Notes

Fëanor’s eldest sons, as well as Elrond and Elros demanded more of my attention, so here is another angsty First Age Noldor story. It is consistent with 'The Brink' and 'The Stronghold' and tells of later events.

Thousand thanks to Ellynn for beta-reading and great suggestions!

Maedhros

I am weary, as weary as I have not been for a very long time. My brother fears for me; I see it in his concerned gaze. Regardless of his own grief, Maglor still finds time and strength to worry about me. Like he has always done, since Mithrim.

I have not slept since the arrival of the messenger, maybe in a partially acknowledged hope that weariness might somewhat dull my despair. That is five days now, and that hope has proved false. My weariness is of heart, not of body.

Elrond and Elros had been away hunting until this evening when they returned at last, drenched by the rain and exhausted, yet glad. I had been thankful for their absence, hoping that it would help us to prepare ourselves for what we must do. That, too, proved false, and if they did not notice Maglor’s sorrow and my weariness, it is merely because they were themselves so tired.

They sleep now, after a hot bath and a good supper – the last night of peace they will spend under this roof. They sleep, but I stand upon the wall gazing westward at the sloping hills and darkening sky. The rain has abated, the wind has swept away the clouds, Gil-Estel slowly nears the horizon, and I wonder again, as so many times before, whether that is in truth a ship that now carries the Silmaril, and whether Elros and Elrond’s father is indeed steering it. And if so, what would he do if he knew the destiny of his sons…? I shall likely never learn that.

My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps on the stone; I turn and see my brother approaching.

“Maedhros, you must rest.” Worry is plain in Maglor’s eyes.

I shake my head.

“But…”

“You have not slept much either, have you?” I interrupt him.

For several nights in a row, I have seen my brother in the library, frantically scribbling something in a leather-bound notebook.

“I…”

He falls silent, and I do not press him with questions. We stand side by side, drawing some comfort from each other’s presence. The sky is dark and the stars bright when Maglor finally speaks.

“I cannot believe they have grown so swiftly,” he quietly says. “It seems to me only yesterday when they saw Himring for the first time.”

I smile, recalling our arrival. “Elrond at once wanted to see all books we have. Elros demanded that we go fishing.”

“You handled that well enough, I think.” My brother laughs softly.

I had taken the boys to the library and given them a book with pictures of fish that live in Endor, along with a promise that someone will make fishing rods tomorrow. In a short while they had both been soundly asleep on the window seat.

That was nearly fourteen years ago now. What is fourteen years? A grain of sand, a droplet of water. So little. And so much. In fourteen years the tiny boys have grown into young men – tall, fair of face, strong of body, swift of mind. I feel a sudden surge of pride. We raised them so. We cared for them. We gave them everything we could.

Everything you could? whispers a cold, mocking voice in the corner of my mind. Indeed? What of their true family? What of the truth? Could you not give them at least the truth? And I have no reply to that voice. My pride is at once burned away, turned to ashes, like the grass that once grew on the choking wasteland of Anfauglith. We shall give them the truth now, but we cannot change the past. What is done, is done.

Either I have said it aloud, or Maglor is simply aware of my thoughts.

“Yes,” he says with a sigh. “What is done, is done, and maybe you were right in cautioning me then. But I still refuse to believe that our decision was wholly evil. I want to hope that they would take some good memories along as they leave.”

I smile faintly at my brother’s hope. I have not the heart to say what I think – that suffering and anger may overshadow even the fairest recollections. Not merely overshadow but change. Sometimes I wonder how others remember things, what their memories are like. For me, remembering has been like walking barefoot over shattered glass, ever since we stood in the torch-lit square of Tirion.

With time, I have learned to disregard the memories, to silence the voices of regret and anguish, to hide them behind a mask of calm determination. Yet they would still surface from time to time, these shards. Some have blunted over the years, but others still cut as sharply and deeply as before, and those that cut the deepest are not the evil ones. It is not the torchlight reflected on our mother’s terrified face after we had spoken the Oath. It is not the disbelief in the eyes of the young Telerin archer, the first one who fell by my hand in Alqualondë. It is not the acrid smoke rising towards the starless sky at Losgar. It is neither the pain and humiliation, nor the mocking faces of Orcs and the cold laughter or Morgoth. No, the fair memories are the ones that keep me awake at night, that make me clench my teeth and press my face into the pillow to keep quiet anguished sobs. Mother’s song. Smiles on the faces of my brothers and Fingon - my brother in all but blood. Dances and laughter, gold and silver Light shimmering upon yellow flowers entwined in golden braids. Blossoming apple and cherry trees on the shores of Mithrim. Everything good and fair I once had known and shall never know again. These are the shards which do not blunt, and new ones are to join them tomorrow – joyful memories of the last fourteen years, as love in the eyes of the children we have raised will turn into hatred.

We should have sent them away long ago. But we failed to find the strength. I failed to find the strength. I was selfish. Their presence made me believe that there was still some remnant of love and kindness in my heart, something that merited the return of affection. And their presence healed my brother’s sorrow, a little. Or was that selfish, too, and seeing smile on Maglor’s face merely served to soften the edge of my own despair?

I turn towards my brother and see him looking at me, wide-eyed. Most of all this I had hidden from him before, but tonight I am too weary to guard my thoughts.

“Forgive me,” I say quietly.

That is all I can say, and that is so little. So little. For all this time Maglor has been beside me, his harp and his voice keeping Darkness at bay. The least I could do, until now, was to conceal from him the nothingness I bore within me. The torches in Tirion and Alqualondë burned away a part of what I was. Fires at Losgar claimed more. Angband took the rest, and the bright light of my spirit that some say to have seen was nothing more than the flame of despair, despair at the emptiness of my heart. All else has been deception.

“No,” Maglor whispers, “I do not believe you.” Even now he flees from the truth, seeking light where there is none, looking for spring flowers amid the fields of ice, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that our father’s accursed Oath is the only thing that saves me from falling apart, that keeps me alive. He shakes his head fiercely and clasps my hand. “That is not true, brother. I do not believe you.” His eyes gleam bright with tears.

I say no more, but link my fingers with his, and we stand on the wall in silence, together, until a faint light grows in the eastern sky.

Aldanwë

I enter the room together with Elrond and Elros and remain there, close to the door, fervently hoping that they will not ask me to go away. I dare not leave. I know what will be said. But I do not know, I cannot know what the twins might do after learning the truth. They have daggers at their belts, and… What if… I cut short my thoughts, disgusted and terrified by them. They would never… But my mind swiftly silences my heart. Once, I thought the same about Fëanor. Once, I thought the same about his sons. Therefore, I withdraw in the shadows and stay. I dare not leave.

“You wished to see us?” asks Elros cheerfully, with that easy smile on his handsome, open face. “Have we forgotten something again, like on that last hunt? We took great care to remember everything, just as you said!”

