. But today - and the months to come - not even your poor teasing can dampen my enthusiasm.”

 

“What news have you then? Have you succeeded in mastering the craft of the sea? Or have you a new, ridiculously huge tower to show me?”

 

He had then inclined forward and taken Elrond`s hands in his. “Ancalimë is with child. And this time, I have seen a girl!”

 

Elrond had embraced his brother then, laughing with him. And proceeded to stay long enough to meet his little niece, when her cries, in turn, had filled the air. Just after the babe had been presented to her older brothers, each smiling and joyful, Elros had put her in his arms, and this time he knew perfectly how to hold her, and not fumbled like with Vardamir.

 

“What is her name?” he had managed to say, not taking his eyes from her, completely besotted.

 

“Tindómiel” his twin whispered, “For she shall be bright as Varda`s stars, and wise, and beautiful”.

 

He had Seen her then. In the way only the Sight allowed. While he held her, in his mind`s eye he had seen a woman grown, hair dark, silk-like, moving softly with the breeze, slender and tall, eyes the blue-violet of her mother, face that of his kin, ears ending in delicate points. That barefoot walked through the gardens of Númenoré with grace no mortal had, none but one with the blood of Elvennesse coursing through her veins, making nary a sound. Her eyes a piercing well of knowledge, her gaze filled with a wisdom he saw every morning in his own eyes, both a gift and a curse. She emanated a light that was an echo of the Firstborn and, when she laughed, the sound seemed capable of making the flowers at her feet flourish and the clouds of the sky vanish.

 

“That she shall be and more” he had answered and said no more.

 

From all the children of Tar-Minyatur, she was the most fey and bright. She grew slower than her siblings in body, but was quicker to develop in mind. There was an understanding between them, a sort of complicity, that for all the love he held for his nephews, he could never quite reach with them. She was patient and contemplative and from her youth held inside her an understanding of nature and life.

 

He had watched her as she had gone from childhood to womanhood, the light in her eyes only becoming greater, her hands gentle and capable of creating wondrous things. Indeed many of his robes and that of his nephews and brother had been made and embroidered by her hands, her skill valued highly among her people. She had even made a ceremonial robe for High King Gil-Galad as a begetting gift, some years ago. His friend`s eyes had widened in pleasure when he had seen it, and he had worn it several times since in formal engagements.

 

But her skills did not finish there. She danced wonderfully and sang with a voice that was clear and brought to mind the light of the stars. Her diplomatic skills as princess and later envoy for her father in Middle Earth were filled with finesse and her thirst for knowledge had made her a great conversationalist. All in all, Elros and Ancalimë couldn`t have been more proud, Elrond and all in the land of Westernesse too.

 

The decades had passed and with them, Vardamir, Manwendil, Atanalcar, and Tindómiel had grown and come into their own. Each of them, in their own ways, had earned the love and respect from their people, proud Princes and Princess of Númenoré. And Elrond had only loved his dear children more, them and what they represented for him: An oasis in the desert that was rebuilding what remained of the greatness of the Kingdoms of the Elves, after the devastation that the War of Wrath had brought, and the loss of so many to the Halls of Mandos or the Sea.

 

Today though, today he could not appreciate the beauty of Númenor like he always did. For everything seemed shrouded in darkness and in grief. The skies were covered in dark clouds, the breeze from the sea was cold and biting, the colours around him were muted. And even the love he held for his nephews and niece could not quell the agony that drowned him, that seemed to leave him as if in the middle of the Helcaraxë, chilled and desolated, lost in a neverending landscape of ice.

 

The procession was dispersing, only a few figures remaining all clothed in black, when he came back to himself, lost in the desperate attempt of his mind to escape this torment that had no name. He realized there were tears falling from his eyes, one after the other, yet did not bother to dry them. He let them fall as if daring anyone who saw him dispute his misery, though if he had been in his right mind, he would have realized no one would have done such a thing.

 

He felt his legs weaken from the strain of standing (despite the fact that in war he had been days fighting with no respite and this should have been nothing compared to it), yet he couldn`t even move to sit down or, truly, do anything. Vaguely he heard nearby the sobs of his beloved children and he couldn`t even comfort them. What a useless Uncle he was! That he couldn`t embrace them and assuage their pain, just as he had done countless times before when they had fallen while playing and scraped their knees, kissing their tears away. He felt disappointed in himself alongside the grief, but the grief won and did not allow him to move.

 

He felt more than saw the eldest of his nephews, now King (though unwanting of the title, that he had known and his twin had despaired about with him alone, in his office amid books and parchment) come towards him. Elrond felt Vardamir`s tears on his nape and his strong arms around him, holding him tight. They lasted there for an eternity. He was held yet he couldn`t hold, even as a part of his mind greatly desired to do so, and then, suddenly, he was let go.

