Anadûnai - by Darth Fingon
I cannot explain the presence of bears in the dream. It is a dream of a scene that happened long ago, in small forest of close-growing trees. There, Elros and I are beating our way through the underbrush with nothing but long sticks to aid us. He meant to lift two swords from the armoury to help us on our quest, but the guards are wise to his antics and too vigilant to let a pair of gangly youths waste their good blades on hacking up saplings. We make do with the sticks. We are fifteen years old and kings of Arda.
Elros is determined to find treasure in the forest. The old stories of Doriath and Nargothrond have made him obsessed with gold and jewels, and he is certain there are plenty to be had. Last night he claims to have seen four men sneak off into this very wood, and he has convinced himself that they came to hide treasure. I cannot bring myself to tell him what I know: that the forest is used by Sindarin natives as a place where lovers can meet in secret, or where they can drink themselves stupid on some horrible stuff called nó-ná, which is made of fermented evergreen needles and smells like goat piss.
The day is hot and the forest makes everything feel stifling and sticky. Leaves smell like they are cooking in the sun, exuding an overripe, green scent, halfway between prime health and rot as they droop from their twigs. We breathe something more substantial than air: something heavy with humidity and saturated by sunlight. Clothes are unbearable. We have stripped down to our breeches, rolled up to mid-thigh, and even that seems too much.
Every now and then Elros pauses to wipe the sweat from his face and push it back into his stringy hair. His naked chest and back are glistening, and I know I look the same. 'Remember, we're looking for a place somebody's dug up,' he tells me for the fourth time at least. 'The treasure will be buried. But they might've covered the hole with leaves and branches to disguise it. Look out for piles of dead brush.' So far we have covered almost a fifth of the little forest and discovered nothing.
By this time we are close to the centre, where the trees occasionally give way to mossy glens full of mushrooms and fallen logs. Elros is still not ready to give up. He trudges ahead, slashing at vetch and nettles with his stick and prodding the ground for signs of disturbed earth, until we stumble into another one of those glens and I scrape the side of my foot against a freshly split stump because Elros has stopped too suddenly and I have to make a quick step to the side. I almost curse at him until I see why he has stopped. We are not alone in the glen.
I see the girl first; her bright yellow-orange dress stands out against the carpet of moss like a flame. She is lying on her back with her silvery hair fanning out from her head, her hands folded serenely across her belly; her eyes are closed. I notice the man stretched out beside her as an afterthought. Clad in brown and green, he blends into the forest scenery as much as she jumps out. The hood of his cloak is pulled down to his brow, but even with his hair covered I can tell by his face that he is a Vanya. The Vanyar are everywhere these days. It's been two years since the start of the war, and already they've built harbours for their great ships and settlements around those harbours. They used to come to buy our food and supplies, but now the sides are reversed and they sell their wares to us. Sometimes I wonder if they came to make war on Morgoth at all, or just to settle these eastern lands and prevent the Noldor from exterminating themselves.
The Sindarin girl might be sleeping, but the Vanya stares up at the forest canopy, and I can see by the movement of his eyes that he is tracking something: a bird or butterfly or falling leaf. He does not look in our direction. Elros has made enough noise to warn even a deaf beetle of our presence, but the Vanya pays us no attention. Only when Elros coughs loudly does he turn his head. And then he fixes us with a gaze so blank I can see the outline of my body reflected in his pupils. It must be the nó-ná, or worse. I've heard of the recreational side to Sindarin herb lore.
Elros walks forward until he is standing directly over the Vanya, who makes no movement other than to follow Elros' progress with his eyes. They stare at each other, Elros looking straight down and the Vanya straight up, until even I am uncomfortable with the bizarre moment they share. It passes in slow anxiety. Finally, Elros breaks the spell and says, 'You give me some gold and I don't tell anyone you're here.'
The Vanya's expression does not change as he reaches into his cloak and pulls out a modest purse. He hands it over to Elros as easily as if he were handing over worthless rags, and Elros is as surprised as I am that this feeble exploit actually worked. Whatever this man and the Sindarin girl consumed must have been a quality product. Elros nods his thanks, and backs away quickly. Why risk having the Vanya come to his senses and demand his money back? We leave that glen and, as soon as we think we are out of sight, run like the world is on fire. We are far away by the time I think I hear a western voice shouting namárië into the tangle of trees between us. Of course Elros hears nothing; he is too preoccupied by the weight of gold in his hand.
The dream to this point shows things how they actually happened. But once we leave the Vanya and begin our sprint through the forest, the bears appear. I can see them weaving through the trees, and I know we are surrounded. The little wood is full of pale, tawny bears. We run until the forest abruptly ends at the seaside, where Maedhros is waiting in a boat with neither oars nor sails, and he berates us for being so late for supper with his parents. They await us below deck, in a room full of white stairs. There are bears in the white stair boat room, but nobody seems to notice or care. Fëanor has prepared a special dish for us to eat. It is made of bird tongues.
oOoOo
The bump and lurch of the carriage pulling to a stop is what wakes me. My first thought is one of annoyance: the sun is still hot and bright in the cloudless sky, meaning it is too early for us to be in Armenelos, so why have we stopped? We are meant to arrive at the court of Tar-Minyatur in time for supper.
