2: The Choice

If he had guessed correctly, he was not far from where Minas Anor, as he thought of it, had once stood. The city was gone, of course, but the mountain remained with its out-thrust of rock, a towering bastion of stone, looking somewhat like a ship’s keel, though the long weathering of ice and snow had softened its edge, making it more rounded and crumbling so that it was not as prominent a landmark as it had once been. Still, even from this distance, it was an impressive sight.

He sighed, shifting the weight of his haversack to ease his back. It had been a long journey just to reach this point and he had much further to go. Not for the first time he questioned what he was doing. Why now? Why this way? He had no ready answers; he only knew that he was tired, so very tired and wished only to lie down and sleep forever.

He snorted in derision at that thought. If he wanted to sleep forever, he should have chosen a more comfortable bed. Traveling north to the tundra, to a land of ice and snow and bitter cold was stupid, to say the least, but he had become wary of things since the last time he had attempted to kill himself. Each time, someone or something interfered with his plans. It was too uncanny, almost as if someone or Someone was looking out for him, refusing to allow him this easy out. He had forfeited any right to Sail and something within him refused to allow him to fade, yet after all this time, he just wanted to stop.

He should have stopped a long time ago, he thought, maybe when the ice began to claim the land. He should have just stayed where he was, wandering the shore north of Lindon and allowed the encroaching glacier to cover him, ending his sorry existence once and for all. Instead, like the coward he was, he had fled, joining others, both Elves and Mortals, in the mass exodus to the South, to warmer climes where they sat out the Age. He had kept his own presence a secret, at least from the other Elves, though he suspected some knew he was there but respected his need for privacy and did not venture to seek him out.

During the long ensuing years he had drifted like a ghost from one Mortal settlement to another, earning a night’s lodging and food with his singing, as he had done before, though now he did not haunt the coasts, or at least, not as much as before. Most of the settlements were inland, protected from the cold northern winds by mountains. Conditions were not ideal and the Mortals lived from hand to mouth more often than not but they persevered and survived after a fashion. He had to admire them for that, at least.

He shook his head, as if to clear it of those thoughts. Well, it mattered little now. He was here and he would continue moving north. He had decided to see if he could find where Imladris had once stood. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to seek it out. Perhaps because it was the final link with his beloved foster son, Elrond, and his family. During the three ages in which Imladris existed he had occasionally come and overlooked the valley, keeping a watch over its lord and those who dwelt therein. He did not think anyone suspected his presence, though he would not have been surprised if Elrond or Glorfindel knew the truth.

Journeying to Imladris seemed appropriate. He would die on the ice, of that he was sure, but he would die near the only place he could with any certainty consider ‘home’. Even if he had never resided there, it was where he dwelled in his dreams, with his foster son, and there was no more sorrow or regret or pain. He unconsciously flexed his right hand, scarred by the touch of the Silmaril, grimacing at the familiar fire that never left him as he set off across the plain towards the Anduin, which still flowed, though sluggishly. He could see where the ice had held its iron grip upon the river but this part of the world was moving into what would have been summer in another age and the ice was beginning to recede, slowly but surely. In time, it would be gone completely but he would not be there to see it.

He eyed the river with some concern. It appeared narrower than he remembered and shallower, yet it was not so narrow or shallow that he could easily jump it or ford it. He might have to construct some kind of raft to get himself across. Unfortunately, there was little in the way of wood for that, but he would do what he could. He half thought about simply swimming across, but there would have been no way to keep his pack and his meager belongings from getting wet.

Yet, he was not deterred. He had made this choice to come north where he knew no one and nothing lived, where there would be no interference with what he would do. He moved along the bank, eyeing the land and the water. Perhaps if he went further north the river would be more iced over and if he walked carefully he might be able to get across. Even if such a route took him out of his way, it was safer than trying to swim it. So he trudged on. He eventually reached what he thought might have been the Harlond of old, shading his eyes against the glare of the ice and snow that lay about. Yes, the river did look frozen further on.

He had come into what had once been Gondor in the early morning, but now the sun was slipping further west and soon it would be dark. He needed to either get across before that or wait for morning and he chafed at the delay, for he had to travel many leagues out of his way to find a place where he could safely cross and then he would have to retrace those same leagues on the other side, for he meant to cross the length of what had once been Anórien and Rohan, hoping that the Gap that had once existed between the Misty Mountains and the White was still there. It would be far easier than attempting to cross the mountains themselves.