I do not know what he is speaking about, but Elrond clearly does, for he also flashes a smile. But then he looks closely at Maedhros and Maglor, and his smile fades.

“This is not about the hunting trip. Is something amiss, uncle Maedhros?” he quietly asks.

“What is wrong?” Elros’ smile disappears too. He frowns and looks at his uncles in turn. “Evil news?”

“You are to travel south. To lord Círdan.”

Maedhros’ voice is level, and I wonder at his composure, but then I catch a glimpse of his gaze, shorter than a heartbeat, and realize that the apparent indifference is but a shield that hides a torrent of grief.

“Why?” The twins stare at him, uncomprehending. But then there is a flicker in their eyes, and in a short while their faces glow with hope long abandoned, hope that is painful to watch, knowing how swiftly and cruelly it will be put out.

“Our parents…?” Elrond whispers. “They… Have they returned at last?”

Maedhros looks away, the mask of indifference nearly slips, and shame, guilt and anguish I see in his eyes stab my heart. But this, too, lasts merely for a brief while, and the twins do not notice. Still, they realize that something is not right.

“Uncle?” Elros takes a step closer. His expression now is rather that of hesitation and uncertainty than hope. “Are we to travel to meet our Naneth and Adar?”

“No.” The reply comes after some time. “There is war in Angband, and the northern lands have grown perilous. You must travel south, therefore. For safety.”

The hope vanishes. The twins look at each other in dismay.

“But we do not want to go!” exclaims Elros, fervently shaking his head. “We shall not leave you! And if you will go to battle, so shall we! We can wield weapons; you have taught us to fight!”

“Yes!” Elrond nods, supporting his brother. He looks at Maedhros and finds his face unreadable. He turns towards Maglor, but Maglor averts his eyes. “Uncle Maedhros, uncle Maglor, that is not all. What is happening?” Elrond’s voice now is trembling slightly, as he looks at both his kinsmen in turn. “You are distraught! Why? Please, tell us!”

“Sit, both of you.”

Maedhros waves his hand towards the chairs. The twins sit down, tense with worry. Maedhros remains standing. They look at him, surprised and anxious, for before them now stands a stranger, distant and cold, so very different from the uncle they know and love.

“It is time for you to learn what happened in Sirion on the day we found you.”

Maedhros stands silent for a while, his gaze averted, turned towards the window, as if the words he is about to say were written in the overcast sky. When he looks at Elrond and Elros again, his face is resolute.

“Of the Two Trees of Valinor you have heard,” he says. “But not the whole story. While we still dwelt in the Blessed Realm, Fëanor, our father, made three jewels and captured therein the blended light of Laurelin and Telperion. Thus came to be the Silmarils, the wonder of craft whose like shall never be made again.”

Curiosity appears in the eyes of the boys. These are the parts of the history of the Noldor they have never been told in full.

“But Morgoth, who was then called Melkor and walked free among the Valar, lusted for their light,” Maedhros continues. “After having slain the Trees, he stole our father’s jewels and fled to Endor. Then we swore to pursue with revenge and hatred him or any other who would lay their hands on the Silmarils.”

He tells of the Oath. Of our departure from Valinor and pursuit of Morgoth. Of the wars in Endor. And, as he speaks, cold slowly creeps towards my heart, when I realize that there is nothing in his story that would call forth sympathy or even understanding towards those who took the bitter road of vengeance. Not in the short, clipped sentences that relate only events, but not why they happened. Not in the cool and flat tone of the speaker. Not in his composed face and eyes. The boys do not know, they cannot know how well their uncle has learned to hide his anguish during the years of torment in Angband and afterwards. They would not know how to read the barely visible signs. The shadow veiling his eyes. The fingers of his left hand, clenched into fist, to keep them from trembling. The brief halts in the story that shroud in silence everything that might invoke compassion from those who are listening. Every word he speaks is truth. But it is not the whole truth.

I nearly interfere and tear away this veil of silence, bringing forward not only the evil we have done, but also the evil we have suffered. I already make a step forward. But I halt when I suddenly realize what Maedhros is doing. A clean cut heals best. He does not want the twins to feel any compassion. He wants them to turn and leave without any regrets. And I take a step back again and keep listening how the eldest son of my once best friend is lashing at himself with carefully selected bits of truth, and silent tears roll slowly over my face.

Maglor realizes his brother’s intent sooner than I do. A shadow of pain passes his face, but then he brings his expression to calm determination. For a brief while he catches Maedhros’ gaze and lightly nods in quiet understanding.

Elros and Elrond sit frozen on the edge of their chairs. They have now learned how Lúthien and Beren gained the Silmaril. Now there is the story of Doriath and Sirion left to tell.

“After Thingol’s death, Dior, son of Beren and Lúthien, ruled in Doriath. After his parents’ passing, he took possession of the Silmaril and refused our demand to return it. So we came upon Doriath with force. There was bloodshed. Many of the Doriathrim fell, but some escaped – including Elwing, Dior’s daughter.”

Elrond gasps quietly. Elros is leaning forward, clutching the armrests of the chair. Maedhros looks at them closely for a while, then speaks on. There is even less expression in his voice than before.

“Years later, we learned that Elwing dwelt in Sirion and still had the Silmaril. We sent messages, demanding the return of our father’s jewel. Again, our claims were denied, and we came to Sirion with strength of arms and fought those who resisted us. Your father was then on the Sea. Your mother, fleeing from us with the Silmaril, ran to a steep cliff on the shore. When she saw that there was no escape from that place, she turned and took a leap from the precipice. The Sea took both her and the jewel.”

As Maedhros relates the last part, the deeply troubled expression in Elros and Elrond’s eyes is exchanged for disbelief. Then for fear. Then – for sheer horror. When he falls silent, they spring to their feet, and Elrond’s eyes, wide and pleading, dart towards Maglor.

“Uncle Maglor, please, tell us that this is not true!” he whispers hoarsely. “That all this is not true! Please!”

But Maglor finds enough courage to look in the eyes of the boy he has raised as his own son.

“This is true, Elrond.”  His voice is quiet, yet firm. “Regrettably, all of this is true.”

“You lied to us!” Elros’ shrill voice cuts the silence. “You came to Sirion for some cursed jewel your father made, killed everyone there, drove our mother to her death, and then you took us here and lied to us! And you killed people before too! All that for a damned shiny stone!”

There is no reply, or, rather, the reply is silence. The face of Elros is pale, nearly white. His hands shake; he clenches them into fists, then takes a step towards Maedhros and Maglor. They stand motionless, and I am certain that none of them would resist if Elros stroke him or even drove a knife in his chest. Therefore I tense, ready to interfere. But Elrond restrains his brother. Eyes wide, he stares at his uncles, and only one whispered question passes his trembling lips.

“Why?”