But then the footman leaps down from his bench to open my door. 'We're early,' he says. 'Made good time on the road.'
I have to squint as I step from the carriage, using my hand to shield my eyes against the sun. It is lowering, but still above the hills to my left. 'Where are we?'
I am relieved he does not answer 'Armenelos' in reply to what I belatedly realise might be a stupid question. 'Palace of the King,' he tells me. 'We are through the gate, and you need only take the stairs up.'
The Palace of the King. So we have arrived at Elros' home, and I have slept through the drive past everything worth seeing in Armenelos.
'He will show you inside,' says the footman as he gestures to a young man in what I take to be the uniform of a servant. And then he is off, and I am left alone with the servant and a younger attendant boy who looks nowhere near strong enough to manage my unwieldy chest of clothing. He makes a valiant effort, though, and has already managed to drag it across the courtyard to the base of a sprawling staircase.
I am unable to make out much of Elros' home as I follow the servant across the courtyard and up the stairs. With the sun shining directly into my eyes above the roofline, all I can see is the dark silhouette of a grand building atop a treed hill. Or, rather, a series of grand buildings built around a series of hills. What appeared to be one from the base of the stairs splits off into several the closer I come. At the top of the stairs, safely in the shadows, I can see that the building before me is at the centre of a cluster. It is tall and pillared, with a sloping roof, and from either side spring covered walkways leading off to smaller structures of the same fashion. I have to pause a moment just to stare.
Unlike the copied-from-Elvish architecture of Rómenna, this is what I would call True Elvish. It is like nothing I have ever seen before, and yet, it feels so perfectly familiar. The pillars of stylised trees. The delicate, asymmetrical arches. The forested hill with hidden roofs poking up between trees. Waxy vines sprawling out over tiled terraces. Birds perched on the walls of the bridge-like corridors that lead from place to place, potted flowers hanging from secret balconies, the sound of a waterfall splashing. The servant has to take me by the arm and lead me inside. Had he not, I could have stood there for hours.
Inside is no less wondrous than out, with mosaic walls, tall ceilings, and airy windows high above our heads. I could have stayed here, too, simply staring at the marvel of it all, but the servant has no intention of letting me do so. The King is waiting.
oOoOo
The last time I saw him, we did not even look like family, let alone twins. He was on the beach at sunrise, staring out across the inlet at the docked Elven ships that would take him and his people to their new home, and he was wearing the simple clothes of a labourer. Regardless, he still looked like a king.
'Elrond, come down here,' he called to me, but I was too ensnared in my own prissy Elvishness to step off the grass at the beach's edge and risk the sand ruining my precious silk shoes. With one hand I held my scarf more securely over my hair, which was sufficiently Elvish for me at the time: long and glossy black. With the other, I beckoned him to come to me. He came with an exaggerated roll of the eyes.
'You always dress like this now?' he asked. It had been nearly five years since our last meeting, and in that time I had thrown myself into being as Noldorin as possible. My outfit was of a style copied from Gil-galad.
'Yes,' I answered. 'You?'
'It's comfortable.'
He no longer looked like my brother when I saw him up close. The sun had tanned his skin a deep brown and faded his choppy, shoulder-length hair to a similar shade. His eyes looked unnaturally pale in his dark face.
We had grown so far apart since the end of the war: he to his side, and I to mine. We had nothing in common any more, and the extent of our conversation before we lapsed into stiff silence was a quick and meaningless exchange about our clothing. Awkwardly, we shifted, nodded, looked at each other, looked at the ground, and tried to remember any of the friendship we had shared in the past. But a chasm as deep as the divide between Elf and Man separated us.
As we stood there at the edge of the beach, trying to find a way to share what we needed to say, an impatient bearded man huffed his way over to us. He said to Elros, 'I am sorry, my King, but we must make ready to sail while the wind is with us. Your friend the Elf can come to the docks to see us off.'
Elros nodded and did not correct the man as they began to walk away. And I found I could not follow them. I was no longer recognisable as my brother's twin. I was merely the Elf, something separate and unfamiliar. No longer part of his family, no longer part of his life. He looked back once, surprised to see that I did not walk with him, and I cannot say what look was on my face when his eyes met mine. His was one of sadness and regret. Still, he did not stop.
oOoOo
The first words out of the servant's mouth as he announces me at Elros' door make me cringe. 'An Elf is here to see you, my Lord.'
An Elf. I have lived with a hundred and sixty years of guilt and crossed the sea to find my brother, and still I am nothing more than an Elf in the eyes of his people. One unremarkable, nameless Elf in a long chain of visiting Elves.
The sounds of a grumbling complaint filter through the gap in the door, and the scraping of chair legs against tiles, and then the servant bows to bid me enter: the King will receive his guest. I step into a room with wide-open windows stretching from floor to ceiling. There at the centre, seated at a large desk, is Elros. He has pushed his impressive chair out to face me, but his mood looks foul.
