5. A busy morning

In which everybody gets up before Arien- and nothing good can come from that- and Ingil Ingwion comes to a decision.

Erestor looked up and started counting to ten. At nine, the flap of his tent flew open and the peredhel came in, his half-smile hardly visible in the dim daybreak light.

“Morning Erestor, what do we have today?”

Elrond was an early riser and that was something Círdan's chief counsellor prized in an elf, together with a feel for organization, a deep respect for schedules and obligations, a love for knowledge and a neat handwriting. Elrond's wasn't yet as neat as it would be desirable in an elf of such noble descent, but Erestor was taking care of it. Every morning before Arien rose, Elrond was at Erestor's tent to check on the day's schedule and write it down, a good practice that was helping him polish his already more than decent tengwar.

“It depends,” he answered in his caustic manner, “another chance for your lord to show his ability to mess things up, or an important meeting with the Lord of the Dwarves of the Ered Luin…what do you think?”

Since Elrond had assumed an unofficial position as the king's assistant, he and Erestor had found out that working together was a good way of increasing the chances that Ereinion would be found where he was supposed to be at the appointed time.

Not that he was an errant, irresponsible king, but he tended to allow himself to get entangled in matters of little importance, in Erestor’s opinion, and let pass important and, above all, scheduled events. Team working with Elrond had proved a successful way of keeping track of the busy and overenthusiastic king and Erestor was more than grateful for that.

“The Dwarf-Lord?“ Elrond asked, raising his brows and disguising an amused smile. “I believe that will be a great success! They’re almost friends, although Ereinion may not remember it,” he joked, remembering the shameful incident of the previous day. “How was your dinner?” he added hurriedly, trying to disguise his mirth at the sight of Erestor’s well-known and justly feared frown.

“Interesting,” was the curt answer. “Now, he wants to meet with Ereinion and be assured that incidents like yesterday's won't be repeated... He made it clear that he's lord of the Dwarves of Belegost, and overlord of the dwarven cities in the Ered Luin and won't tolerate his people to be harassed by us. The business between Doriath and Nogrod (1) was settled years ago, he remarked, and they didn't take part in that fight. On the other hand, he reminded me repeatedly that his father, and many of his people, died in the Nirnaeth while the Doriathrim remained safely tucked in their thousand caves…” he added with annoyance.

Elrond smiled tightly. The wound was still open for the people of Doriath, and the death of their king at the hands of the Naugrim and the kinslaying were two parts of the same tragedy, one that would never be forgiven or forgotten and that would stain the responsible races for as long as Arda endured -if one were to believe some of their more heated statements.

The fact that the Noldor had always shown certain sympathy for the Naugrim because of their shared love of smithery only aggravated the resentment the Doriathrim showed against both races. That affected him, too, in the sense that the Sindar regarded him with mixed emotions that they did not even try to disguise due to his more than dubious upbringing, something he was completely innocent of, he thought with annoyance

"How was your dinner?” Erestor asked with genuine interest.

“Ereinion left before desert and went in search of Celebrimbor.” Elrond believed in short, precise sentences. He, too, suspected that Círdan had already briefed his counsellor, so no major details were needed there.

“Spoiled brat.” Erestor's fond chuckle caught Elrond by surprise. “Not that I blame him, anyway. Let's hope that he'll overcome his wounded pride and behave reasonably. Lord Gundaghâl wants to impress him with his tales of the dwarven mythical city in the east and the endless forests that flank it. Besides, he has an interesting proposition, and I'm certain their help would be more than welcome in building the new city... So I think it would be good if they met first thing this morning, before anything disturbs the king’s morning bliss…”

Elrond smiled. He knew that Erestor liked the king immensely and his grumpiness was his way of showing it, the same as Círdan’s. Erestor was an elf of Nandorin descent, one of those who had stood by Denethor (2) in the first battle of Beleriand. He had gone to Menegroth with few of the survivors, accepting Thingol's offer, and had lived there for many a year as a happy scholar until the stifling pressure of the invisible Girdle had become unbearable and he had moved to the Havens and settled down there before the sun rose.

