Lives Apart by Lyra

Lives Apart

There were celebrations that night, despite the grievous losses and the damage dealt to the world. As the hours progressed and exhaustion and the consumed spirits took their toll, they grew more cheerful, until the sombre relief at having won and having survived turned into exhilaration. The first spontaneous songs about the great battle were being composed, and the fires were stoked brighter.

Eärendil saw them burn on the far beach while he checked on the repairs that had been necessary after the battle. Most of the damage had fortunately been superficial, but there had been a few tears that had required patching. They were mended now; he would be able to return to his duty the next day. For tonight, however, the moon had to hunt alone.
He looked across the bay towards the Telerin ships that had ferried the troops across, and smiled to see dark shapes pacing there. So he wasn’t the only one excluded from the celebrations. True, the Telerin captains had probably been invited, but chosen to stay away, whereas he had been offered no choice in the matter. But at any rate he wasn’t alone, and he could pretend that he (like them) had chosen to stay with his ship (and he would have, of course, but it would have been nice to have had that choice nonetheless). For when he was honest to himself (and dishonesty was unnatural to him) he had to admit that he was somewhat envious. He told himself that he had no reason for envy, only for gratitude. They could, after all, have punished him severely for his transgression. Instead he had been honoured, and given an office of great responsibility, and his pleas had been answered. It was graceless to chafe against his exile. Even after he had been granted so many favours, they had allowed him to send an invitation to his sons. He would be able to meet them, to speak with them, for the first time in their lives.

Well, if they accepted the invitation, at any rate.

He busied himself with cleaning the deck of the dragon’s blood. It had dried into a black, foul-smelling film that refused to be scrubbed off easily; even after several turns, it left a grey stain on the slender white planks. He regretted that Vingilot’s beauty was so marred, but he was glad for the work. It distracted him from the scraps of music and conversation that the night carried across the waters; it distracted him from his sadness at the ruin of the world, for even the brief view he had taken after the battle, when he had landed Vingilot in order to repair her, had shown him unspeakable horrors. He had no doubt that he would see more once he returned to his place in the sky.
It did not, however, suffice to distract him from the nagging fears and doubts concerning the encounter with his sons. He had mercifully been told that both were alive and uninjured. He had been told that they had grown into worthy men. He had been told the names they had been given in his absence, and he had been repeating them in his head like an invocation, Elrond. Elros. Elrond. Elros. Fine names, he thought; perhaps not the names he would have chosen, but they did well enough. He had not been there, after all. It would be absurd to expect that his sons should run around nameless until he could be reached. Still…

There was a change in the sound of the waves, their regular falling and rising interrupted by a small boat making its way towards Vingilot. Eärendil paused in his work, and gazed out into the dark. With his night-sight ruined by the Silmaril, he could only make out dark outlines against the grey waters, but even that sufficed. The boat held three people: One working the oars, and two passengers. They were coming!
Relief and excitement made him almost giddy. He suppressed the laughter that rose in his throat, suppressed the urge to dance upon the deck. They should not think him a madman. He channelled the urge to dance and sing by stowing his tools and cleaning utensils away. He put on a clean shirt. He breathed deeply, and smiled into the darkness. His sons, his sons!

The oarsman was not one of the Telerin sailors but a Noldo of Arafinwë’s host. That was only to be expected, Eärendil thought. The Teleri might not have any personal grievance with him, but neither did they love him enough to run errands to the Noldorin troops, or ferry two heirs of their murderers around.
What was unexpected was that the two passengers, before they came on board, undid their sword-belts, leaving their weapons in the small rowing boat. Eärendil frowned. Of course they would not need swords aboard Vingilot, but it was the symbolism that counted. It established distance and hierarchy. It told the visitors that they were not trusted, but that they in turn had to trust you, had to put themselves in your power. Only mortals and Fëanorians were disarmed before they were allowed into a stranger’s hall. His sons didn’t qualify as either, not really – and until then, he would not have thought of himself as a stranger, either.