Irritation quickly turns to astonishment once he recognises who I am, and then joy. 'Elrond!' he shouts. He is up and across the room in the space of a breath, catching me in an embrace so tight I almost lose my balance and fall on top of him. 'By the Stars, it really is you! And early! I wasn't expecting you until after midsummer!'
'I found space on a good merchant ship leaving Mithlond for Rómenna. They had a very small but private cabin for hire, and the opportunity was too good. Other ships offered nothing more than berth space. And that tiny cabin was bad enough; I can't imagine shared bunks. My cabin had no windows.'
He stares at me a moment, and then laughs so hard I think he might cry. 'No windows!' he gasps. 'Oh Elrond, you really are so very Elvish...'
His humour irks me. 'I like being able to see outside,' I begin to explain, but he interrupts.
'Do you like this?' he asks, still laughing, as he gestures to the open wall.
'It's wonderful.'
'Elves always like it. They are fanatic about always being able to see outside.'
I refrain from reminding Elf Expert Elros of the cave-palaces of Thingol and Finrod, who lived quite happily underground. I have not come all this way to have an argument over whether or not Elves are more obsessive about window placement than Men.
'But then,' he continues, 'they always build their homes completely at odds with their own preferences: high walls, small rooms, and few windows.'
This, I cannot argue, because it is sadly true. Despite an inherent Elvish preference for open air, we inexplicably tend toward building towers and fortresses rather than sprawling, airy palaces as one would expect. We are too wrapped up in secrecy and safety. Those towers and fortresses always have small rooms with small windows, wherein an Elf can snugly sit and peer out at the world, happy to be part of it in a separate and noncommittal way, safe from outside change. The mental picture this conjures makes me laugh along with Elros. My mind sticks on an image of a jealously secretive, bug-eyed Elf, spying out a tower window just big enough to see through, pleased to be watching the world without participating in it.
'Now you see what I mean,' he says. 'And you know why it is, is because they never think of anything new. Gil-galad is building his city in the same style as Turgon built Gondolin and Fingolfin built Eithel Sirion, which is the same style as Tirion. Not identical, but close: heavy stone buildings, big walls, high defences. Even Menegroth was an underground version of the same. Why? Because that is how the Ainur taught the Elves to build. And they are too tied to the past to think of changing. Now my people copy the look because they think it is the height of architectural perfection.'
'I noticed,' I say. 'Rómenna has a rather... ah... Noldorin look.'
'Armenelos and Andúnië are even worse. Everything is copied from a drawing of some Elvish building somewhere else. Did you notice the tower?'
'In the bay near Rómenna?'
He shakes his head. 'No. Well, yes. That one, too. But I meant the tower outside at the gates. The beginnings of it. It's not built yet.'
'No. Sorry. I was asleep when we drove up.'
'Every great Elven city has a tower. Therefore, Armenelos needs a tower. So the people say. I have been pressured into building one. The Tower of Elros. Have you ever heard of anything more ridiculous?'
'I don't know,' I laugh. 'The Large Gaping Sewage Pit of Elros might be worse.'
'Then you'll have to thank the Elves, on my behalf, for not commonly having those. Otherwise the people would demand one. But now you see my mission.'
'Mission?'
'I want to start something new, Elrond,' he tells me. 'Not that there is anything wrong with Elvish architecture, but why slavishly copy it when we can make our own rules? So I thought to myself, "I will build a house unlike anything that has ever existed." I thought of what the Elves do, what Gil-galad is doing right now, and did the opposite. There are no towers or turrets here. I thought of fantastic things, things everyone said were impractical and outrageous, and built them. And now everyone comes from everywhere just to see what I have made. The Vanyar have even started a preposterous rumour that my home was a gift to me from the Maiar. That is how impressed they are. Now the Elves will copy me!' He says this last part very smugly.
I have the strangest feeling that he is trying too hard to prove his worth. He is going out of his way to show how unelvish he is: how proud he is of his decision to be counted among Men. I cannot help but worry that my presence here brings with it much more than merely a chance for two brothers to meet again.
'I am sure they will,' I say, eager to change the subject. 'Do you have many Elven visitors?'
'More than I can count,' he says with a nod. 'There is a constant flow of ships from both directions into the ports, and most of the merchants eventually end up here in Armenelos. They all want to see my famous house.'
He will not let it drop. I will have to try something else entirely. 'I am sure they want to see you, Tar-Minyatur. At least that's why I am here. Where is your family?'
'At the summer house in the country,' he answers, and I can sense an immediate shift in his mood. He no longer has to strive to seem better than the Elves. His family is his family, and his pride in them is genuine. 'We have a place we usually go for the summer, along the river west of here. In fact, we can leave tomorrow. I'm eager for you to meet them. I've only been waiting around here for you to arrive, and now that you are-'
'Elros,' I interrupt him. He looks back at me with raised eyebrows.
'Elros, I have just crossed the ocean in a cabin large enough to fit myself, my chest of clothes, and absolutely nothing else. Thereafter followed two days on a hard seat in a carriage overland from Rómenna, interrupted only by a night in the worst boarding house I have ever seen. All I want right now is to stay here.'