At Círdan’s prodding, he had survived the task of overseeing the exiled young prince’s education almost unscathed, except for the vast knowledge of Noldorin language, lore and culture acquired during those years and a deep fondness for the youngster, whose neat handwriting, acceptable love of lore and innate sense of duty qualified him as a decent ruler in Erestor’s more than informed opinion.

He had a barbed tongue and a sharp mind. He had seen and learnt so much that he was seldom moved or worried and he rarely passed judgment upon anyone’s motivations. His cold sarcasm was tempered by his equanimity and sense of fairness. He was one of the few people Elrond felt comfortable around, because of his non-judgemental approach.

“I’ll take care. Breakfast in his tent, then?”

“Agreed. After that, I know that King Finarfin is looking for a chance to speak privately with him. I’ll check with Finarfin and then let you know. Ereinion is supposedly taking care of the plans for the new settlement, but, honestly, I have no idea of what he’s been doing about it!”

“I’ll find out, and I shall let you know!” Elrond winked while bowing to his mentor. “But I better start moving, lest he finds something interesting to do before breakfast!”

“I’ll escort Lord Gundaghâl to Ereinion’s tent, then,” Erestor agreed, waving the peredhel goodbye and turning his attention to his breakfast with the same dedication he’d show to the troop commander explaining the battle order.

***

Ereinion got up earlier than usual. He had not slept well. Last day’s events, including his late night conversation with Celebrimbor, had left him with a bitter taste. He had tossed and turned in a fitful rest plagued by dreams of fire and had awoken before Arien rose; a not so common occurrence, but not so rare as to cause his guard to jump upon his feet and eye him with worry, he thought with wounded pride as he emerged from his tent.

“Lord Círdan said that a dwarf-lord would come to meet you in the morning, my lord,” the guard said nervously as he saw his lord ready to walk away.

Ereinion looked at the guard, then up to the sky, then back at the guard. ”Is it morning?” he asked playfully.

“No, my lord!”  the guard nodded, fighting to keep his grin under control.

“I figured myself,” Ereinion agreed placidly. ”Now, I’m going to the shipyards where the edain are building their fleet, he added pleasantly. "I inform you for I know that they’ll plague you with questions. Know, too, that I’ll be back by a morning hour in which the King would be ready to meet with anyone, by you leave?” And with the guard’s complicity he walked away at a brisk pace.

Had he been asked to, Ereinion would have defined himself as resilient. He wasn’t wise as his grandfather or valiant as his father, but he was an optimistic, stubborn and resilient elf. He faced every new day with the same positive attitude, hoping –and fighting- for the best. He usually took time to run over the list of pending matters as he had a hurried breakfast and then readied for any other thing that might go wrong and require his attention as the day progressed. He felt deep satisfaction in getting things done, and not even Erestor’s recriminations about unfulfilled schedules could dampen his optimism and satisfaction when problems had been solved.

So he was full of happiness that morning, as he crossed the half asleep camp towards the shipyards, intent on learning about how the Eain were obtaining the wood for their shipbuilding. He had not forgotten the young Wood-elf and her Sindarin friends’ worries and he expected to gather some information before meeting them. He found Elros’ steward, an old campaigner who was now in charge of the shipyards, and had breakfast with him while learning about their progress.

“Tell Elros to meet me in my tent, Arandur, I think we can make some arrangements to improve the wood supply while avoiding damage to the forest…” He greeted the old steward goodbye and walked back, taking the shoreline instead of crossing back through the camp.

In the few days he had been there, Ereinion had not been able to take a calm tour of the camp. He had not had the chance to admire the magnificent ships of Olwë’s people either, so he decided that he would take advantage of his early beginning to go and have a close look at those works of art.