They came aboard easily despite the swaying boat, crossing the rail with decisive, efficient movements. They straightened up and turned to face him. Eärendil looked at them, exhilarated. He would have recognised them as his sons at once, he thought. Their faces were a blend of familiar features: The shape of their eyes, how like his father’s; the cheekbones and noses, how like his mother’s; the lines of their chins, how like his own; their hair dark as Elwing’s. Who but his sons should they be?
He was also excited to notice subtle differences between them. One stood perfectly still, while the other shifted every now and then when the ship moved unexpectedly; one appeared a little more stocky than the other, who also held his head differently. Eärendil guessed that the still, slender one was the firstborn of the two. A father’s eye notices these things, he thought proudly, even at first sight, even when he did not yet know who was who. He was smiling broadly; his cheeks were beginning to hurt from the strain.
He would have liked to embrace them, but since they had ungirt their swords, they had set the tone of the meeting as a formal occasion, and he did not wish to appear intrusive or unheeding of their wishes. Thus he spread his arms in welcome but did not rush towards them, leaving the choice to them. “My sons,” he said and felt as though his heart was overflowing with love. He tried for an elaborate speech, but in the end all that came out was, “Finally.”
They bowed in greeting, in a manner that would have been perfectly polite towards anyone else. “It is an honour to meet you, sir,” the firstborn said.

Eärendil felt like a boat that, after a good journey under full sails, suddenly found itself grinding to a halt on some hidden reef. His arms fell limp to his side.
“The honour is all mine,” he said, and cringed at the formality. “I wish we could have spoken sooner.”
“We might not have agreed to meet you, sooner,” the younger son spoke up. “We were pretty angry for a long time. Elrond forgave you sooner than I did, I believe.”
Eärendil felt the smile bleed away, felt his heart constrict painfully as though gripped by a cold hand. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. His voice hitched pathetically.
Elrond – so he was the slender, elf-like one – shook his head, a mild expression on his face. “Please, there is no need. We are grown-up now; we are no longer little children. When Elros said that I was quicker to forgive, he did not mean that he still had not forgiven you.” He glanced at his brother as if to warn him to say otherwise, but Elros showed no intention of contradicting him. “These days we’ve heard the full story...”
His voice and words were kind, yet they stung.

“I must apologise nonetheless,” Eärendil said. “I should not have left you alone. I should have returned. But when your mother came to me, after…” Bile was rising in his throat; he had to fight it down before he could continue. “When your mother came to me, we did not know that you were alive; and when finally we learned that you had survived, I was no longer permitted to return.” Do not cry in front of your sons, he admonished himself. It will make nothing better, and it will make them uncomfortable. They already were: Elros, less in control of himself than his brother was, was clenching and unclenching his left hand, the right hidden by the folds of his cloak, and his jaw was working. Elrond still stood perfectly still, but he was blinking frequently. Like Elwing, Eärendil thought, when she was upset.
“I am sorry,” he said, and was.

Again the kind voice. “That is not necessary, truly.” And Elros added, “You had to do what you had to do. We understand that now.”
Eärendil forced himself to smile at them, these handsome, promising young men. They were indeed, as Elrond said, grown up, and they had grown wise and kind, and they had come out of all these wars alive. They looked hardy and adventurous in their war-like clothing – boots and leather breaches and padded shirts and jerkins underneath woollen cloaks clasped along the left shoulder, draped around them in some exotic manner – but it was not hard to imagine them in a scholar’s or a councillor’s or even a king’s solemn robes, now that the world was at peace. Whatever role they would choose, they would fill it well, he had no doubt. They had grown into everything a father could wish for.
“I nonetheless wish I could have been there for you,” he said, and Elrond smiled, and that smile – friendly and reasonable and impersonal – struck Eärendil harder than the swords, stowed away in the little boat, could have done.
“That would have been better, no doubt,” said Elrond. “But we have been lucky, and found kind fathers even so.”
Again the cruel grip on Eärendil’s heart.