He sighs. 'Of course. That was thoughtless of me. You should rest here a while. We'll leave the day after tomorrow.'
I would have laughed if I hadn't known he was serious.
oOoOo
All through supper (which is excellent: soup, bread, and large platters of meat), I am secretly staring at Elros whenever he is not looking back at me, trying to get a sense of how he has changed. It is a small comfort that he looks less different now than he did on the beach. His hair is longer, cut off bluntly but elegantly some inches below his shoulders. It is still faded brown, but not as light as it once was, and his skin is still freckled and tanned, but not as dark as it had been. I can see the beginnings of grey at his temples and creases around his eyes and mouth. It frightens me to watch him ageing.
He must have been secretly staring at me as well, because when we are walking to his bedroom later he says, 'You still look exactly the same.'
To which I reply, 'Elf, remember?'
'I know,' he laughs. 'But still... Exactly the same. Nothing in your face has changed. It's unnerving. I keep expecting you to look like I do.'
An uncomfortable silence follows, in which neither of us knows what to say. No matter where our conversations start, they always lapse back to the same thing: our separate fates. The topic is a magnet.
We come to his bedroom and he shows me inside, insisting that I share his bed. He will not show me such poor hospitality as to relegate me to some second-rate guest room, and I admit I like the idea. I've not had the honour of listening to him snore in far too long. His room is in a private building up the hill and to the right, and it has the same open windows and high, arched ceilings as the rest of his home. The air inside smells of dogs. It is not an unpleasant smell: just warm and sour with a tang of sweetness, like milk and wool.
'Puppies,' Elros explains. 'Born eleven days ago.' He points to the corner of the room, where a shaggy grey and black dog rests in a box with five nursing puppies.
'You keep them in your bedroom?' I ask.
'Why not?'
It is not my place to question the King of Númenor for breeding dogs in his personal quarters. Elros has always been overly fond of dogs, so really, this should be expected. Now that I consider it and remember his eccentricities from our youth, I am more surprised that he only has one litter in here.
When we climb into bed, it is as if we are children once again. He is lying in the same old position he used to take when he had it in mind to stay up talking until Maglor repeatedly shushed us and eventually threatened to put us in separate rooms: on his side, facing toward me, with his arm folded under his pillow. I am on the right, and he is on the left. I am always on the right.
'Tell me about Lindon,' he says. 'I have only ever seen maps and drawings.'
I dare not. I know talk of Lindon will only lead us back to the same magnet of a topic. Instead I turn us back to the past, recalling old adventures and laughing over the trouble we caused. We filled in each other's memories with tales of the Terrible Twins. I had forgotten what a bad child he was: how many things he stole and lies he told, and how often he was punished.
'I swear,' he says, 'I was strapped so often my arse has been permanently altered.'
I am laughing too hard to voice either agreement or scepticism toward this claim. All I can manage is a cheeky comment about what his wife thinks.
He assures me she has naught to complain about, and then asks the question I always dread: 'So when will you be married?'
As hard as I try, I cannot laugh it off. The hilarity dies in my throat. 'Oh...' I say. 'I haven't really thought...'
'How many pretty Elvish maidens lined up?'
'None,' I say quickly. 'I am far too busy-'
He snorts in mockery of my poor lie, but before he can say anything, I change the subject again.
'You know, I had a dream about you. The first I've had in... I don't know how many years it's been.'
'Really? What?'
'Do you recall that day we found the Vanya in the forest? With the Sindarin girl in the yellow dress. He gave you a bag of coins. When we were fifteen.'
'No,' says Elros. And then, 'Wait, yes. Now I remember. We were looking for treasure.'
'That's right. I had a dream of that day. I don't know why. I hadn't thought about it in so long. But the end of the dream, it turned strange. Bears and Maedhros and Fëanor inviting us for dinner...'
I can tell that Elros is trying not to laugh. 'Bears?'
'It makes no more sense to me. But pale bears were chasing us.'
He smiles, sighs, and shakes his head. 'You've always had more interesting dreams than I. I miss you telling me about them in the morning.'
oOoOo
I sleep far later than I intend. Comfortable beds have a way of ensnaring me like that. By the time I wake, Elros is nowhere to be seen, but he is not difficult to find. His private house is small and all corridors lead to the same place: a large room that is halfway between a salon and a garden pavilion. It is centrally located, as a salon should be, and has the same peaked roof as the rest of the house, but there is only one wall. On the three other sides, the roof is held up by pillars only. Some pillars have filmy curtains between them to keep out the sun and wind, but most of these are tied back to take full advantage of the beautiful morning. The tiled floor is scattered here and there with fallen leaves, and a fat lizard has chosen a sunny basking spot between two chairs. The divide between inside and out has been erased.
Elros sits at a small table cornered by curtains, picking at an assorted breakfast plate and reading what looks like his morning letters. Another lizard sits near his tea cup, though it scurries away when I take a seat.
'I want to build one,' I say.
Through a mouthful of bread, Elros makes a muffled sound that I know is meant to be, 'What?'
