Hours later, Elros cursed soundly. It was clear that the horse couldn't go on any further today. And he was exhausted himself. Exhausted and completely alone in a strange country. As he led the horse through the rainy twilight of the late and stormy fall evening, he wondered whether he would be able to get to the meeting point in time. And if he did, whether the one he was needed to meet would be there at all.
Finally he found a spot that would serve as a camp for the night. It was a little dell that offered at least some shelter from the elements. Tired as he was, he took care of his faithful steed first, rubbing it down with clumps of heather, watching the stallion patiently as it slurped water from a pool that was little more than a large puddle, and then pulling out the small bag with oat he had left.

All the while his thoughts were chasing each other in mad circles. How would he react to this news? This ... mission, this foolhardy quest? Would he be there at all, when he had not understood Elros' initial choice?

Elros sighed and settled down on the sheltered side of the little vale. The ground was wet and it was cold, but his cloak was warm and would withstand the onslaught of rain a while longer. Elros pulled out a package of way bread. Mechanically he started breaking it into bits, putting it into his mouth, chewing, swallowing, eating. The taste - honey, sunny Númenor - never registered with him.

He should have sent a messenger. He should have stayed in Armenelos. He should have ... never accepted that fool's errand in the first place. Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here, when he could be in Númenor, preparing for his coronation.

Elros rubbed his aching forehead. He should have, he should have ... But on the other hand, with the situation as tangled as it was, what else could he have done? How could he ever have thought that he had a head for politics? That he would be able to get all parties and factions and busybodies to accept him? Looking back, it seemed to him as if all he had managed to do was get himself into worse and worse difficulties. Including a marriage proposal.

He winced. Tindóme was beautiful and smart and loving and kind. She was everything he could look for in a spouse. But he did not feel ready for marriage. He knew he had to marry if he wished to become King of Númenor. There had to be children, soon, to ensure the stability of his reign. This was, after all, how the realms of mortals and their ruling worked.

And now it had to look as if he were running away, away from his coronation and away from his wedding. In anguish he balled his hands to fists, trying to suppress a mounting anger. Manwë himself and Varda had offered him crown and country. They had offered him all he could ever wish for. All he had ever wished for. A home for his soul and his body. The opportunity to leave a mark on a land and its people. To change, to create, to ...

But like everything else in life, this offer had come with a price.

A mission to undertake. A quest to fulfill. Here, in the wastelands of Middle-earth.

And worse yet, it was a quest he could not accomplish alone. And worse again: no istar, no warrior, no mortal man or woman could help him.

There was only one in all of Arda who could help him. Only one. An Elf. His twin-brother. Elrond. Who had not spoken with him since they had made their choice.

Elros heaved a sigh and forced himself to relax his hands. His nails had bitten deeply into his flesh. Oh Valar, he thought. You told me that together we can accomplish this. I pray you were right. I pray he will be there. I pray that what I came here to do is right.

At last Elros lay down, but instead of finally finding the sleep he needed to relieve his exhaustion, his thoughts went back to Númenor, to Armenelos, and the day when Manwë and Varda had appeared to him with their offer and their request ...