“We must be grateful for what we have been given,” he managed, more to reassure himself than his sons.
“Yes,” Elrond agreed readily. “The past is past, and all our wishes cannot undo it. I meant what I said: It is an honour to meet you. But…” he stopped as though lost for words.
“But nothing more,” Eärendil said before he could stop himself. He hated himself for how bitter, how raw his voice sounded; hated himself for the wild relief when he saw the brothers wince – so they did care!
“No,” Elrond said after a while. “That’s not it. But it cannot change the past.”
Eärendil nodded, ashamed of his outbreak. “No. You are right.”
“We probably will never meet again,” Elros spoke up, and for a moment Eärendil thought he was being strangled until he realised that he was holding his breath. He did not trust himself to speak, but his eyes were probably eloquent enough. Elros smiled hesitantly, apologetically.
“We will stay here, on this Middle-earth,” he said, “and you will return to your course. We will not meet again, or not for a very long time. Let us not part in anger.”
“I am not angry, my son. Not with you – forgive my harsh words. I did not mean them.”
“I am sorry,” Elrond said. “I did not mean to hurt you. And we are sorry if we disappointed you.”
Eärendil shook his head violently. “No, don’t say that, dearest,” he said. “Don’t ever believe it. I am so proud of you. No father could ask for better sons.” He grimaced as he fought back tears. “It just pains me that I have no part in it.”
The brothers exchanged a glance. Then Elrond said, “Well, you always will be the man who fathered us. And we can wave up to you, at night, when we chance to see you.”
You can, Eärendil thought, but I will not know it; you will be too small to see. He did not tell his sons this. They were meaning well, after all.
“Yes,” he said instead. “And I will love you, always.”
They nodded earnestly.

“I am afraid we must go,” Elrond said after a moment of silence. “Aistaresto has been waiting for us all this time, and he is already tired from the battle, I am sure.”
“Yes,” said Eärendil. “Of course.”
He bowed to them, but now Elrond stepped in and, working his arm free from the constraining cloak – despite his misery, Eärendil could not help but wonder why one should wear one's cloak in such an impractical way, rendering one's right hand slow and ineffective – wrapped him in an embrace. Eärendil returned it gratefully. There, this is it, he told himself. There's what you've been waiting for – a son's love. But he couldn't help noticing that it was a diplomatic embrace, the sort one bestowed on one's good allies – not the impulsive, unguarded sort of embrace children gave to their parents, not even a hug between friends. It was to be expected, he told himself. He had spent fifty years missing them, fearing for them and longing to see them – his sons, his only children. They had spent those fifty years growing up, growing from abandoned toddlers to accomplished men. With their biological father gone, they had (presumably) called another man their father, and now they were old enough to have children themselves. They no longer needed a father. They certainly didn't need him, a stranger in all but name, showing up after fifty years.
They were fine diplomats not to tell him this outright, he thought, kind to have agreed to this meeting in the first place, and he should be grateful for that.
Elrond's lips briefly touched his cheek, and then he made room for his twin, who likewise embraced him. “Farewell,” Elros said, and “Farewell” echoed Elrond, smiling his kind, sympathetic smile. A brief pause; then he added, “Father.”

Eärendil managed to smile until Aistaresto had rowed them out of sight. When he was certain that they could no longer see him – when they had disappeared behind the wall of Telerin vessels – he broke down. He understood now why Elwing had not stayed around for the meeting. She had surely foreseen this; she had been wiser than he. Now all he could do was pay for his folly.
He chided himself that he should be happy. He had gotten the conversation he had hoped for; his sons had not refused to see him. Even if they had, what of it? They lived, and they were fine men, and they would be able to lead good lives, now that Morgoth was vanquished and the Silmarilli were safe. Was not that what mattered? But it hurt, it hurt...

When he no longer had tears to cry, Eärendil rose from the planks, feeling empty and exhausted.
But he had work to do. The tide waited for no man, as the saying went. It was time to take Vingilot back to the air. The smoke in the east turned red, the blue of the sky grew brighter: Arien was on the rise.
Soon it would be morning.