'A house like this. Inside and outside flowing together, open walls... I want to build one.' I have not even been here a day and already I am convinced this is how I want to live. Remaining in Gil-galad's pristine stone towers until the end of days is not an option.
'In Lindon?'
'Why not?' I ask, though common sense immediately answers my question. The climate of Lindon, while moderated by the sea, is still cold and wet enough for a good half of the year to make a house without solid walls utterly pointless. 'Right. Not Lindon. But Belfalas, perhaps... Do you suppose I could convince the High King of the Noldor to move his entire court to a more temperate, southerly location?'
Elros needs not even say anything to explain his snort of laughter. We both know Gil-galad is as interested in change as Fëanor was in abandoning his Silmarilli to Morgoth.
'One day,' I sigh. 'One day...'
'Perhaps I shouldn't give you the tour,' says Elros. 'If ignorance is bliss, you'll be happier not knowing what you have to leave.'
'No. I want to see it all. I want to be able to look back on these days and torture myself with memories and longing for what I can't have.'
'You and I are more alike than we admit,' he tells me with a smirk. 'Always wanting to fully understand and experience that which is denied us.'
I cannot bring myself to dwell on what he means by that. 'Very true,' I say, though I know I sound dismissive.
oOoOo
There is no road leading from Armenelos to Elros' country home. There is only a grassy trail for riding, which means all of our belongings must be packed up on the backs of horses. This is no hardship for me, having only one chest worth of clothing, but Elros has been living as a king too long. He has completely lost his wartime ability to travel lightly. It is with much amusement that I watch the man who used to chide me for carrying two cloaks consult with his attendants, trying to find a way to fit three bulging packs onto one horse. In the end he admits defeat. And orders two more horses added to the caravan.
We depart in late morning, and it will be nightfall before we arrive. Sometimes we walk our horses, sometimes trot, and sometimes Elros and I race ahead to break up the monotony and then dismount to lounge in the trailside grass and wait for the others. In mid-afternoon we make an unannounced stop at a quaint little farm, which is enough to throw the poor farmer into fits of panic as he and his family fall over themselves trying to throw together a dinner suitable for the King. He leaves them a handsome payment of gold and two young dogs for their trouble.
It makes me wince to get back in the saddle after that; I am dismally out of practice on horseback, and my legs, ankles, knees, rear end, midsection, back, shoulders, neck, arms, elbows, wrists, hands, and most other body parts ache. Even my eyes sting from squinting in the bright sun, and I know my exposed skin is beginning to burn.
My horse, a sturdy red mare with a low tolerance for nonsense, does not take kindly to my awkward squirming. I have long since abandoned hope of finding a comfortable position, but I am sure that a marginally less painful position can be achieved. I have switched from one buttock to the other, leaned forward, and leaned back. All parts able to be sat upon are exhausted and equally sore. The horse is fed up with my movements, and keeps abruptly stopping and then leaping ahead in what I take to be an attempt to make me tumble off backwards. The more she fights against my horrid technique, the more desperately I cling to the reins and tense my cramping knees. I turn into a worse rider, which agitates her further.
'For mercy's sake, Elrond!'
Elros has ridden up close beside me, just in time to see me hunched over and holding on to the front of my saddle.
'Are you about to be sick?'
'No,' I say. 'But I think I am about to either fall off or be thrown off. I need a rest.'
'Would you like to walk a while? I can give your horse to one of the grooms to lead.'
I rein the mare to a stop, which takes a while, as she is in a mood for trotting and not about to take orders from someone as inept as I. Naturally, she becomes docile and agreeable the moment I turn her over to an experienced groom. Thereafter I walk, and Elros walks with me. My knees and thighs hurt like a horror, making each step a wretched experience. And I should have had the sense to wear better shoes. I chose fashion over practicality this morning, and the minimal support of formal shoes becomes more apparent moment by moment. But nothing will make me get back on that horse.
We end up walking the rest of the way to the country house, which takes over five hours. It is midnight when we arrive. Elros does his best to be quiet and not make a disturbance, but he either has no concept of silence or else wildly misjudges the amount of noise made by an arriving entourage of thirteen horses, two grooms, two footmen, five porters, two personal attendants, one dog trainer, one apprentice dog trainer, nine dogs, one errand boy, one minstrel, one king, and one visiting Elf. I would like to report that the visiting Elf did not contribute to the noise, but thanks to a run-in with a low and unexpected boxwood hedge, this is not the case. We all together raise such a din that the entire household gets out of bed to investigate the commotion at the stable door.
'Elrond!' Elros calls across the chaos of packs, porters, and barking dogs. 'Elrond, come over here! Let me introduce you!'
I try my best to avoid treading on feet and tails as I make my way to the door, where Elros stands with two women and two men. The two men look very much alike, and also very much like Elros, with long, dark hair. They can only be his sons: Vardamir, his eldest, and Atanalcar, his youngest, he informs me. The lady standing between Vardamir and Atanalcar radiates a queenly bearing along with her elegant beauty, which makes me certain she must be Elros' wife, while the shorter, rounder woman at Atanalcar's side might be a nursemaid. But Elros introduces the taller as Seralassë, Vardamir's wife, before wrapping his arm around the shoulders of the shorter and bidding me bow to his beloved Queen, Isillindë.