Thankfully, the harbour was deep there and many of the ships were moored upon the wooden pier, so he could enjoy the feeling of walking among their supple wooden frames while secretly hoping to be treated to the priceless sight of Olvárin climbing his ship’s mast for exercise. He stood there, admiring the graceful sight of the tall structures with their long wooden fingers and their glistening canvas, neatly rolled, waving lazily in the morning breeze.

“Wonderful, aren’t they?”

Ereinion nodded to a dark-haired and grey-eyed elf that was admiring the tall ships as well. Soon, they were engaged in friendly conversation about the particularities of those magnificent ships.

***

Elrond walked quickly towards Ereinion’s tent, which was not very far from his. The king was the opposite of a morning person, just like Elros, he sighed. Elrond, on the other side, always got up before Arien did. He relished the freedom of the first hours of the day, when everything was about to stir. Elros, though, preferred to join in his men’s revelries each night.

Elros loved to be loved, and he knew how to manage it. He had come to terms with their situation and had found a way to cope with it while Elrond was still reeling with the after effects of the attack on Sirion. Elros had soon discovered that being stubborn and boisterous, and defiant and cheeky was the way to secure Maedhros tolerance and had turned it into an art, ensuring, by the way, their well being at camp.

He had nodded politely when they had met their lost kin, namely Ereinion, Celeborn and Galadriel, and had shrugged when learning that their mother was alive and that their father wore a Silmaril upon his brow and sailed the skies. He had chosen mortality with sure foot and an unconcerned smile, his smile, while Elrond only knew that he had chosen elven life for he needed the time.

He needed time to sort out his feelings and let some wounds be healed. He needed time to come to terms with whom and what he was. He needed time to get used to his place in Arda and to be able to forgive his mother and father -and his foster father- and Ereinion and Círdan for not looking for them, and Celeborn, who insisted that they were kin and yet looked at them from a distance, seeing them as the fëanorians that most of the camp still considered them to be. (3) Not them, he corrected himself grimly, for Elros had found an easy way to avoid that particular disturbance; he was king of the Edain, and that put any other consideration to rest.

During the war, Elros had spent most of the time commanding edain patrols and that had made it easier for him to choose sides. Elrond had stayed with the high command instead and had been admitted into the king’s circle as soon as Maedhros and Maglor knew that Ereinion had set forth, disobeying Finarfin's commands. Elrond wondered whether his choice had been different, had he and Elros switched places during the War.

He wasn’t all that sure. He needed the time, after all. He needed to dwell upon details, and ponder all options, and see all points of view, and the problems he faced weren’t simple, so, all in all, he had had no other choice left, he thought, approaching the king’s tent as he came to the same conclusion to the same debate he had been holding with himself for some months now, since they had made up their different choices. It still hurt, but that was a familiar feeling, after all.

“Good morning, Lord Elrond, the King’s not in.”

Elrond stopped in mid step, sure that he had misheard.

“I beg your pardon?” He even looked up briefly, fearing that he had daydreamed for longer than he suspected. Arien was hardly showing her first rays; those were still the hours Ereinion dubbed as “unhealthy for an elf to be found up and around.”

“The King left early this morning, my lord,” the guard informed him, keeping a straight face, “he said he had business in the edain’s shipyards…and that he would be back…before his meeting,” he added after a short hesitance, which was all Elrond needed to know that those hadn’t been exactly the king’s words. He groaned. Once again, Ereinion had given him the slip. What business could he have in the shipyards, Elrond could not fathom for the life of him.

“Have the King’s esquire send word to Erestor as soon as he shows up,” he said sternly, enjoying the way the guard stood to attention and bowed respectfully. With an exaggerate intake he picked the shortest way to the shipyards across the camp.

“The King was here earlier, Elrond, and he made a lot of questions about the timber, but it’s been some time since he left,” Arandur informed him. “Your brother has just arrived, if you would see him?”

“What’s he doing here?” Elrond asked softly, nodding towards where Oropher waited, his impeccable frown shinning brightly in the morning light.