 

A voice irrupted in his reverie. A familiar voice.

 

“Uncle”

 

“Uncle. Can you hear me?”

 

He blinked and, suddenly, he was once more beside the remains of the one he had loved above any other and would miss until the world was remade.

 

“Uncle?”

 

She was in front of him, how had he not noticed? She was there, his hands in hers, both of them cold. He looked at her face and saw her hair covered by a black veil, a tiara on her head, mouth chipped, tears already dried on her cheeks, eyes dulled with the pain that united them, very faint wrinkles he had not seen before beside them, eyelashes long and wet.

 

“Tindómiel”, he whispered.

 

“Uncle!” she answered, before fiercely throwing herself at his arms, holding as tightly as she dared. With that, the spell chattered. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen to the ground if she had not held him with surprising strength. His arms came around her shoulders, and both of them wept until there were no more tears to be shed.

 

Hours passed. It could have been decades. Night had come without him noticing until he saw Tindómiel shiver next to him for the cold. Immediately, he unclasped his cloak and put it around her. She smiled tremulously at him.

 

Since their embrace, they had sat down in front of his twin`s grave, next to the other, their shoulders touching, silent. The agony had receded, yet the longing was there, sharp and painful. The longing to embrace him, to feel him in his arms and in his mind, to have the horrid emptiness inside his fëa filled by his presence, cheerful and warm. He would never see him again, his other half, until the End of Everything. That thought threatened to undo him.

 

Tindómiel turned towards him. And he looked at her in turn.

 

“Uncle, I need to tell you something. And it is not a subject I would at all desire to talk about, now of all times. But I must…” She hesitated, and she so rarely did that he looked more intently into her eyes, and was disquieted by what he found. Sheer terror, unbelonging amidst the grief for the loss of her father. And concern grew inside him. He took her hands in his.

 

“The Sight came to me. Some days ago.”

 

That explained it. From all of Elros`offspring, she had inherited foresight in such a way that they all struggled to comprehend. All her brothers had it but hers… hers was so strong and encompassing that when she was younger and unused to it - depending on what was revealed to her - she either stopped mid-sentence with wonder or woke up screaming at night in fright and distress. It had taken years and long training on Elrond`s part for her to master her gift, and view it as such, especially when she was left damp with sweat and trembling from head to toe for what she had Seen.

 

Yet she now resembled more that girl terrified of going to sleep and seeing things she could not understand, than the woman she had been for more than a century. It was then he knew it must have been something ghastly indeed. His curiosity grew, but he dared not interrupt her. Elrond knew better than anyone that she would lose her courage to speak if he did so. So he only stood up when she did and disposed himself to listen.

 

“I fell into a deep sleep and suddenly, I heard screaming, high-pitched, all-consuming. Everywhere! People running, desperate, trying to escape waves taller than any of our greatest fortresses. The land creaked and cracked and was swallowed by the sea. Children crying for their mothers, flailing their little arms and drowning, their parents crying in anguish and soon following them. It was terrible! People dying all around me, all scared, all hopeless.

 

I couldn`t help them. I had to watch as they gurgled and sunk into the depths.

 

Which forsaken land was that one, I wondered? That the One and the Ainur seemed to abandon to such fate? It was then that I recognized the ruins, the pieces of towers floating on the waters, and even Meneltarma being swallowed by them, a final twinkle of light over it before being submerged entirely. Númenoré! It was Númenoré Uncle! It was my beloved home drowned and cursed to death and doom!”

 

As she had told her tale, she had gone into hysterics. Her eyes were crazed and she looked frantic and lost, pacing left and right. Elrond`s heart felt fear and pain anew for his niece and her people. What demented future was this?! Were his twin`s people cursed to such a fate? What could be done? There had to be something! Because Tindómiel was never wrong, and this was more harrowing than anything he could have imagined.

 

He tried to embrace her in order to calm her, but his niece refused his platitudes. She suddenly closed her eyes, turned away from him and, slowly, stopped her trembling and calmed. When she turned around, her deadened gaze was even more terrifying than her hysteria had been.

 

“Uncle,” she said, with a weary acceptance and gravitas of someone far beyond her years. "My people are damned and nothing you or I can do for it. We shall be left to die and the Gods will not aid us. I know not what shall we do to deserve such fate but I know this. I not only saw my people drowned. I saw after that. I saw some ships escape the wrath of the One being borned to Middle Earth and making a stronghold from our remains. I saw our kindreds fight, together, to defeat evil once more. I saw my people rise and fall and rise and fall again, fracture and squabble amongst themselves. I saw their wars and their hardships, their victories and their wonders.”

 

She paused then, and Elrond couldn`t take his eyes off her. Tindómiel then took his hands and locked fiercely her gaze with his.