Isillindë is the sort of person I like immediately. She is not classically beautiful like Seralassë, but has a friendly, pretty look, and an excellent blend of fun and sensuality gleams in her dark eyes. I should have known Elros would pick the bawdy wench over the proper princess. I dip my head to bow to her, but she laughs loudly and links her arm through mine. 'Oh, none of that. He's just having a joke on you. Ignore the old fool.'
Elros smirks and looks away, and I smile at her.
'Thank you, my Lady,' I say.
'No "lady" nonsense. Call me Isillë. Now come inside-' she tugs on my arm as she says this- 'and I'll have the cook bring up some refreshments.'
She is not the kind of woman to stand for false and demure protests of no-thank-you-I-am-fine or oh-no-I-could-not-possibly, though I put on my best manners and make a try for it. I am brought inside, shown to the sitting room, and served wine and spice cake whether I want it or not. I do want it. Isillë sits at my side on the divan, leaning on my shoulder as if we have known each other forever. Or else she is trying to flirt with me. I politely refrain from asking.
'I know you must be tired,' she says, 'but I can't let you go to bed until you tell me about Lindon. I was only a baby when the ships brought my family here, but since I was born in Mithlond I would like to hear about it.'
What can I tell her about Mithlond? 'The city looks much like Rómenna and Armenelos,' I say. 'Your builders here have used the same style: lots of stone, tall structures, towers, roads all paved in brick. But the climate is very different. It's a rare day when the heat comes anywhere close to that of Númenor. We are quite far north, and the sea keeps the air cool in the summer but warmer in the winter. We don't experience the same extreme temperatures found further inland. Most days have at least some cloud, and it rains frequently. Between late autumn and spring, you can almost be guaranteed that it will rain every day. Or snow. We can get snow in winter, though it rarely stays long before being washed away by more rain.'
'I have never seen snow,' Isillë sighs. 'Not up close, I mean. The peak of Meneltarma has a snowy cap in winter, but I've only seen it from down here, looking up. Once, I'd like to see snow. Step in it and pick it up and roll around in it. Just once, before I die.'
Those words, before I die, send a jolt through me. I have already opened my mouth to utter the standard assurances of indefinite life before I remember where I am and who she is. When Elves speak of death and say such things as before I die, it is always in a black situation. I used to hear it during the war. Gil-galad would get into one of his moods, moaning over the fates of his forefathers, and say to me, 'Elrond, if I die tomorrow, I don't want you to be king. It is too much of a burden. Pass the crown to someone you hate, and go live your life in peace.' And then Erestor and I would make a commotion, rushing to be the first to assure him he would never be killed and everything would be fine and we would all live happily to the end of days. That is what Elves do. We counteract the negativity of morbid thoughts with flattery and unreasonably optimistic promises. Even in the worst of predicaments.
Isillë's casual view of death throws me off balance. I have no idea what to say to her: no frame of reference. Is it rude to agree that she will one day die? Would it be stupid and Elvish to pretend this will never happen?
'Why don't you go this winter?' I finally ask, hoping she does not think I am suggesting she will die very soon.
To my relief, she grins brightly, as if the subject of her own unavoidable mortality is nothing unusual. Which I suppose, for her, it is not. 'I think I will,' she says. 'I always want to, but then I never do... Yes, I think I will.'
She dominates the conversation as we sip our wine. I get the distinct impression she adores being the centre of attention. From snow she slides right into telling me how she and Elros met, some hundred and thirty years ago. Her father had presented her much-better-behaved older sister as a potential bride for the King, but Elros had been immediately taken with the vivacious, if less refined, Isillindë. They were married within the year, and little Vardamir came so quickly thereafter that everyone said he must have been a wedding night baby. Though suspiciously premature. A slight blush creeps into Vardamir's cheeks as Isillë tells the story.
'But my sister would have made a terrible queen' she finishes. 'So very shy, and shook with nerves when she had to meet anyone new. She was far happier to marry a scholar and live quietly. Ah, I miss my family...'
'Do they not live in Armenelos?' I ask.
Isillë goes quiet, in that awkward way that tells me I have just misspoken. I try not to cringe while inwardly slapping myself.
'They are dead,' she says after a moment.
'I am sorry,' is all I can say in reply.
'No, don't be; you had no way of knowing.' She places her hand on mine, as if to say she understands my Elvish ignorance of mortal lives. 'I am one hundred and sixty three years old,' she tells me. 'I never thought I would live this long. Seventy, eighty... my mother died at seventy-seven, my father at seventy-nine. I thought I would be the same. But when I married Elerossë, I think the Valar gave us some small gift. A hundred and sixty three and I am not yet an old crone. We were given more than my short lifespan to spend together.'
As I look from up close, I can see her age in her eyes. And she looks older than Elros. There are more faint lines on her face, and there is more grey in her hair. The Valar may have given them a small gift, but it is indeed small. I already know that Elros will long outlive her.
