The Winehammer. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

   Our Commander cleared his throat; his valour in battle did not aid him in his fear of public speaking. But we all owed him our lives many times over and tended to cheer (or weep) at the mere sight of him.
   "Well, my friends!" he said at last, and we cheered again. He held his hand up and there was instant silence. "Orders from the High King Ereinion. From Gil-galad himself. The war is over. It is time to disband, and to return to... to return..." he faltered, looking west, over the placid blue waves, and where there really should have been a cheer, there was silence, for that peaceful sea had drowned all Beleriand. A voice cried "But sir, where do we go? What shall we do?"
   At this there was a clamour of questions and cheers and laughter, the Commander held up his hand again "My friends, you are elves, you can do anything, you can go anywhere, the enemy is defeated. You have won. There are still creatures of the enemy, and Gil-galad will be sending troops out to hunt them down, and of course you will slay them should they cross your path. But the army is disbanded, there is now no army to face. It is peace."
   After so long, it was hard to grasp. Morgoth, the dark enemy of the world, had been cast into the void, never to trouble elves again. It was like pushing at an open door, our thoughts stumbled in confusion. There was a long silence. But nearby, in the colours of Fingon the Valiant, a few of his people were stirring, a few words were exchanged among them, then, as one, they saluted the Commander, fell out, and strode purposefully north, towards the new Gulf, where once the Dwarven Realms had watched from mountain fastnesses. Their leaving was the trigger, the army loosened into clusters of friends, kinfolk and houses, then drifted apart. I stayed, watching the Commander, who stood at attention all through, while at his feet, those who loved battle more than life, gathered to join the much-reduced army of Gil-galad. 
   But through the crowd came Galdor, a Sindar scholar of distinction, who, though a mere acquaintance, I was delighted to see.
   "Galdor! Well met! Stars shine upon you, they surely shine on me!"
   "Erestor! Walk in the light! I have come to lure you to Mithlond, where Gil-galad hopes to gather as many of the wise as have survived."
   "Wise? I? But Mithlond, what, where is it?"
   "He is building a new city from the ruins of the mountains! Well, that’s what people say. But there is much broken rock, and many fine buildings are going up. The Lhûn is bridged at its mouth, and deep waters mean ships can find harbour there, and haven from the storm. It is a fine place, Erestor, you will flourish there, and by your wisdom enrich the flourishing of all!"

   We dined on a terrace in the turmoil of the building site. The king's palace and the more vital crafthalls were complete, but Mithlond was as yet merely dust and dreams. Piles of cut stone, mountains of timber, barrels and bales and a network of scaffolding stretched around the narrow bay like broken toys. The scars of the mountain's fall were greening over, but amidst the rubble, the spirit of Gil-galad shone like his namesake star. It was a joy to meet him, and like all who had the privilege, I shall never forget him. 
   He was quiet while Círdan the Wise spoke, praising my deeds and my scholarship. It was somewhat embarrassing, as such things are, but Galdor was beaming at me, and then I caught the eye of the High King and understood that he would ask somewhat of me. I smiled at him, to say 'anything!' and he sighed, and sat back in his chair, then said bluntly 
   "We would ask a favour of you, Erestor the Wise. Círdan is too polite to come out with it, but you have guessed that something is afoot."
   "Sire, if you would let me finish..."
   "Oh Círdan, get to the point first, then explain afterwards! Erestor, we want you to talk to... no, we want you to befriend the sons of Eärendil. They are running wild in Forlond, they have taken up residence in a... an inn, a tavern on the dock, musicians gather there, youngsters with no respect for the traditional forms..."

   The inn sign said 'Gwîndring", the wine-hammer, though the building itself was rather lovely, with three terraces sloping back into the hillside, each covered with climbing flowers and hanging baskets. But the stairs throbbed as we climbed them, and the sound blasted us as we entered. 
   In a pit carved from the living rock, twelve elves sat before the largest drums I had ever seen, and beat them with all their might. The noise was tangible, my skin, fresh from army-alertness, prickled with awareness. On a stage above the pit a elf maiden sang, high and clear, her voice floating above the deafening drums, a haunting eerie melody that brought to mind the sea. 
   Around us elves were dancing, some slowly, rippling in time to the melody, while others leaped and stamped, their loose hair dancing around them. It was fast, urgent and seemed to resonate with my own turmoil, as though the traditional forms could not express what we had seen, what we had endured, and the long grief ahead. 
   I found a drink, and watched, wondering whether the sons of Eärendil were present, and set myself the challenge of exploring the inn. I lost my drink in the melee, but there were elves with trays, though how they navigated that maelstrom I cannot say. To my astonishment I saw Gildor Inglorion, of the House of Finrod, sitting on the second level. I struggled up the crowded stairs and greeted him eagerly. He leaped to his feet and eased his way out, then led me through a door I had not noticed and closed it behind him. The noise was muted to a tolerable level, and we spoke for a time of events, and of our lives. Poor Gildor; though all are in grief, for some the pain is sharper, and, I must say, if I had had the privilege of being close to Finrod Felagund, doubtless my loss would be commensurate.
   At length he asked my opinion of the music.
   "I think it speaks of our grief. More than that, I think it speaks to our grief. However, I do not think I would return here."
   Gildor laughed "So I thought myself. But it haunts you, deeper than merely singing the tunes in the bath... Perhaps it is because we cannot produce such depths of sound with voices alone. Perhaps this is music that is not merely heard but felt, in our very bones. You will return, I know it!"
   I suppose my doubt was plain, for he laughed and poured me a drink, and after a time I too felt able to laugh. Then Gildor looked at me with narrow eyes and a raised chin "Why are you here? What brought you to this place?"
   "Why are you here?"
   "Everyone was talking about it, I came to see, ha! to hear!"
   "Well, I have not heard everyone, but it was recommended to me."
   "Who by, anyone I know?"
   "But Gildor, how can I know who you know?"
   Gildor sipped his drink "The twins. You have been sent to keep an eye on the twins."
    I gaped at him, then closed my mouth as he smiled slowly "I knew it. Gil-galad? No, Círdan, Gil-galad would like to come himself, I suspect."
   At that, I confess I gasped aloud, and Gildor laughed again "Oh Erestor, it is delightful to see you again, but alas, I am several goblets ahead of you. Drink up, my friend, and I shall reassure you. For I too am charged with the watch on the sons of Eärendil; my lord Finrod himself, in parting from us, asked this of me 'look after my family, Gildor, as you have cared for me' "
   Poor Gildor, my heart weeps for him yet, perhaps the more, as the ages pass and the gulf of time widens...
   