“Do not speak to them, Elrond! Never ever speak to them again!” These words of Elros come as a scream. Then he seizes his brother by hand and drags him out of the room. But just before the door he halts and looks back, tears streaming over his face, eyes glinting. “I hate you! I hate you!”

The door slams shut. Maglor collapses in a chair, hiding his face in his hands. His brother stands still, his features frozen, his eyes stare unseeing into nothingness. Eyes of one who has no hope left. I remember well this gaze from Mithrim, and pity wrenches my heart. But I know what I must do. I draw my hand over my face to dry the tears and take a deep breath.

“Lord Maedhros, lord Maglor, I ask your leave to accompany Elrond and Elros as they go.” I make a step forward.

As if suddenly awakened, Maedhros turns slowly, only now becoming aware of my presence, and he does not hide his grief anymore – not from me. I have seen so much of that anyway. Long he looks into my eyes, and I think he understands my reasons. He nods slowly.

“Yes. Go with them and take care of them, as much as you can. That will be for the best. Thank you, my friend.”

He stirs, as if to make a step towards me, but then instead kneels beside the chair where his brother sits motionless. I turn to leave. There is nothing I can do here. There is nothing I can do for your sons anymore, Fëanor. But maybe I still can do something for the children they have raised.

Elrond

We depart from Himring on a sunlit morning, less than a day after we have learned the horrible truth. Our company is small: there is us, Aldanwë and three others. No more could be spared for a journey on such a short notice.

The air is warm, the first flowers blossom on the roadsides, birds sing loud in the bushes, and a light wind drives tiny white clouds across the sky. But despite the spring around us, I feel cold inside. With each step, the frost bites harder at my heart, until it becomes unbearable. We have ridden for less than a mile when I check my horse to a halt, so suddenly that the animal looks back at me with reproach. The others stop, too, and look at me with question.

“Elrond?”

My brother is frowning; he senses my mood. What I am about to do will drive a wedge between us. Yet I cannot do otherwise.

“I cannot leave like this.” My own voice sounds shrill to me. “Not without a farewell. Wait for me here a while. Please.”

Without awaiting any reply, I turn my steed and gallop back to Himring.

The old grey fortress upon the hill looks sad and lonely. Yet this has been our childhood home, home we have loved, and we have been happy here; these walls have known our running steps and laughter. I cannot leave it like this.

I ride into the courtyard, dismount and run up the short flight of stone steps. Some faces turn towards me, but nobody says anything. I enter the keep and go to search for my uncles.

I find them in the hall. Maedhros stands beside the fireplace, his hand on the lintel; the hearth is cold and empty. Maglor sits in a chair beside his harp, but his hands lay idle on his knees, and he stares down at them with a blank gaze. As I enter, they turn towards me, and there is confusion and disbelief on their faces.

I step over the threshold and suddenly do not know what to say, so we look at each other in heavy silence. Maedhros is the one to break it.

“Why have you returned, Elrond?” His voice has lost its depth and resonance. It is flat and nearly lifeless, a voice of one who is weary beyond all boundaries of weariness.

“I…” Grief tightens my chest and tears rise in my eyes, but I fight them back desperately. “I cannot leave without a farewell,” I repeat the words I said to my brother and the rest of the company a while ago. “You raised us. You gave us shelter. You taught us. You gave us your care. Your love. And… you must know that I am grateful for all that. Elros is grateful, too, only he is too enraged to admit that, but he will, with time, and…”

My voice breaks, and I fall silent. There is wonder on the faces of my uncles, wonder mingled with uncertainty. Maglor rises to his feet and looks me in the eyes now.

“We cannot ask you something that may be too much to give, Elrond, surely you understand that?” he says quietly and sadly.

“I understand,” I whisper. “But I would give it unasked. I do not know why you did what you did, how you could… But I… I forgive you. For my part, I forgive you.”

Ai, that look in their eyes! And my restraint breaks, and I cannot withhold my grief any longer. The world becomes distorted, and then Maglor is beside me. He draws me close and holds me as I weep, lamenting what I have lost, what we all have lost, and maybe also a little in relief and gratitude for that tiny piece we have retained.

At length I raise my eyes and draw a deep breath, willing the sobs racking my body to subside. Maglor brushes away my tears.

“We are grateful to you for your forgiveness,” he says softly. “It is of no avail now for you to know this, but we have regretted what we have done. Every single day.”

“I believe you. Long I have known that some shadow lies on your hearts. But he said you would one day tell us everything.”

“Who said that?” asks Maedhros.

“Celebrimbor.” One more piece of the puzzle clicks into place suddenly. Our cousin’s anger at his arrival. He had known. “He came to take us away, did he not? But then decided otherwise?”

“Yes. He changed his mind. He thought that here you would have the care you need. And we…” Maedhros’ voice falters for a while, but then he continues. “We tried, we sincerely tried to give you the best we could. That was a lie we told ourselves, maybe, for we could not replace your parents, and perhaps you would have fared better with your mother’s people. But we were too selfish to let you go. Your presence made us believe that there still was something good in us. If two such children as you could find in your heart affection for such as we are, it made us believe, if only for a little while, that maybe redemption was still possible.”

He falls silent and considers me a while closely, then goes to a locker in the corner and takes from there a sword in an ornate scabbard.

“Here, I want you to have this, Elrond.” I hesitate, and a shadow passes his face. Then – a bitter smile. “Fear not, this blade is not stained by the blood of the innocent.”

I blush fiercely, realizing that this is a two-handed sword Maedhros is holding out to me. I am about to apologize, but he shakes his head sadly.

“What else could you think?”

I take the sword and, to hide my embarrassment, bow my head and pretend to admire the ornaments on the scabbard. There is an air of ancientry to the flowing lines and there is an inscription in Tengwar, but I distinctly feel that this is not Elvish work. I look up at my uncle in wonder.

“Narsil was a gift to me from the Dwarf King Azaghâl,” Maedhros explains. “I chanced to aid some important Naucor in an encounter with Orcs. So King Azaghâl had it made for me as a token of gratitude. We had not met, and he did not know then that a two-handed sword was of little avail to me, save as an ornament on the wall. Still, this is a worthy blade and should not gather dust unused. Telchar made it.”

I gasp in wonder at the name of the renowned Dwarven smith. There is a story my uncle could tell, surely, about saving the Dwarf King’s people, about what King Azaghâl did when he learned that his gift was not fit for the one who received it… But my thoughts come to a sudden halt. There will be no more stories. Never again.

“Thank you, uncle,” I whisper, fighting grief. “I will put Narsil to good use. I promise. And I will honour what you have taught us.”

“I know that.” He smiles, then kisses my brow. “Now go, your brother awaits you. Go, and do not look back.”

I nod and turn to face Maglor who now holds out to me a small, flat parcel wrapped in velvet. He has likely gone to retrieve it while I spoke with his brother.

“Life and memory – they are akin in more ways than one,” he says.

