“Not So High A King”

Summary: In T.A. 249, Eldacar of Arnor’s coronation commences, but some of the observers have come quite far to see the King…

Hands

“How like you they are, Ardamirë.”

Eärendil frowned. “What mean you, Laurefindil?” he challenged. He had invited Glorfindel aboard as Vingilótë sailed on the anniversary of Ondolindë’s destruction, and risked covering the Silmaril, sailing nearer to Annúminas.

“Valandil, for a start.”

 Eärendil barked a laugh. “Valandil is dead. I shall carry out this doom endlessly. Bringer of Hope they call me, and for what?”

“For that,” Glorfindel replied quietly, gesturing at Valandil’s bier below them. The King’s body was being caressed by gentle hands. Elros! No – King Eldacar.

“May you have long life and reign well, my son,” Eärendil whispered.

Face

Reign well, my son.

 “Uncle? Forgive me, I was… elsewhere a moment. Did you speak just then?” Eldacar turned to regard Elrond’s ancient eyes – startling in an otherwise youthful face.

“Nay, Nephew, not I,” Elrond replied. “Come, it is time.”

Numbly, Eldacar forced himself to follow Elrond from Valandil’s bier, through the throng. Elrond bore the Elendilmir to the dais on a cushion.

Eldacar knelt, and Elrond crowned his multi-great-nephew ceremoniously. Eldacar stood and faced the throng.

“Now come the days of Eldacar! Behold the King!” Elrond proclaimed. The people cheered.

Only Elrond saw his nephew’s face, wet with tears.

Key

 “Uncle Elrond?”

The Peredhel turned to regard the dark-haired young man. At sixty-four, this prince of Arnor still had the gift of Elros’ longevity upon him and bore the wearing of years but lightly. “Arantar? What may I do for you?”

“Is there any way I can help Father?”

So, Elrond had not been the sole witness to Eldacar’s grief.

“Give him this, Nephew,” Elrond decided, withdrawing a small, leather-bound book, locked fast,from the pocket of his robes, and the key that went with it. Elrond passed them to Arantar with reverence.

“Whose was this?” Arantar wondered.

“My father’s.”

(Bibelot: A small object of curiosity, beauty or rarity; a miniature book, especially one that is finely crafted. Pronounced BEE-buh-low or bee-BLOW.)

Crown

The new King was seated upon the throne of his fathers, head bowed. On his brow sat the Elendilmir – not the original, lost with Isildur, but a fair copy forged in Imladris, which had been Valandil’s.

“Adar, look what Uncle Elrond has brought.” Arantar carried the bibelot to Eldacar. “It was Lord Eärendil’s.”

Eldacar looked up, surprised. “Thank you, Uncle,” he said. “I look forward to studying Daeradar’s words.”

“One thing you may learn from him – uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” Elrond murmured. “’Tis a heavy responsibility. Still, I have every faith you can do it, Nephew.”

Strike

“My king.”

Eldacar looked around, espying his father’s Steward, Laurendil. My Steward, he corrected himself.

“Come hither, Laurendil. What news?”

The older Man shook his head. “King Eärendil approaches.”

Elrond regarded Laurendil with surprise. “King Eärendil!”

“My cousin,” Eldacar explained. “He is nearly forty years my elder, and never fails to remind me of it, despite my technically senior rank. Bid him to enter, Laurendil.”

Elrond frowned as Eärendil approached, garbed in silver and black. His mithril winged crown was more splendid than the Elendilmir. It seemed a strike to Eldacar’s seniority and majesty, Elrond thought.

Eldacar thought so, too.

Spring

King Eärendil approached, his gaze piercing as he took in his surroundings. The King of Gondor sighed, and Eldacar braced himself for another complaint of the wilderness Eärendil had been forced to traipse through.

“Cousin.”

Eldacar tensed. “Be welcome to my hall, Eärendil. I am sorry I had no trumpeter to greet you, no flowers to give you at our meeting.”

Eärendil laughed sardonically. “Would I insist on those? Not at such a time as this.” He sprang forward and clasped a shocked Eldacar in his muscular embrace. “My grief is yours, Eldacar. It is no easy thing, becoming King.”