 

“I saw you Uncle, enduring despite everything. A light amidst darkness. I saw you, a Lord gentle and bright, always generous and kind, helpful to my kin when they needed it most. I know you have always been good and will always be so, throughout the ages; I am convinced that you will always do what is right. But I have a last favor to ask, and I hope you will listen.”

 

“Anything, child, anything.”

 

“To your abode a babe shall come, with nothing to his name, desolated and lost, grief filling his soul that he cannot comprehend. He shall be the last descendant of my father`s blood, a scion of Kings, yet with no Kingdom and no home. You will take him in. You will feed him, and clothe him, you will cherish him and love him as if he were your own. You will raise him and watch him grow, and nothing of comfort or wisdom from him you must withhold. You shall teach him what he must know, encourage his talent both with wit and sword, so when the time comes for him to take his throne he can be capable of doing so. For he shall be the Renewer of our glory and the one that will help bring hope to the world. If you fail, all will fall to darkness, and no free people in our world shall remain untainted by the enemy. But if you succeed, as I am certain that you will if you wish it so, new dawn shall come and peace, at last, will be everlasting.”

 

Elrond did not know what to say. What a duty! And it seemed, commanded by Ilúvatar himself. For who else could send such a vision? Tindómiel was still looking at him, with such intense trust he could not help but feel it was undeserved. He didn`t even know how to raise a child! And then he saw him.

 

In his mind`s eye he saw a babe, with wide grey eyes such as his it was uncanny, looking at him with innocence and the same trust Tindómiel had in him. He saw a child running through corridors, he just behind, both laughing. He saw a man, weary and wise, with a gleaming sword in the battlefield, his rallying cry a fountain of hope. And, finally, that same man standing in a white city, a winged crown on his brow. And he understood.

 

He came back to himself and Tindómiel was smiling.

 

“Will you Uncle? Will you do as I bid?”

 

He didn`t hesitate. He felt like he already loved him.

 

“Yes. Yes, I will”.

 

Tindómiel embraced him again and reciprocating was as easy as breathing. And as natural. His brave, beautiful niece. How he adored her.

 

“He shall be the hope of Men” she whispered, her head on his shoulder.

 

“Yes. Estel.”

---

Chapter End Notes

The idea for this fic kept coming to my mind and I just couldn`t contain myself any longer. Elrond is such a good father that I couldn`t help but wonder how brilliant he could have been as an uncle. I know that he probably never visited Númenor enough to forge such a strong relationship with Tindómiel and his nephews, but one can dream, right?

I took the name of the first Ruling Queen of Númenor - Tar-Ancalimë - as the name for Elros`wife because I find sort of poetic that the first ruling queen would have the same name of the first queen. And the meaning of it - which according to Tolkien Gateway is "most bright" - seemed lovely and perfect for me.

When Elrond describes his niece I put on purpose echoes of how Lúthien is described in "Beren and Lúthien", which, by the way, is a lovely book I just read and I recommend. After all, she is a descendant of Lúthien, and the imagery which that provided was impossible to resist.

The part where Tindómiel walked barefoot on the gardens was inspired by Idril Celebrindal or Silver-foot, who did not use shoes and walked all over Gondolin without them. Tindómiel is a descendant as well of Idril - which for whatever reason I had not realized until now - and so it seems even more fitting.

For her eyes, which I described as blue-violet, I had in mind those of Elizabeth Taylor, that were certainly striking and gorgeous.

Tindómiel at the funeral of Elros has a veil over her hair and a tiara, which I sort of imagined like the look that Arwen had in the movies on Aragorn`s funeral, except that it did not cover her face.

The first vision of Tindómiel is the Fall of Númenor; and the ships that she sees escape to Middle Earth are the ones of the Faithful, descendants of Elros also who escaped the drowning of the island and whose leader was Elendil himself. The "final twinkle of light" over the Meneltarma (the highest mountain of Númenor and regarded as the holiest place in the island) was the crown upon the head of Tar-Míriel, the legitimate ruler of Westernesse whose throne was usurped by her cousin Ar-Pharazon, and who forced her to marry him, towards the end of the island. She should have been Ruling Queen and was of the Faithful like her father before her, yet perished with Númenor trying to ask for forgiveness to the Valar, yet to no avail. Her story and that of the other innocents who died when the island was doomed seemed sad and terrible to me, and I hope that came across in the story.

The babe that she asks Elrond to take in is, of course, Aragorn, who Elrond raised in Rivendell and loved as his son. He named that babe Estel - which is hope in Sindarin - to conceal his identity from Sauron and his minions. I loved to think that he got the inspiration for that name from his niece. Tindómiel calls Aragorn the Renewer, which is the translation to common of Envinyatar, an epessë in elvish that was given to him.

Thank you very much for reading! (both the story and this monstrous note). I sincerely wish that this brought you entertainment and some distraction if you needed it and that you have a splendid day.