I take the parcel and clutch it tightly, to stop my hands from trembling.

“Thank you. I will remember your songs, uncle Maglor. The happy ones and the sad ones.”

He makes an effort to smile and embraces me for the last time, and then there is nothing left to say. But as I leave the room, I hear a quiet whisper. “Farewell, iôn-nín.”

And then I am in the courtyard again; I strap the sword to the saddle and thrust the parcel in the saddlebag, mount and ride away without looking back.

The others sit in the shade of a large tree, all, save Elros who stands some steps away, arms folded on his chest. Hearing me approach, they turn. Aldanwë looks at me closely, then lightly nods. My brother’s eyes are hard and cold, and he is silent.

“We can go now.”

Nothing more is said. We resume our road in silence, and whenever I try to approach Elros, he turns away and rides ahead, too enraged even to speak.

My brother retains the distance also in the evening when we stop to rest. To the others, he says not a word more than strictly needed. To me, he does not speak at all. He sits apart, and after the meal, he stalks away in the shadows of the trees to nurse his anger in solitude. I remain by the fire, staring in the flames and feeling miserable, when Aldanwë sits next to me.

“Thank you, Elrond,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“For going back to say farewell. It meant much to them.”

“So it seemed.” I look into the fire for a while, then raise my head towards the healer. “Why, Aldanwë? How could they…” My voice fails me again, and the last words come as a whisper. “They are not like that. I do not understand.”

“Do you want to? Knowledge can burden one’s heart, and more so – the knowledge of the suffering of those we love. Or… have loved.”

Aldanwë’s eyes are sad and ancient, and I wonder suddenly how old he is. Has he seen Valinor? The Light of the Trees?

“I have,” he replies softly, aware of my unguarded thoughts. “I have seen that Light welling over the land in waves of silver and gold and all creatures rejoicing in its purity. I have seen it cruelly put out. I have seen Maedhros, Maglor and his brothers grow up; I was their father’s friend. And I have seen them all become… what they became, in the end.”

“Will you tell me? I have forgiven them, but I want to understand. I need to know.”

Aldanwë looks at me closely, then slowly nods. “Yes. I will tell you.”                                                               

And he does. He speaks of things we have never learned of in their entirety, and of events we have never heard of at all, nor found in any book in the library of Himring. His story is the story of the one who has been present, who has seen the glory of the Valar and the beauty and the wonder of the Trees, who has admired this Light captured within Silmarils. One who has witnessed the unrest of the Noldor and their willingness to journey to Endor, set ablaze by Melkor’s treacherous whispers. One who has watched with a heavy heart his friend’s mind overshadowed by suspicion and pride, but has remained at his side nonetheless, despite Fëanor’s terrible choices. One who has tended his friend’s eldest son after his rescue from Thangorodrim and, in sorrow, has silently prayed for his release from suffering. One who has taken part in the long battle of the Noldor with Morgoth, who has seen the first few victories and the many devastating defeats afterwards.

Aldanwë speaks plainly. He does not offer any excuses. But his story helps me understand the depth of despair of those bound by Fëanor’s Oath. It takes many evenings for him to relate all this, and all this time my brother watches me askance, his rage smouldering. In the morning of the fifth day of our journey, he pulls me aside.

“Why are you speaking with him, Elrond?” he asks me in a sharp, loud voice, hands clenched in fists, eyes flashing. “He is one of them, do you not realize that? One of those who spilled the blood of our people in Sirion! Still, you speak with him. Why?”

“Because I want to understand what happened,” I reply. “I want to know why they did that.”

“Is it not enough that you know them to be blood-stained murderers?” He bristles.

“No, it is not enough. They are not evil at heart, Elros. I want to understand why good people do terrible things.”

“So you are on their side now?” His eyes narrow. “Fine, keep listening to the tales of that Noldo!”

He nearly spits out the last word, and his unwillingness to understand finally angers me too.

“You are the only one looking for sides, Elros!” I reply sharply. “There are none! And you, too, should listen to Aldanwë! You might become wiser for that, brother!”

“Better a fool than a wise traitor!” He turns towards his horse, but after a few strides looks back over his shoulder. “If you have become one of them now, Elrond, I hate you too!”

Elros’ words cut deeper than blades. He speaks not a word to me afterwards, and as we approach the coastlands, I realize that I may have gained some knowledge and understanding, but I also may have lost my brother. In my heartache, I doubt myself. Maybe I should stand with Elros in this. Maybe I, too, should speak angry words of reproach. Does my willingness to forgive make me weak, make me traitor? I do not know, and I doubt myself, torn between the love I have towards my brother and towards my uncles.

On the last evening as we camp in the wilderness before reaching lord Círdan’s house I pull out the small velvet-bound bundle from my bag. I unwrap it. It is a simple notebook, filled with writing in Maglor’s neat hand. “Tales from the Twilit Years”, says the title page in Quenya. “Stories of the Eldar about the Great Lands ere their Journey to Valinor, as retold by Nelyafinwë Fëanárion and recorded by Makalaurë Fëanárion.” The evenings by the firelight come back to my mind. Maedhros’ resonant voice. The soft sounds of Maglor’s harp. “Life and memory – these two are akin in more ways than one.”

I smile sadly, but as I am about to close the notebook, I notice several folded sheets of paper resting against the back cover, covered with the same dense and neat writing. I unfold them. And when I have read the verses of Noldolantë, I know that I cannot find enough bitterness in my heart to please my brother.

Notes

iôn-nín – my son (Sindarin)

Nelyafinwë Fëanárion – Maedhros, son of Fëanor (Quenya)

Makalaurë Fëanárion – Maglor, son of Fëanor (Quenya)                        

Noldolantë – The Fall of the Noldor. ‘…that lament which is named Noldolantë, the Fall of the Noldor, that Maglor made ere he was lost.’ (The Silmarillion)

Círdan

Evening finds me in the shipyard working on the rigging of one of the new vessels when summons come from the house.

“Lord Círdan, there are several Noldor requesting to see you.”

That alone is strange, but there is some note in the messenger’s voice that at once makes me raise my head. I lean towards him and narrow my eyes.

“And what else?” He hesitates, and his hesitation irritates me. “There is more, I see it plainly. What of those Noldor? Out with it!”

“They… they are from Himring.”

This makes me stand frozen for a few heartbeats. “I see. I am coming at once.”

I put away the tools and head straight to the house, keeping my face calm. But my looks belie my mood. There is a torrent of feelings raging in my heart, as I clearly see before my eyes the horrors of the day now nearly fourteen years ago.

There was smoke in the distance ere we had yet entered the bay, and the growing sense of dread proved to be only too justified as we moored the ships in the harbour. The burning houses. The blood-stained streets, littered with bodies. The quiet lament of those few who had survived the bloodshed. The terrifying story of Elwing’s end. Grief and anger seize my heart even now as I think of Elwing, of gentle Elwing, driven so cruelly to her destruction. And that destruction has a name. Fëanor’s sons. I feel my hands clenching in fists and force myself to breathe deeply and evenly. I will not let my wrath overcome me. But they should better have a good reason for coming here!