“Don’t know,” the steward shrugged. “Says he wants to talk to Elros, something about timber, too… angry fellow, isn’t he?” He couldn’t know, but surely Círdan would have withdrawn his kind support had he heard Elros’ steward refer to the carefully treated wooden planks that would make up their ships’ frames as timber. (4)

“Quite,” Elrond agreed, a wicked idea forming in his mind. ”Tell my brother that I wait in his antechamber, and tell Lord Oropher that he can wait in there, too,” he said graciously. He needed say no more, he knew from Arandur’s smug grin.

“Morning, brother! Oropher!”

Elrond had the pleasure to see Oropher’s frown go even deeper when he bowed slightly to Elros’ boisterous and almost-too-familiar greeting. The Peredhil found it amusing to provoke mixed feelings among their half-kin. For the Doriathrim, above all, it was a delicate matter whether to fully acknowledge -or ignore- those sons of Elwing. The fact that they had been fostered by the kinslayers added a painful dilemma to the whole matter and -brazen and disrespectful as both had grown- the Peredhil loved to press the issue at the less auspicious moments.

“There’s a matter of the greatest importance that I must discuss with you, my brother,” Elrond said earnestly, following Elros into his private office and closing the door behind them, making sure that Oropher’s curiosity had been piqued. Gesturing at his brother, he spoke in a voice too loud for the small office.

“Ereinion is to meet today with the Dwarf-Lord, and I’ve been told that he has maps of the lands to the East that include the location of secret elven realms hidden in the forests!”

“Secret elven realms? My brother! You could rule your own kingdom there! Surely they are those who forsook the march! They’d most assuredly welcome the great-grandson of Elwë!

Elros might be not the smartest, but he certainly wasn’t the slowest of the two peredhil. Elrond grinned madly as he gave a touch of secrecy to his loud voice.

“The Dwarf will disclose those maps to Ereinion this morning, when they meet in the King’s tent, and I’m told that his only condition is that he must approve of whom the king designs to be his Herald to the East!”

“Then you got it, Elrond! No one more suitable and closer to the King than you! I’m glad for you, my brother!”

A soft knock, followed by the dark head of Arandur peering inside interrupted their conversation.

”Cut that, Peredhil, he must be sitting upon the King’s cot by now!” he said with feigned disapproval.

“Have a good morning, Elros, and thanks for your co-operation! I still have to find Ereinion!” Elrond bowed to his brother, trying to contain his laughter, a wide smile upon his usually serious face.

“I must meet him too, something about the timber, I’ve been told, but first I would like to do something about those poor, bored Teleri mariners… care to join me?” Elros asked seriously.

Elrond knew that look only too well. “I’d be glad to be of any assistance, but I fear my morning is too busy. Let me know, will you?”

***

“Have you seen my guards?”

Lord Celeborn could have sworn that he had seen two guards posted in front of their tent last night. But then, he wasn’t completely sure, what with all the angry words they had been exchanging on their way back to camp from that disastrous dinner, angry words that had turned into heated discussion inside the tent… yes, heated was the word to describe it, the Lord thought with a silly grin adorning his fair face, lost in contemplation of last night’s activities…A discreet cough brought him back to reality and to the face of an elf that fought bravely to disguise his amusement.

“I’m afraid I have not, my Lord Celeborn, but I can go in search of them, if you want…”

Celeborn blushed furiously and shook his head. “There’s no such need,” he said, pretending not to see the elf’s surreptitious grin, “just make sure they’re on their post when the lady awakes and for the rest of the day,” he said in his most regal voice.

“As you command my lord,” the elf bowed, and pride satisfied, Celeborn hurried along the path that led to the harbour.

He walked lightly, feeling as if Arda had been renewed, rejoicing in every tree and bird that met his way, humming contentedly, the nonsense of last night’s dinner completely wiped away by the memories of their passionate encounter, an encounter he had won, of course, he thought smugly, as he considered his victory; they had postponed a decision regarding conceiving a child and swearing their allegiance to Ereinion.