   On the highest tier the inn was smaller, and on a balcony overlooking the pit the sons of Eärendil sat drinking. The crowds were thinner, and deferential, but the twins paid scant heed to them, or to us. There was a lull in the hammering drums, a flute sent its wavering cries up into the air, and the crowds paused to rest and breathe, and drink. In the stillness the words of Elros could be heard "But how can you say that! Húrin suffered, yes, but he has been reunited with his family in death. What of Huor, what of our great grandfather? His son has gone from him forever. Everyone agrees, Tuor has become one of the eldar, he has chosen to leave his father’s side for all time. And then there’s his grandson, our own father, up there, flying Vingilot forever. Out of our reach, out of everyone's reach, and certainly lost forever to his grandfather. The unfortunate Huor, who has given his very future to the eldar. And now you think we should abandon him in turn, depriving him of all hope?"
   "My dear brother, you make a passionate case, but you cannot be in earnest. You would die, and leave the world, for the sake of your great grandfather, a man you never met?"
   "At least I would know."
   "Know?"
   "What happens to them. To us, if we choose it."

   From where I stood, I could see the face of Elrond, already pale, drain of all colour.
   "You would not!"
   "Die? Why not? Lúthien Tinúviel is dead. There are unnumbered dead..."
   "You know that that’s not what I mean. What is troubling you, why are you talking this way?"
   "Do you really not feel it? The anger? We have given so much for these elves, Dorthonion, Dor-lomin, Brethil, the Fen of Serech..."
   "These elves? Are we ourselves not also of their number?"
   Elros leaped to his feet, his chair to the floor, and Gildor scooped it up and set it neatly behind him, then stepped back smoothly to my side. Elros paid him, us, the world, no heed at all, his eyes fixed on his brother "Are we? Are we? Or do they look down on us, the Peredhil, neither one thing nor another... and tainted with the blood of the mortals... Have you forgotten what they call mortals? The Sickly, The Usurpers, The Self-cursed, The Strangers?"
   "The Guests?" said Elrond softly. Elros sighed and sat down "Forgive me, the... I get so worked up that I forget to breathe..."
   "Drink up, my brother, and promise me you’ll stay an elf forever. Remember, Huor will have Rían, he will be with his parents, his brother, why even the mighty Hador Lórindol... He will not miss us!"
   But Elros shook his head "I cannot reach your heart, can I? My words mean nothing to you. But heed this, brother, for when you cite the names of our glorious ancestors, as Hador Lórindol, or Huor, or any of their kin, you make my case for me!"
   Elrond put a hand to his face, covering his eyes and pulling his hand down slowly, as though to smooth away his worries. He smiled at Elros, but Gildor gripped my arm, and I turned to look at him, but he was staring at Elrond. The smile on Elrond's face was, in the least degree, a mere shadow of expression, a knowing smile. It was clear to all those watching that Elrond did not, could not believe that Elros would choose death. Of course, none of us watching could believe it either, it was unimaginable. There was a silence, the flute seemed more remote than ever, though all our thoughts still throbbed with the memory and anticipation of the drums. But Elros clenched his fists and rose slowly to his feet. Elrond looked appalled and rose with him.
   "So." said Elros.
   "You will leave me, forever?"
   Elros sagged slightly, then pulled himself straight "Think of it in this way. We are the half-elven. We cannot send our elven halves to Valinor and our mortal halves to... to wherever Men may go. But I shall follow the House of Hador into the unknown, while you follow the mighty Fingolfin to Valinor. And if the seers speak truly, then it may not be forevermore, it may be that when Eä is complete, that we may meet again, and listen to music, and laugh at the follies of our youth."
   Gildor's fingers were hurting my arm, but there was nothing, no one, who could intrude on such a scene. For once, we were the guests, the strangers... It was clear that we had witnessed a moment of crisis, of decision; and those two being who they were, the consequences were, at that time (even now...) unimaginable. 

   And at that moment, with a tremendous crash, the drums began again.