I find the Noldor waiting in the inner yard, clearly weary from the long travel. Their company is so small that I somewhat reluctantly acknowledge their courage to take the long road during these perilous times. They must have a good reason indeed.

There are three who at once have my attention. The first is, as I rightly guess, the leader of the company, one with calm and confident bearing, stern of face. Then there are two young Elves, and there is some strangeness to them that I do not yet understand. They are certainly brothers, for their great likeness, but then I realize that they also bear likeness to someone else, someone whom I have known before, someone who walks the land of Endor no longer. And that, together with the air of strangeness, brings to my mind some wild guesses that I swiftly silence until I know more.

I greet them, then turn towards the leader of the company. He bows and gives his name: Aldanwë.

“Lord Círdan, I bring to you word from Himring,” he says. “There is war in Angband, the fortress of Morgoth is besieged by the host of the West.”

I nod. This news has reached me already, and it cannot be the reason for their arrival.

That proves true. “The northern lands have grown perilous. Therefore, my lords Maedhros and Maglor ask that you give shelter to their wards, Elros and Elrond, sons or Ëarendil,” says Aldanwë handing me a sealed letter.

My heart skips a beat. The wild guess has proven true. My eyes dart to Ëarendil and Elwing’s children who stand a few paces away. At Aldanwë’s nod one of them steps forward, bows in greeting and gives his name. Elrond. Elros stands still for a while. There is clearly some struggle going on in his heart, but at last he, too, steps forward and greets me. Something is not well between the brothers, and between them and the rest of the company too.

“Welcome, sons of Elwing,” I say and note the veil of sadness covering Elrond’s gaze and the flash of anger in Elros’ eyes. “We shall speak together later. For now, rest awhile; you are all weary from the long road.”

Aldanwë thanks me, and the Noldor are shown their lodgings. I remain in the yard, mind in turmoil, bewildered by this turn of events. Who would have thought that the twins would be found? And, even more so, who would have thought that I would accept people of Fëanor under my roof? But I will not deny our hospitality to weary travellers. And I need my questions answered.

I open the letter. Maedhros has written it; bold, flowing lines cover the parchment. The letter is polite and short, and it relates what Aldanwë has already said. The northern lands are under threat of war. He and his brother are concerned for the safety of the twins; therefore, they request shelter for their wards. The use of the word angers and confuses me, but there are no further explanations.

After having given the Noldor some time to rest, I knock on Aldanwë’s door and enter, to find him standing by the window that opens towards the Sea.

“Lord Círdan.” He bows his head slightly, acknowledging my presence. “I am grateful for your kindness.”

“Elwing and Ëarendil’s sons shall always find welcome under my roof,” I reply. Then I pierce him with my gaze. “You called them wards of Maedhros and Maglor. Should you rather not say – hostages?”

Aldanwë does not avert his gaze, and when he answers, his voice is calm and respectful, but there is a flicker of defiance in his eyes.

“Wards, my lord Círdan,” he replies firmly. “I did not misspeak.”

“Their bearing maybe tells a different story.” I frown.

“Their bearing reflects their recent grief. Elrond and Elros learned of the events in Sirion just ere their departure from Himring.”

I stare at him, taken aback. “Explain.”

He nods and starts speaking. In a level voice he relates the events of that fateful day. Their coming to the Havens and discovering Ëarendil still gone. Refusal of Silmaril. Fighting on the streets. Elwing’s desperate flight. And later, finding the twins in a cavern by the Sea, just before the incoming tide had covered the coastland with water.

From Aldanwë’s tale it follows that Maedhros and Maglor have saved the boys from a certain death, not taken them captive. Even if in my heart I would wish to disregard his story as untrue, I cannot. I believe him. Maybe because he does not offer any excuses for their deeds, and maybe because somewhere behind his words I sense sincere regret and pain, deep and true pain. Despite my still smouldering anger I also feel a faint spark of pity towards him. Perhaps even towards Fëanor’s sons.

When Aldanwë falls silent, I sigh and regard him closely, noticing the deep weariness in his face, weariness that will likely not be healed by a good night’s rest. I have more questions.

“Why did you not leave the children with their people?”

His reply surprises me. “Lord Maedhros was about to do just that when he saw your ships in the bay. His brother dissuaded him.” He falls silent for a while, then adds quietly, “I also counselled them to take the boys to Himring.”

“Why?” I demand, my anger flaring up again.

Aldanwë looks at me for several moments.

“Lord Maglor did not wish them to see the blood on the streets of their childhood home. He also did not want his brother to go to certain death at the hands of your people,” he replies at length.

“I see.” That would have likely happened; I doubt we would have spared Maedhros’ life, our hearts hot with rightful anger.

”And I… You must understand, lord Círdan,” Aldanwë then says slowly after another while of silence. “You must understand that my loyalty lies with the children I saw being born and growing up. Fëanor was my friend once. His sons are dear to me, and when I saw what their father’s Oath did to them… The torment without any hope of release, even in death...” His eyes flash briefly. “Can you imagine, my lord, how it is to watch one who has been tortured beyond reason to be unable to escape into death, because he cannot, because that accursed thing binds his fëa to a body long past the last boundaries of anguish?”

Heavy silence falls in the room. I do not know what to say. I can only admit that I cannot imagine that. I think of all the accusations I could lay on Fëanor’s people and realize that I no longer want to speak any of them aloud. I had thought much of their pride and arrogance – the foundation of their crimes, as it had seemed to me. I had given little thought to their loss and pain. In truth, none at all.

Aldanwë breaks the silence. “Forgive me,” he says wearily, drawing a slightly trembling hand over his face. “I overstep myself, maybe. But you asked why we did what we did, and the honest answer from my part is – because it saved Maedhros and Maglor. In a way. Even if for a few short years. This is probably of no importance to you. But you asked, therefore, I answer.”

“This is of importance,” I reply softly. “I appreciate your honesty, Aldanwë, even though I cannot understand all of what you speak, nor fully comprehend all the explanations you give.”

“What we do for those we love does not always follow the best reason.”

“Indeed. And yet – you left them now.” I look at him closely. “Fëanor’s sons.”

“There is nothing more I can do for them.” His voice is sad but resolute. “I thought that there might be something I can still do for the children they raised as their own. But I may have presumed too much.”

I push away irritation that again flares up at his words when he refers to the bond between Elwing’s children and those who were the cause of her death.

“There is some severe disagreement between the boys.”