The sun decided for him, as it disappeared behind a bank of clouds. Snow clouds, they looked to be. He had best find or construct some kind of shelter. There was precious little in the way of materials so he gathered his cloak around him and hunkered down beside some boulders facing east, hoping they would offer him some protection against the rising wind.

The snow began falling and he brought the cloak’s hood up, wrapping his arms around his knees and began the ritual he had started at the beginning of his journey. It was a painful ritual but he was determined to die with a clean heart. Where had he left off on his mental list? Oh, yes. He sighed as he called to mind his two younger brothers, the twins, who had died on the shores of the Sirion in that ill-fated attempt at retrieving the Silmarils. A useless death for them both and he felt responsible for that even if Maedhros never had. He had been avoiding this for too long. It was time.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. “Please forgive me for any wrongs I committed against you, my brothers.” He kept the image of the twins before him, and then, as he had been instructed to do, he let them go. They bowed to him and walked away, fading into eternity. He hoped that wherever they might be all his brothers did indeed forgive him. He probably would never know.

“It is not for you to know if they forgive you or not,” the crone had told him. “It is enough that you have acknowledged that forgiveness is needed on your part and you have asked for it, humbled yourself as you have never done before friends and enemies alike.”

He had nodded in understanding, though in truth he hadn’t understood, not then. As the image of Amrod and Amras faded from his mind, he pondered over the chance meeting with the crone. She was the wise woman of the wandering tribe of Mortals who followed their scrawny herds from one oasis to another. He had come upon them as he was traveling north and had stayed with them for a few days, singing for his supper, as it were. The tribe was appreciative of his music and gifted him with many fine things to aid him on his travels. The cloak, for instance, was one such gift.

Only to the wise woman of the tribe did he confide his intent, and looking back, he wondered why he had done so, yet there was something about this woman with her wrinkled skin and graying hair and brown eyes faded with the years that nonetheless saw much and forgot nothing that had prompted him to confess what he would do.

“Life is a gift,” the old woman had said as the two of them sat before the entrance of her tent. “It can also be a burden. If you are determined to this course, then you must make it less burdensome.”

“How? What do you mean? And why do you not talk me out of it?”

“You are not as we,” she answered. “I sense it, though I do not understand it. I think you are one of the immortal ones, though not one of the gods. And I do not think I could talk you out of or into anything against your will,” she had added with a toothless smile.

He had held still, not sure how to react to this statement. It was rare that any Mortal saw him for what he was, for he had enough power still to fool the minds of others into seeing what he wished for them to see: one who was as they. But here was someone who saw through the disguise and he was at a loss as to how to respond.

“I am of the Eldar, the People of the Stars, the Firstborn of the One,” he finally said, speaking softly, almost to himself. “And I am cursed.” He briefly, oh so briefly, told her his history. “And now I truly weary of this existence and myself. I would see an end to both.”

For a long moment, the wise woman did not speak, merely gazing out upon the doings of her people as they went about the business of living. When she spoke it was with a question. “Are you truly prepared to die so burdened with guilt?”

“Guilt is all I have left,” he answered sourly and gave her a humorless grin.

“Hmph,” was her response. “Then you need to rid yourself of your guilt. Do not go into the dark so burdened.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Each night before you sleep, call to mind a person from your past, be he kith and kin or enemy sworn. Think of that person and the harm you may have caused him… or her. Then, ask for their forgiveness.”

“Ask for their forgiveness?” he had echoed. “But how can I truly do that? I am just bringing up an image, not the person in truth. How do I ask forgiveness of a memory?”

“Memory is all you have left, Child of the Stars,” she replied. “You yourself have said that those whom you knew are long gone and the few who remain cannot be reached. Therefore, call to mind all, whether living or dead, who have crossed your path and ask them for their forgiveness. Once you do that, and it must be a sincere asking, let them go. Let their image walk away or fade away, but let them go. You may never reach the end of your list before you walk through the final gate, but you will have done so with less guilt weighing you down. The gods themselves will know whether to give you mercy for the rest.”