Why those two things had been part of the same discussion was now a mystery to him; he only knew he had won. “Yes, my lord, you moaned and begged as a winner indeed,” his wife’s wicked, throaty voice whispered in his mind, sending shivers down his spine at the simple memory.

He hastened down the path, turning his attention to the business before him, one -he suddenly remembered with apprehension- he had agreed to undertake under his wife’s gentle persuasion.

As Arien began to show her beautiful face in the east, Celeborn was escorted to Olvárin’s ship, where he was expected for breakfast.

“...And no matter what Círdan claims, nothing can surpass the beauty of their canvas, the softness and resistance of their rigging, the smooth line of our vessels, their draught, the delicate curve of their reinforced hulls, their powerful bowsprits, their beautiful brightwork and their advantageous freeboard, the graceful way they cut the wind at full sail...”

Celeborn’s mind was drifting across a different sea, bored to tears by Olvárin’s obsession while traitorously inspired to attempt a nautical description of his beloved wife, when a well-known voice coming from the pier and filtering through the open porthole interrupted his musings.

“They are undoubtedly beautiful,” the voice was saying, “works of art indeed, and I’m glad I was able to see them at such close distance, although I bet Lord Círdan would fight your claim about these being the most perfect ships ever… I’m no mariner myself,” the kind voice kept saying, “but you see, he’s quite proud of Vingilot.”

Olvárin’s face softened at that, as another voice answered down in the pier, his awe plain, too, at the mention of Eärendil’s ship. “You’ve seen Vingilot!”

Celeborn looked at Olvárin and smiled openly. “That’s Ereinion, if I’m not mistaken, you could invite him aboard, too...I’m sure he’ll appreciate…”

Celeborn had to run to keep up with Olwë’s son as he rushed upstairs and showed himself on board, walking haughtily to the stern and leaning forth to cast his blazing glare upon the unsuspecting onlookers.

“Are you Ereinion son of Fingon?” he demanded in a low, rumbling voice that rang with the depth of the Horns of Ulmo and echoed around the harbour.

“Yes, I am.” Celeborn heard the apprehension in the King’s clear voice before spying his strained face as he looked up from the pier, a questioning look in his eyes.

“I am Olvárin son of Olwë and I warn you, do not ever dare lay your bloodied hands upon my fair ships, you son of a cursed kinslayer, or I’ll personally put an end to your doomed line!” the Prince of the Teleri roared with deeply felt hatred. Celeborn had hardly the time to register Ereinion’s shocked expression, pain and humiliation showing in his grey eyes as he bowed his head in silent defeat and walked away briskly, stopping only to bow gracefully to Finarfin and Galadriel, who were approaching the ship, too.

Any thought of the dejected king disappeared from Celeborn’s mind, though, as fear of what welcome the temperamental prince might have in store for his wife took over.

***

Ingil Ingwion shifted uncomfortably on his rear, sitting cross-legged upon a rock, under cover of an overgrown bower, facing the Belegaer and overseeing the busy harbour. His morning routine wasn’t going as planned and his concentration was growing thinner every passing hour. To make matters worse, those bothersome seabirds insisted on landing upon his head, disturbing his meditation with their vexing shrills and undoubtedly obscene conversations.

The Vanyarin heir started every morning spending time in close connection with Arda. It had been so since his early childhood, when the Vanyar learned to attune themselves to Manwë’s presence in the smallest part of the King’s realm. He could do that as easily as he breathed. After all those millennia, he knew the mind of the tiniest pebble and grain of sand, and could recognize the voice of every kelvar or olvar that had already been there when he had been born.

But something was different here. The clamour of too many voices confused and disturbed him. The fastest pace of growth and change; death, as well as birth, resulted in a strange, intoxicating turmoil, engaging as well as terrifying to one who had never before experienced it.

That had cost them lives, he thought with a shiver.