“Yes.” A shadow passes Aldanwë’s face. “They took the news differently, for they are themselves very different. Elrond is quiet and insightful; he was ready to forgive. Elros is swift and rash, and the truth left him deeply shaken. But he is also generous, he will forgive his uncles in time, and he will reconcile with his brother. They just need peace, something meaningful to do, and time.”

“I see.” I nod my understanding. “And you, Aldanwë?”

“What of me?” He looks at me with question.

“Would you also rather not stay in peace, by their side?”

He tilts his head and stares at me in disbelief. “Would you allow that? I am one of those who spilled blood in Sirion.”

“I would like to think that I can find in my heart as much understanding and forgiveness as an eighteen-year-old child!” I reply wryly. “I see that you regret what you have done. That is enough for me.”

“I am grateful, my lord Círdan.” His voice breaks a little. “I can make myself useful. I am a healer, should you need another one.”

I reach out my hand towards him. “Healers are always needed these days.”

He hesitates a short while, but then we clasp hands, and Aldanwë smiles. It is strange to see his stern face softened by a smile that kindles in his eyes the Light that my people have never seen.

I leave his room, wondering at my own change of heart.

Elros

Círdan’s house is just beyond the dunes, and I can see the strand from the windows of my room. The voice of the Sea has been speaking to me since we arrived, and when I awoke in the middle of the night from a terrifying dream, the sighing of waves calmed me and sent me back to sleep. Yesterday evening I was too weary to go outside, but today, after midday meal that passes in awkward silence, I leave the house behind and go to the shore.

I cross the pale yellow stretch of sand and wade in the shallows, and then I am kneeling in coastal waters. I bury my hands in the wet sand. Waves wash against me slowly, and the cries of the seabirds overhead sound like the fairest music to my ears. There is salt in the air. And then there is salt on my face too, as tears flow down my cheeks unceasingly, the first tears since our departure from Himring. The sea breeze attempts to dry them and fails, but even so, it carries away my anger. At least some of it.

Still, so much remains. There is so much of my own rage that it frightens me, and I shudder, recalling how close I was to drawing my dagger and thrusting it in Maedhros’ chest. I cannot forgive him. He was the one I had always looked up to, the one I had always wanted to become, and now…

Now I do not even know anymore who I am. Even though I am welcomed and kindly accepted here for the sake of my parents whom I barely remember, I am a stranger to these people, and they are strangers to me. I had always thought of myself as one of the Noldor, but I severed those ties as I turned my back on Himring. I shall never be one of them again. But who am I then? Nothing and no one. I am like those clumps of the seaweed floating by, forlorn, adrift, dependent on the power of the waves. I am utterly alone. I have turned my back also on my brother, and this realization adds to my agony.

The Sea is the only consolation; the endless movement of water brings some resemblance of peace to my tormented mind, and my tears slowly dry. After a while I rise and walk along the coast for a long stretch and then back. Afterwards I sit in the sand and listen to the waves washing against the shore and the coarse grass rustling in the wind.

Long I remain there, my gaze bound to the skyline, now lost in low grey clouds, and I wonder what lies there, beyond the sight. Shall I ever find out? The wide expanse of water beckons to me, enticing, inviting. I could ask lord Círdan to take me on one of his ships. My breath catches at the thought briefly, but then my excitement fades. I am but a stranger, a useless burden to the people here. I doubt whether I shall find courage to ask the lord of the Havens anything. My self-confidence has faded along with everything else I have lost.

Evening draws nigh, and then suddenly the clouds on the horizon break and the Vessel of Arien appears, glowing red in a sky of rose and purple. Far away, a white sail gleams briefly in the fading light. Such beauty is nearly unbearable. Dwelling inland, I had forgotten what the sunsets by the Sea are like, and the reminder takes my breath away.

The Sun has disappeared beyond the edge of the World, and the glow on the water has faded when I rise at last and turn towards the dunes. And there, upon the sandy hill, stands my brother – a figure of solitude and sadness. He stands there still and silent, a grey shadow against the pale blue evening sky, and the only movement is that of his hair streaming in a sudden breeze.

Regret stabs my heart. I have not spoken to Elrond for weeks. I was so enraged with him for turning back, for his conversations with Aldanwë, and when he refused to join his voice to mine in condemning our uncles, I blamed him for weakness and treachery, even though he did not defend them. He merely refused to speak words of accusation. But even that threw me in rage.

Seeing me approach, he looks away and slowly turns to leave. And suddenly I know – I cannot let him go.

“Elrond!”

He halts. In a few swift steps I climb up the dune and reach him. He looks at me; his face is pale in the twilight, and I see that his grief is no lesser than mine. Yet there is no anger in his eyes. There is no reproach.

“I have not changed my mind, and I cannot find in my heart what is not there. I regret to have failed you, Elros.” His voice is quiet, but firm.

“You have not…”

Abruptly, I fall silent as my own words, said before, hit me. I called him a traitor. I said… I said I hated him. Eyes wide, I stare at him. If I do not find other words now, this very instant, I will lose my brother too. Or have I lost him already?

“Elrond, everything I said earlier about you… That was not true! I did not mean it, I truly did not! I was just angry, so very angry… but not with you – despite all I said… I was never angry with you! I do not know why I said all that! I do not hate you! I… Please, forgive me! Please!”

My frantic words trail away as I catch my breath ere speaking on, but I do not get a chance to say anything more for my brother pulls me in a tight embrace.

“Be silent.” His voice nearly fails him. “I forgive you. Be silent.”

Humbled by his generosity, I hide my face on his shoulder, and we stand long in the dunes beneath the slowly kindling summer stars, no longer forlorn, no longer adrift. Some peace settles in my heart at last, as I raise my face towards Elrond.

“We will weather any storm, brother. Together.” My voice is confident now. “I will never leave you.”

He smiles, raises his hand and brushes the last tears from my face.

“Yes. Yes, certainly.”

He sets his arm around my shoulders then, and we turn towards Círdan’s house. My heart is so lightened to have my brother back that I easily dismiss the sadness in his smile and the wistful tone of his last words.

Círdan

Having rested, the Noldor, save Aldanwë and the twins, leave on the next day. I closely observe Elrond and Elros. They do not speak with one another until the evening, but after the dusk has fallen, they return from the seaside together. Tears are still glistening in their eyes, but there is also peace, and that makes me hopeful.

The next morning I see Elros speaking with Aldanwë, whom he has rudely dismissed before. The boy is obviously apologizing now; his eyes are downcast in remorse. On Aldanwë’s face there is sympathy; he lifts Elros’ chin and speaks to him quietly. Elros nods, but then his composure breaks. He casts himself in Aldanwë’s arms and weeps.

“He loved them so,” says a quiet voice beside me, and I look with question at Elrond, who has approached unseen and now watches his brother’s grief with deep sadness and compassion in his eyes. “Our uncles. Elros has always been saying that he would be like uncle Maedhros when he grows up.”

I regard him closely. “And what of you?”