And so, he had followed her advice, the only advice he had ever taken from a Mortal, and every night as he watched the stars in their stately pavane, he brought to mind those of his past. He had begun with his Atar, with Fëanáro, as being the hardest to seek forgiveness from. He had felt embarrassed as he spoke out loud, asking his father for forgiveness, unsure how effective this whole thing would be. By the end, he was weeping, the pain in his fëa rivaling that in his hand.

When the storm of weeping had lessened, he had felt lightheaded and weak and fell almost instantly asleep, a deep sleep untroubled by the dreams that usually haunted him. The next morning, still feeling somewhat empty, his mind numb, he had continued his march north. Yet, that evening, as he sat before his fire sipping on a mug of tea, he called to mind his ammë as he had last seen her and spoke to her long into the night, telling her all that he had done, the good and the bad, and finally as the stars began to fade and the sun rose, he had asked for her forgiveness.

In his mind he saw her smile, that beautiful smile she reserved for her sons. He imagined himself standing before her and she gently embraced him, kissing him on the forehead in benediction as she had done countless times when he was younger.

“I love you,” he heard (or imagined) her saying and then, keeping in mind the crone’s words, willed her to turn and fade away into eternity, leaving him oddly at peace. He had remained where he was that day, doing a little bit of hunting. That night, he spoke to Maedhros and was appalled at the anger that spewed out of him at his older brother. It had been both cathartic and frightening and he didn’t know what to do with the anger, with the absolute fury that threatened to engulf him.

“Let it go. Let it all go.”

It was the voice of the old woman and taking a deep breath he had done just that, though not before asking Maedhros for his forgiveness. As the image of his brother faded away, he felt immensely weary and slept the rest of the night, his dreams, what he remembered of them, seeming to center around his older brother and all that they had shared in their lives, the good and the bad. When he woke the next morning, he felt less rested than he had before and reluctantly continued his journey.

For two nights, he refused to enact the ritual of forgiveness, fearing what it would do to him eventually, but on the third night he found himself inadvertently thinking about Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir and before he realized what he was doing, he had asked each one of them for their forgiveness. He had wept for hours afterwards.

Oddly enough, or perhaps not so oddly, he found he could not think about the twins. He knew he had to ask them for their forgiveness but for some reason he shied away from that. Instead he had gone on to think of other people, those who had owed him allegiance first and then others in no particular order: his cousins, Fingolfin, Fingon and Finrod, Elu Thingol and his queen, Melian, Dior and Nimloth, Elwing and Eärendil, even his foster sons, Elrond and Elros. That had been hard, harder than he thought it should be, for he had loved them and cared for them, but behind that love and caring had been the memory of their mother flinging herself from the tower to save the Silmaril.

And now, his own twin brothers.

He sighed as their images faded away. The falling snow occluded the stars and he could not hear their song. All was a grayish white that blinded him and he rested his head against his knees, blocking out the sight, wondering if he should call to mind another person, but he felt weary again and sat out the night with his mind silent.

Dawn came reluctantly and with it the end of the snowfall. He shook off the snow that had blanketed him, looking about. He stood and chewed on some dried meat to break his fast, scooping up some of the snow to ease his thirst as he made his way lightly over it. He was not sure, but yes, shading his eyes he could see in the middle distance something that rose out of the middle of the river.

“It must be Cair Andros,” he said out loud, recalling what he could of the geography of this land, and another hour’s walk proved his supposition to be true. This was lucky for him, he saw, for the river narrowed on either side of the island and was mostly iced over. He cautiously made his way across, stopping at the island to explore part of it, though there was little enough to find. Then he crossed to the other side and began making his way southwest toward what had once been Anórien. He had wasted two days reaching this point, but it could not be helped. Feeling as if time was running out, though he was unsure why that would be, he raced lightly over the snow, feeling lighthearted, laughing as he ran.

He was still several leagues north of where the Mering stream had flowed out of the Entwash when the coming night forced him to stop and make camp. Later, after he had eaten, he went through his ritual, bringing to mind his cousin Galadriel. Another hard one, but then, they were all hard in one way or another.

“Forgive me, Cousin….”

****

Words are Quenya:

Atar: Father.

Fëa: Soul, spirit.

Ammë: Hypocoristic form of amillë: Mother.