Death.

Even the word was strange to him and he secretly savoured it with the delight of forbidden things. The Vanyarin casualties had happened thus, during the day’s meditation, as warriors tried to overcome their perplexity before that mighty racket that could only come from Manwë and his siblings’ doing.

My warriors!

He shook his head, guilt overcoming him. Every morning he recited their names and pictured their faces in his mind, bemoaning in a slow, silent lament the sixty-seven noble warriors and friends who had shed their blood in that foreign land. But for some time, now, he was finding it more difficult to concentrate in that task, as other voices and faces, closer and alive, poked insistently at his conscience, pulsing in his blood, commanding attention and not mere contemplation.

He sighed tiredly, feeling something close to exasperation, as he focused his interest in the comings and goings in the harbour, while remembering the events of the past day.

Much as he tried to, he couldn’t understand the restlessness and vehemence of aunt Indis’ brood. Their poking and verbal fighting had almost got the best of him and for a time he had even considered stealing one of the ships and sailing away to the Blessed Realm. And then, much to his dismay, he had found out that he had enjoyed immensely the exhilaration that came from reacting, instead of simply acting in a long known and carefully mastered pattern. He felt alive, and he relished the feeling of it.

Stop it! his logical mind commanded him; and with a flexion of his well-muscled will, he refocused his consciousness towards the deepest foundations of his wisdom, the place where the Vanyarin people dived to merge with the very soul of Arda as they almost glimpsed the trembling echo of the sacred music, the safe haven of their light and peace, almost there…

Now, this is the third time he climbs his mast, something must be disturbing Olvárin…Celeborn…there goes Ereinion ... look, he’s back… what, the peredhel goes now to the shipyards, had he gone by the shoreline, he would have met the king… Finarfin and Galadriel, yes, Celeborn arrived a quarter tide ago or so…(5)

Enough! He jumped upon his feet, utterly angered at his own traitorous mind and almost knocked himself senseless as he forcefully hit a branch. He blinked in incomprehension, staring at the tiny drops of blood upon his fingers and shook his head with dismay. Surely this was not happening! The High Prince of the Vanyar was hitting his head against a tree like a clumsy edain!

“Oh, Atar!” he moaned in despair, “I’m poisoned by this marred Arda! Forgive me!” He stood there, panting heavily, frightened by his own loss of control, knowing what he had to do but too shocked to take a step in any direction.

The echo of angry voices in the harbour served to shake him from his moment of contemplation and, breathing in with decision, he started with purposeful strides towards the haven.

TBC

(1) Thingol was killed and robbed of his treasure by a party of dwarves from Nogrod whom he had hired to have the Silmaril set upon Finrod’s Nauglamír, (that had been brought to him from the ruins of Nargothrond by Húrin...) The dwarves were pursued and killed, but one escaped and made it back to Nogrod and then led an army against Menegroth and sacked it for the first time. The dwarves from Belegost, though, refused to support them and condemned their actions. Not that it served them in the end, for the hatred between Sindarin elves and dwarves grew on, regardless of their hometown…

(2) Nothing is canon-stated about Erestor, except that he was Elrond’s chief counsellor in Imladris during the third age. So I made up this identity for him. Some of the survivors of Denethor’s people did indeed go to Menegroth. Most remained in Ossiriand, though. That was the time when Thingol gathered all who would join him behind Melian’s girdle and Menegroth became the guarded kingdom.

(3) It is not clear when or how Elrond and Elros joined Círdan and Gil-galad. I chose this version: they went to war with the fëanorians and their host, they rejoined the host of Middle earth under Gil-galad’s command and they just stayed. They must have been pretty wild colts, by that time, and they’re only eighty years younger than Ereinion.

(4) Cirdan and his shipwrights would have many different words for the different types of woods and cuts, depending on what part of the ship each would be making part of, so “timber” would sound terribly disrespectful to them.

(5) Ingil is in deep meditation, or trying, so time flies for him.