He turns abruptly, and I see him at struggle with himself. In the end, his words reveal his decision to reply truthfully.

“I, too, loved them. And I did not find enough bitterness and anger in my heart to condemn them as my brother would have wanted me to. As would have been right to do, perhaps.” He falls silent and looks at me intently for a while. “Does it make me weak, lord Círdan?” he then asks quietly. “Am I a traitor of our mother’s people because I gave my love to those who destroyed them and found not enough anger within me when I learned the truth?”

There is concern in his gaze, so earnest that I pity the boy.

“No, Elrond.” I shake my head. “You found something else instead of anger. Something better. You found forgiveness, and that certainly does not make you traitor. It was right to forgive. Your uncles made terrible mistakes, but they merit your compassion. And your compassion is a gift from Ilúvatar. It is your strength, not weakness. Your brother will see it too, in time.”

“Do you truly think so?” he whispers.

“Yes, I do.”

The relief and gratitude in Elrond’s eyes stab my heart, and I think that I may have become wiser myself since yesterday.

I am glad to see Elrond and Elros at peace with one another, but I am concerned for them both. They are like young trees, taken from the good earth of an orchard and planted in the dry coastal sand. Even though they find some consolation in each other’s company or sometimes speak with Aldanwë, they make no friends among the people of my house.

They are alike, as twins often are, but there are clear differences in them, too. They are both quiet, but for each of them it means something different. Elrond’s silence is mournful while his brother’s silence is irate, and Elros mostly answers with one or few words when spoken to, his curtness bordering on discourtesy.

Elrond is different. When I speak with him, he replies respectfully, but I cannot dismiss the feeling that the end of each conversation brings him relief, and that he rather sees me leaving than approaching. Elrond also loves the Sea much less than his brother. He often sits alone in the garden, reading, and what he reads is always the same – a leather-bound notebook, its pages covered in dense, even writing, or some loose sheets of paper, written by the same hand. The notebook makes him smile sometimes. The sheets bring only sorrow.

Elros seems restless. He does not miss a single sunset, and every day walks long stretches along the strand regardless of the weather. But he is as gloomy and cross as his brother is sad. I have not seen a true smile on either of their faces.

Several weeks pass like this. The spring storms abate and summer sets in, with bright long days and warm nights, filled with the fragrance of gardens. We are still untroubled by the war in the north, save some rare news brought by a weary messenger. The tidings are always the same. Morgoth’s fortress is besieged. Our aid is not needed.

Then, one morning, a different visitor comes. There is a clear horn-call, and after a while a mail-clad rider enters the courtyard, followed by several others. They dismount, and the foremost rider hastens towards me.

“I am glad to see you, my King.” I bow in greeting.

“Forget the titles, Círdan, would you?” Ereinion Gil-Galad laughs and embraces me. “Have I changed that much since our last meeting?”

“No, I would not say that you are changed that much.”

I smile and return the embrace, but then regard him closely. Ereinion’s cheerfulness fails to convince me, and there is worry in his blue eyes. Seeing my gaze, his laughter fades.

“Still, you would ask why I have come,” he says quietly.

“I would indeed. And I might also add that the King of the Eldar should not wander around Endor these days with but a small following.”

“Maybe.” A stubborn flash in his eyes brings forth my smile against my will. None could say that King Gil-Galad lacks courage, though he would maybe do better with more caution. “I had to meet you, Círdan. I need your advice.”

“You shall have it. But only after you and your men have had some rest and refreshment.” From their appearance I can see that they have ridden fast and far.

Ereinion laughs and departs to the room that has been his for many years. After a short while he returns. His chainmail is exchanged for plain clothes, and he has washed off the dust of the road. I have a light meal ready, and we sit in my study, its windows open towards the Sea. Ereinion’s gaze is concerned, and soon he starts speaking.

“I have received news from the north,” he says. “It should bring hope, but I am not entirely convinced. The host of the West is there, and they say they need not our aid. But the siege lasts for almost a year already. To me it seems that the war in the north is not going well. The walls of the Iron Fortress may be too strong even for the Valar. What should we do?”

“Wait,” I reply. “We should wait and build new ships. This war will not end swiftly. But we must be ready for the day when it will be over.”

“You know more than you reveal.” Ereinion looks at me intently. “But I believe that you would tell everything you can, and were there any good tidings, you would share them with me.”

“I have indeed said all I can, for now,” I reply. “The knowledge that the Sea brings to me is vague. Wind and currents unforeseen may shift the course of the future. Still, there are some good tidings, yet maybe of a different kind than you would expect. Elwing’s sons are here.”

His eyes widen in disbelief as I tell him the story, and when I fall silent, there is wonder and relief in his gaze.

“Who would have thought…” the King says quietly. “There were rumours, rumours I refused to listen to, and I am glad that they indeed proved false. I was loth to believe that my father’s friends could fall so low as to kidnap children.”

“Indeed.”

Slightly ashamed, I think to myself that I was more than ready to believe just that. But then, I have lived much longer in this world. I have seen more evil and treachery than Ereinion. Maybe that offers some excuse.

The first meeting of the King with Elwing’s sons is awkward. The twins are shy and quiet; only after some time Ereinion succeeds to draw Elrond into something that resembles a conversation. But Elros remains silent and speaks only when spoken to, and there is a poorly hidden distrust in his eyes whenever he looks at the King.

During the following days I watch this distrust growing, as his brother spends ever more time in the King’s company. They find that they have much to speak about for they both love lore and books, and Ereinion’s sincere and cheerful nature opens up a way for what I hope may grow into a true friendship. But while Elrond’s sorrow slowly lessens, jealousy grows in Elros’ heart. He does not turn his annoyance against his brother, but he does not join their conversations, always finding some excuse to leave, and afterwards I see him walking along the shore or sitting in the sand, alone and mournful. His anger, that had somewhat abated after his reconciliation with his brother and Aldanwë, is now smouldering again, and it is only a question of time when the distrust and dislike the boy feels towards Ereinion will turn into open enmity.

It is a bright and warm morning with barely a cloud in the sky when I find Elros by the Sea again. He sits in the dunes with a face like a thundercloud, and his fingers are tearing stalks of grass to pieces. He barely returns my greeting, and when I ask where his brother is, his eyes glint.

“He went riding afield. With the King of the Noldor.” The tone of the last sentence is an insult.

“And you?” I sit down beside him, pretending not to have noticed his insolence.

“I did not want to go. I enjoy his company not.”

He throws the shredded pieces of grass on the sand and makes a move to rise. I restrain him.

“We must speak, Elros. This will not do.”

For a brief while it appears that he will leave anyway. He glares at me, but in the end remains sitting, arms folded on his chest.

“Elros, why are you so angry?” I ask. “You will not lose your brother to any new friends he may find. From everything I have learned about you both, Elrond is not like that. And he desperately needs friends. As do you. You will not be enough for each other.”