She rescues me from having to say anything by leaping into another round of family history. Their daughter, Tindómiel, was born a year and a half after Vardamir. She now lives in Andúnië with her second husband; the first died some time ago. After Tindómiel came their son Manwendil, a little over two years later. He recently married an unsuitable woman, a widowed commoner with two ill-bred sons, and is on shaky terms with the family. Finally, Atanalcar was born thirty-three years after Manwendil, long after all hope of a fourth child had been abandoned. He is and always will be the beloved baby, despite now being nearly one hundred years old.
Across the room, Elros yawns. 'I was only tired before,' he says, 'but the wine has made me sleepy. Will you show me to bed, wife?'
Isillë gives a cheeky smile and drapes her arm over her shoulder. 'You?' she asks. 'Why should I settle for you when I have your handsome younger brother?'
'He's not younger,' snorts Elros. 'We're twins!'
'I am younger,' I tell her. 'By twenty minutes at least. Don't listen to him; he's envious of my youth.'
'Then we are destined for each other, Elerondo,' she says. 'You are the younger brother, I am the younger sister... I must have married the wrong one.'
Elros feigns a hurt look. 'Oh, so what if he is younger? You don't want that whelp, Isillë. He flails all night and hoards the pillows.'
Shocked, she pulls back from me. 'Is this true?'
'Alas it is,' I am forced to admit. 'I am a terrible sleeper. I usually wake up sideways with half the blankets on the floor, and I've even fallen out of bed on a few occasions. Once I almost broke my arm.'
Isillë throws her arms up in disgust on her way to join Elros. 'Well!' she huffs. 'If that be the case, I'd rather stay with my boring old ass of a husband! At least he sleeps like a stone!'
Elros laughs as he pulls her into a smothering embrace.
oOoOo
Those days at the summer house pass far too quickly. We sleep late in the morning, linger over our meals, and sit up talking well into the night. Most of my time is spent with Elros and Isillë, telling stories and making each other laugh. Isillë is viciously fond of tales about Elves making fools of themselves. She laughs until she cries when I tell her how Gil-galad and Erestor are forever trying to outdo the other with pranks. Such as the time Erestor had all of Gil-galad's clothing altered and made too small. To retaliate, Gil-galad dropped a crude, graphic and indecent drawing on the floor next to Erestor at the breakfast table. It was found by one of Lindon's stuffy loremasters, who got the wrong impression regarding Erestor's intimate tastes, resulting in some awkward moments. I do not tell her what the two of them planned together and did to me.
Vardamir, unlike his mother, does not appreciate my stupid anecdotes. He does not openly dislike them, but he seems to find nothing amusing about the childish antics of otherwise quite respectable Elves. I would not be surprised if he found nothing in the world amusing. He is a very honest, very serious man. He is friendly and pleasant, but deeply boring. If I engage him in a chat about the weather, he will respond with a discourse on the opposing nature of life philosophies among Men and Elves, using many large words and pristine grammar. He is writing a book on the subject, he tells me, and promises to send a copy to Lindon when it is complete.
If I spend little time with Vardamir, I spend even less with Seralassë, whom I never see except for occasionally in Vardamir's presence. She is, unfortunately, a perfect wife for him: refined, gentle, ladylike, and utterly without personality. I do not try any humorous stories on her. I receive blank enough looks when I ask her what her dreams are for the future. But Vardamir and Seralassë have fortunately been blessed with a son who is as three-ish as a three-year-old can be, meaning his favourite activities include running, screaming, jumping, shrieking, falling, crashing, yelling, running, and screaming. Any given day will see little Amandil escaping from his mother's dull clutches to sprint across the field at full speed toward a chasm full of brambles or a muddy bog. Seralassë can think to do nothing more than watch in horror with her hands over her mouth as Amandil repeatedly does his best to kill himself, leaving Isillë to take up the chase while hollering at the top of her voice for him to stop running before he breaks his neck. If the boy lives to see twelve, it will be through no skill of his parents'.
Finally, there is Atanalcar. His shyness first leads me to believe he is about as exciting as Vardamir. Every time I greet him, he ducks his head and mumbles like a bashful youth. But our conversations improve as we are better acquainted. His hobby is making saddles, he frequently travels to Andúnië, Rómenna, and Eldalondë to buy exotic materials from the Elves, and he is not yet married. I know he is in trouble in this regard when he asks me for advice on how to attract women.
'Atanalcar,' I say, 'asking me for marriage advice makes as much sense as asking a rock how to fly.'
'You've never considered marrying?' he asks.
'I've considered it many times. And the prospect of having to find a bride desperate enough to agree to marry me was so terrifying it gave me nightmares for a year.'
'I don't see why not, uncle. You're an intelligent, handsome man.'
I sigh. 'Here, perhaps. It's a little different back in Lindon among the Elves. I'm sure you've seen enough of them to know that I'm no great prize by their standards.'
From the look in his eyes, I know he understands what I mean.
