Shards Of Memory by LadySternchen

Shards Of Memory

Read Shards Of Memory

Olwë footsteps echoed through the otherwise silent hall, the palace being all but deserted now. Through the open windows, he could hear the chatter and laughter and singing of his court and many inhabitants of the city, who had left the palace for the gardens on this balmy evening. Two guards were passing by outside, chatting among themselves, and thus not noting their King’s presence. Olwë was not at all sorry for their lapse in attention, for just now, he wanted nothing more than to be alone.
The mere thought of company, of someone talking to him sent cold shivers down his spine, for what if he could not contain his emotions then? What if he betrayed the frothing and raging of his grief, his longing, and all those other feelings that he could not even name now, and let them spill over who ever was unlucky enough to face him? No, Olwë thought, he was truly doing the right thing in seeking solitude.
Even the ever omni-present ebb and flow of the sea sounded mournful in his ears tonight, his mood in stark contrast to the overflowing joy of the others. Tonight’s feast was a merry one, and by the sound of it, no-one intended to end in anytime soon. Only Olwë, who had after all given the feast in honour of the arrival of Princes Elurín and Eluréd, could not join in their merriment, and had slunk away from the crowd at first chance.

He reached out his hand, and pressed his palm against the wall, feeling all the many little stones of the mosaic dig into his skin. He cared not. That sensation was his last anchor to the here and now, the only defence against memory.

It was futile.

He remembered well the making of this mosaic. He himself had worked on it, surrounded by his very awkward looking court, their pity for him almost palpable. Olwë had been mortified then by being so closely watched, for the work of his hands was not that of an artist. A few stones laid out on the beach here and there, yes, that he could do, but apart from that he was a shipwright, a sailor, a minstrel if he needed to be- but by the Valar no artist.
And yet he had spent days upon days on the beach, collecting and sorting pebbles, pebbles that everyone else would just have called white or grey. He, however, had seen many more colours in them, colours he had wanted -no, needed- to get absolutely right. After all, while his hair was pearly white, that of his brothers had been the lightest shade of silvery grey- and not the same shade. It irked him when people would overlook that. He, Olwë, would never. Their hair was different, Elmo’s light and wavy and prone to curl   under moisture like his own, Elwë’s sleek and dense and quite a bit darker. When they had both been very small, he and Elwë had always argued about what was worse- having Olwë’s hair that stayed perfectly braided for ages, but tangled the moment the braids were undone and was quite painful to untangle again, or having Elwë’s that was silky enough to be combed fairly easily but that would hold no braid for longer than a day, and that was if he was lucky. Both had not been particularly fond of getting their hair done, and each was convinced they had got of worse.
Olwë smiled. Elmo had hated combing even more, and refused to let anyone touch his tresses safe Elwë alone.

The light of the candles now flickered on his own and his brothers’ faces, all looking calmly back at him, three sets of eyes, two blue, one grey.

In the years after he had finished the mosaic, Olwë had made it a habit to talk to the image of his brothers, sometimes when feeling overwhelmed, sometimes in anger, sometimes in great joy. He had stood with all his newborn children before that mosaic, silently introducing them to their uncles and pretending -just in his very heart of hearts that he laid bare to no one- that he could show his brothers the brand-new little people that made him a father each time anew.
After a while, of course, he had learned the truth about his brothers’ faring from Ossë and Uinen, and Olwë’s mind was put to ease, and from then on the mosaic had lost a little of its importance.

That was, until that dreadful day a few thousand years later that he had stood in dismay again before the image, staring into his older brother’s stone-laid eyes, torn between utter disbelief, a strange feeling of pride, and bitter grief. And above all, pity without end. He had tried to imagine, then, how it would be to lose a child indefinitely. Not just like he had lost Elulindo and his brothers, who would before long return to him, but really having to let them go forever.
He had not been able to stand it, and left the image of Elwë to head to the stables, mount his horse and ride like a hunted beast to Tirion, to wrap his arms around Eärwen -and Arafinwë for good measure- and not let them go for a long time. All of Valinor had been buzzing with the news of an elf-maid making Lord Námo change the rules for her, and awed by her beauty and that of her song, and moved deeply by her love-story. So had been Olwë, until he had learned that this fabled elf-maid, who so famously traded her lover’s life for her own immortality, was his brother’s only daughter.

And through this said niece’s grandsons had his brothers stared him in the eyes tonight. Elurín and Eluréd had looked up at him when they had been introduced, a little timidly, but with a keen interest in their eyes. They were indeed the image of Elwë, as really their names suggested, and had inherited both his grey eyes and silver hair.
For Olwë, this was like looking at some weird double image of his earliest memories of Elwë, and for one heartbeat of insanity, he found himself to be an infant again, to stretch his arms out to Elwë, and feel his brother pick him up, despite being hardly able to lift him. Olwë remembered the wobbly feeling of Elwë’s unsteady steps, and the laughter they both erupted into once Elwë collapsed onto a mossy boulder or the trunk of a fallen tree. Elwë would then rub his nose against Olwë’s, and Olwë remembered giggling each time anew.
But of course, Elurín and Eluréd were not the elf they were named after, and he, Olwë, was King now, and full-grown, and most certainly not a toddler. That knowledge left him feeling terribly lonely.

Worse, though, Olwë saw Elmo just as much in the boys as he saw their older brother. He saw in them Elmo’s keen curiosity, his innocence, his gentle-yet-headstrong nature, but also the unmistakable mark that severe trauma experienced in early childhood left upon that child. Elurín and Eluréd, Olwë had realised with terror, had experienced the same horror as Elmo had. They, too, had watched their parents being slain, and Olwë wanted nothing more than to weep, weep for the pain of the boys, and for that of Elwing, and for that of his brothers. He wanted to weep for Elwë and Elmo, too, whom he had lost now all over again, and for their parents, whose loss he had buried so deep that he himself could not truly access it.

He had wanted to go and find the boys, just so that he could embrace them and hold them close, like he had held Elmo, comfort them, for surely, surely, they needed comfort, too? And did they, as had Elmo, take joy in crafting little dolls out of any material one found, and think of marvellous stories to reenact with them? Did they, too, grind their teeth in their sleep whenever they were bothered by evil dreams? And were they just such little nuisances when they did not get their will? He must remember to ask Elwing that.
But they were not Elmo, either, and he, Olwë, was a stranger to them, and oh, he must stop to think of the boys as one individual. Just because they were twins, that didn’t mean they didn’t have completely different personalities.

Olwë leaned his forehead against the mosaic, finally letting his tears fall freely.
“Oh beloved.”
He started. His wife had walked up behind him without him noticing, and stroked his wet cheek tenderly.
“Come here. I’m here. I would have come sooner, but I could not slip away from our guests unnoticed before.”
“How… d…did you kn…know where to f…find me?” Olwë managed to gasp, shaking with grief and longing.
“How long have we now been married? You were so brave in there, I know how much it unsettled you! Let me lead you to our chamber and get you into bed. Come on.”
Olwë nodded, a sudden exhaustion crashing over him.
“Are they alright?” he managed to mumble as he let himself be lead away by his Queen. “The boys. They must be overwhelmed…”
Nemmírie laughed softly.
“Indeed. They are long since fast asleep.”
“Good. I hope they can rest well, unfamiliar though this is…”
His wife nodded.
“They surely will."
Olwë smiled at her, and then turned once more to look at the mosaic, at himself and Elmo standing on either side of Elwë. He looked into both their eyes of gem, and whispered almost tonelessly:
“Sleep well you two.”