He looks at me, somewhat surprised. Apparently he has expected me to speak of something else – maybe chastise him for his rudeness.

“I know that Elrond needs friends,” he replies after a while gloomily. “Only… why does it have to be… him? Anyone else, just not him!”

“You are unjust.”

“He is one of them,” he says stubbornly.

“Who are ‘they’, Elros? Are all the Noldor the same to you now? Ereinion was not in Sirion. He has done no evil to your family.”

“His father was a friend of Maedhros and Maglor.” His voice is bitter.

“I think you are wiser than to judge people by their parents’ friendships. Besides, you two are more alike than you think. No, let me speak.” I raise my hand when I see that Elros is about to object angrily. “Ereinion was little more than a child when his father had sent him to Havens, to keep him safe from the war in the north. He was barely of age when his father was slain in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and still very young when he had to take upon himself the duties of the King.”

“I do not care,” Elros mutters sullenly.

I look at him intently and see that it is not true. His irritable bearing hides a kind and generous heart, and, against his will, he is moved by the fate of one he was ready to call his enemy but a while ago.

“I think you do. You are anything but indifferent to the suffering of others, Elros. I know that you are angry with your uncles, but it is not fair to ascribe their crimes to all Noldor.” The reminder that the twins are themselves in part Noldor, I wisely keep to myself.

“I just do not want to have anything to do with them any longer,” he whispers.

“That I can understand. But it does not mean you have to hate them. Hate does not become you, son of Elwing.”

Elros bites his lip and looks away, towards the wide expanse of the Sea. There is a sheen of tears in his eyes, but he fights them back; he will not cry in my presence.

“I am sorry,” he says quietly after a while. “I should be glad Elrond has someone else to speak to. But I cannot find any joy within me. All this is just so… so terrible.”

“It is.” I agree. “But you cannot change what has already happened, Elros. You cannot reshape the past. But you can shape your future. Allow some time to pass, allow yourself to heal, and you will see that there is light where there was darkness before.”

“I do not see that light now,” he whispers. “I am alone in the dark.”

“You are anything but alone, even though you may not see those around you now. But you must at least try to believe that they are there.”

He nods and we sit in silence for a while, but then he turns towards me again.

“Did you… did you know my mother and father, lord Círdan?” His voice trembles slightly.

“Yes, I knew them both.”

“I barely remember them. Can you tell me of them? Please?” There is no more anger. No more insolence. Beside me sits a child asking to hear of the parents he lost.

I tell him. I tell of Elwing, of his gentle and joyful mother. Of her bright smile that could bring light into the darkest of days. I tell of Ëarendil, of his strong and determined father. Of his laughter that made all others around him laugh also. Of his determination to bring a message to the Blessed Realm. I tell of Vingilot – of the ship I helped him build for his journey, of white timbers of birch trees. And as Elros meets in my tale the parents he barely remembers, a single silent tear slides slowly down his face.

“Father’s ship…” he says when I cease speaking. “Elrond said… The first time we saw Gil-Estel rising, Elrond said that it was a ship, a great shining ship. I have oft thought of that, and oft imagined my brother’s words to be true – Vingilot riding the sky and our father there, standing at the helm.”

“Who knows,” I softly reply. “The Valar are powerful. One thing is clear – your father delivered the message. So Vingilot made it to Valinor. One day, we may learn the true story.”

I see a spark in Elros’ eyes as he speaks about Vingilot, and a thought occurs to me suddenly.

“Would you like to see the shipyard?”

“Yes, please!” The excitement on his face is the only answer I need.

We go to the harbour, enter the building and walk around, and I tell about the work that we do here. His eyes shine as I show him the new ships that we build.

“I remember this scent from my childhood,” Elros says, resting his hand on the white timbers of the hull. “The wood and tar. The sea-spray. When I was little, I always thought that I would one day go to sea, like my father.”

Sadness clouds his gaze again; he sighs and draws back his hand.

“Would you like that?” I ask. “To go to sea?”

He raises his face towards me. “I…” The longing in his eyes fights pride and distrust he still bears towards me, but I plainly see now what I already suspected – Elros has the sea-heart of his father.

“Come with me,” I say and lead him to the docks where a small sailboat is moored on the leeward side of the pier. “We changed her rigging lately, and I need to see how she runs. Will you aid me?”

Elros does not reply but the look in his eyes speaks volumes. We board the boat.

“Release the mooring lines and drop them on the pier,” I say.

He does as he is told; I raise the sail, and the fresh breeze drives us away from the dock. The boat heels towards port and takes up speed. I steer her a safe distance away from the coast, adjusting the sail with one hand and holding the helm with the other; this is a small boat, easy to sail single-handed. Yet that is not my intent today. I turn towards Elros who stands at the stern, holding on to the rigging, his excited face turned towards the skyline.

“Take the helm.”

“But… I do not know what to do!” He looks at me, clearly frightened.

“I will tell you all you need to know. It is easy; if you turn the tiller left, the boat will head right, and the other way around. Now, remain on the windward side, take the helm and keep it straight, in the same direction we are heading.” He reaches for the helm, and I see his hands trembling; his fingers firmly grasp the wooden tiller. I adjust the sails to the direction we are sailing. “Do not be afraid. Feel the wind. Look how it fills the sail. Feel the boat, her movement.”

I explain how the wind works in the sails, how to steer, how the different parts of the boat are called, and Elros grows more confident with each mile we cover. His anxious grip on the tiller relaxes, and after a short while I notice that he knows what to do. He is steering the vessel surely and calmly, feeling every change in the wind and adjusting the tiller, so that the little boat retains her speed and smooth movement over the waves. And I do not see the irate, sullen boy any longer. I see a tall youth, strong and assured, with shining eyes and excited joy on his face. The Sea sings loud in the blood of Ëarendil’s son.

It is long past midday when we return to the shore. Ereinion and Elrond are back from their ride. They sit in the garden, Elrond’s face is troubled, and I see that Ereinion is attempting to reassure him – with little success. When they perceive us, Elrond jumps to his feet and nearly runs towards us.

“Elros, where have you been? Nobody in the house knew; I was so frightened!”

Then he notices a change in his brother and halts, unsure and amazed. But Elros reaches him in a few swift steps.

“I was sailing! Sailing, Elrond! Lord Círdan took me along on a sailboat, and I was steering her, can you imagine that? It was like flying! We went so fast over the waves, the wind sang in the rigging; there were gulls, too, and…”

He speaks and speaks until he is out of breath; then he laughs, and embraces his brother, and Elrond laughs too. I exchange glances with Ereinion who looks at the twins with a smile. I smile in return. They are both on their way to healing.

Still, I cannot chase away sudden sadness and foreboding. The Sea will be Elros’ salvation. Not so for Elrond. But such is Arda Marred, where joy is ever entwined with sorrow, and happiness comes at the cost of grief.