'In some ways, I'd be better off staying here,' I continue. 'The climate is more agreeable than the rainy cold of the north, I can leech off your father and live for free, my wenching prospects are vastly improved as my relative level of attractiveness increases...'
'You should stay,' says Atanalcar. 'I'm serious. Consider it. Atto and Ammë would love you to stay.'
Looking away, I shake my head. 'It's not so simple. I have duties back in Lindon. But also... It's difficult to describe, but I feel I don't truly belong here. Somehow, this island feels wrong for me. It's a place for me to visit. But I can't live here. And not only because of my Elvish ignorance toward your way of life.'
Atanalcar makes a confused face. 'Ignorance?' he says. 'What's ignorance?'
His expression is so earnest that for a moment my mind spins as I try to think of a way to explain the word without embarrassing him. But then the mask cracks, I see the spark of mischief in his eye, and we both collapse back in our chairs laughing. Once past his shyness, Atanalcar has a sharp wit about him.
oOoOo
I do not belong in Númenor. The fact becomes more painfully obvious every day, despite the joy I find in my brother and his family: every time I say something to make Isillë bite her lip, every time Atanalcar does not understand my joke, every time Amandil grows restless and cannot sit through a nursery tale for Elf-children. They are my family, too, but they are separate, kept apart from me by some invisible curtain. Every time I step close to them, some strange force pulls me away and makes me even more aware of how different I am. Or how different I have become. I am not Elros' brother who happens to be an Elf. I am an Elf who happens to be Elros' brother. The small differences separate us the most. I love him, and yet somehow inside I know it is impossible for us to be true family. We live in different spheres. The two can intersect, but never harmonise.
Somehow, since that day at the end of the war, I have always known that Elros and I will be parted forever. On that day, I was called before Eönwë and asked to make my choice. Elf or Man. Which was I? A choice had to be made. I could be one or the other. Never both.
Elros, Eönwë told me, had already chosen. I had not seen him in years. He had gone long ago to fight with the great warriors of Men, and I was left at Gil-galad's side.
'Do you wish to know which path your brother chose?' Eönwë asked me, and I shook my head. I felt sick inside. Of course I knew what he chose; that answer was obvious. But still, if Eönwë did not say it aloud, there was that one slight sliver of hope that Elros had changed his mind and had not abandoned me.
Eönwë asked for my choice as I stood before him, shaking and numb, fighting with myself not to weep.
'Elves,' I managed to whisper through clenched teeth. 'I wish to be counted among... counted among... I wish... to be counted... among...' I choked on a sob. The word would not come out a second time.
He looked at me with such pity. 'And that is truly what you wish?'
'Yes.' I spit it out before I could change my mind.
A long and horrible moment of silence passed, and for an instant I was certain Eönwë would forbid my choice. He would force me to follow my brother. But when he finally spoke, his words were, 'So your decision is made. Elrond son of Eärendil, henceforth will you be counted among the kindred of the Elves.'
I tried to whisper thank-you, but found I could not.
'Do you wish now to know the choice of your brother?'
'No,' I said. 'I don't want to know. I never want to know.'
If no-one told me, I could lie to myself that he would never die.
oOoOo
Elros, Isillindë, and Atanalcar come to Rómenna to see me off at the docks. It is a difficult trip, full of silences and uncertainties. The carefree mood of the country house is gone. What does one say in a situation such as this? I am returning to Lindon, they to Armenelos. They will live out their short, mortal lives and die. I will continue on as long as my destiny sees fit. Long after they have gone and forgotten me, I will still be here, cursed with the memory and eternal regret of the Elves. From now until the end of time, I will remember the family I can never see again.
'But you will return,' Elros says as we stand on the dock where my ship waits. 'Sometime, you must return. I want to see you again before I-'
'Don't,' I say.
He says it anyway. 'Before I die.'
We hold our gazes together for a moment while I try to think of how to say what I need to tell him.
'I can't come back.'
'Why not?' he asks. 'You are welcome any time.'
'Elros...'
I wonder if it is hard for him as it is for me: if he is covering his pain with airy optimism that I can simply board a ship again and everything will be fine.
He leans in close to put both hands on my shoulders, whispering to me, 'I want you to be here. When I know I am... when it is my time, I will write you. I want you to be here.'
I shake my head. The lump in my throat makes it hard to breath. 'I can't. I can't come here and watch you...' The last word is too terrible to say.
'I will write you.'
'No. I don't want to know. I can't know. Elros, please, you won't tell me. You will write no letter. You will not send for me. I cannot be here. If you love me as your brother, you will tell me nothing, and let me live without that knowledge. Please.'
I know I hurt him. But at the same time, I believe he understands. He embraces me, and I hold onto him with all my strength.
'Alright,' he says. 'Have a safe voyage.'
These, the last words he ever says to me, I will remember forever.
oOoOo
In the year four hundred forty-two of the Second Age, I receive a message that has been borne to Mithlond on a ship returning from Rómenna. The message is short, containing only the following words:
Vardamir Nólimon is now King of Númenor.
It is written in the hand of Elros, spidery with age, and dated twenty-one days earlier. I read it only once. That is all I need to know.