Stones of Seeing
3. Elrond Peredhel
The
only stone left in the North was the one on the Tower on Emyn Beriad that looks
towards the Gulf of Lune. That was
guarded by the Elves, and… remained there, until Círdan put it aboard Elrond’s
Ship when he left. But we are tod it was
unlike the others and not in accord with them, it looked only to the Sea.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Elrond
breasted the last rise, and saw what must be the house ahead of him. It was small and pleasant looking, the
half-timbered walls painted a pale shade of yellow. He dismounted without haste, and only when he
laid a hand on it did he realise that one of the trees by the trackside was not
a tree, but a most lifelike representation of one. He stood for several minutes marvelling at the
minute craftsmanship that had gone into the bark and leaves, and wondering of
what material the latter were made. The
trunk seemed to be of a kind of marble; but he had never seen anything like the
leaves, which were not fabric, and yet no metal he had ever encountered, and
had veins so lifelike that the eye could not tell them from the real
thing. Most remarkable of all it did not
seem a dead thing, but one as imbued in its own way with life as its brethren
which stood around.
At last
Elrond turned, unstrapped the wooden box his horse had been carrying, and with
a few words to the animal left it free to graze as he started towards the
house. He had not gone more than half
the distance when he was brought up by another sculpture. This one was a soaring thing of crystal and mithril,
standing a little taller than the trees around, it represented nothing clearly,
yet the whole thing seemed to speak to him of flight, and he halted again, lost
in wonder. It was only when he went to
move on that he even became aware that another person had come up beside him.
She was
tall, wearing a leather apron to cover her clothes, and quite unselfconscious
of it. The eyes that met his were a
dark-brown, very rare in Elves, and her cheeks were darker than was usual also,
with a ruddy, almost weather-beaten look.
“Master
Elrond.”
He did
not ask how she knew him. Elros and he
had been very much alike. Perhaps she
had been expecting the visit.
“Lady
Nerdanel.”
“It is a
long road, if you have come from Tol Eressëa.
Would you like refreshment?”
“A kind
offer, and indeed I would.”
They sat
on a bench out of doors, overlooking a garden which held one of Nerdanel’s
lighter conceits, a range of miniature, but amazingly convincing,
mountains. There was snow, to all appearance,
on the higher peaks, and woods grew about the foothills. He could even see streams cascading down the
slopes. Nerdanel brought cordial in
green glasses and told him, “I regret there is no light food.”
“Perhaps
you do not get visitors often?” Elrond
said, and then wondered if that seemed too probing, but Nerdanel did not take
offence.
“Not
often, certainly. My parents and brother
come at times. And Celebrimbor.”
Elrond
had already seen Celebrimbor briefly. Elven though he was, the sight of the
dead alive was still a little disconcerting.
He drank thoughtfully from the cordial, wondering how far Nerdanel’s
solitary life was by her choice. How
deep did old griefs still run in a land where so much was changeless?
“Have you
been to the White Tower yet?” Nerdanel
asked
“Not
yet.” The White Tower in the North was
the home of his parents, of Elwing and of Eärendil when he was not voyaging the
skies. Celebrían and Gil-galad had both
told him he should go, and soon. Still
he held back. They would expect a loving
son, and he could not act that part. The
bond that should have been had been lost on the day that Sirion fell.
Long ago,
in the wild lands around Amon Ereb, he and his brother had learned from wagging
tongues how their mother had run to the sea, with the gem round her neck.
Elwing the White had run from her sons, caring more to deprive the assailants
of the jewel they sought than to protect her children’s lives. That was how the
twins had worked it out, and although Maglor had told them it was not that
simple, yet their young minds had wanted simplicity, and it was easier by then
to feel blame for Elwing than for Maglor.
By the time Elrond and Elros were old enough to understand the tale was
indeed not so simple, the damage had been done.
Their love for their mother had died.
Understanding might come with maturing, but love does not come for the
asking. He wished that it could.
Eärendil
was not even a memory. The star that
bore his name was beautiful, but made it all the harder to think of him as
kindred. It was too high and remote, who
could think of a star and a father together?
He had no wish to hurt his parents, but he knew he could not be what
they would want. So he delayed.
Nerdanel
said no more on the subject. They sat for
a while in quiet, before Elrond said at last, “Lady Nerdanel, long ago you gave
to my brother a gift. I have come to
return a part of that gift, believing it is for you to decide what should be
done with it now.”
He opened
the lid of the box he had brought, and within it the palantír of Emyn
Beriad rested, peacefully enough, although as with others of its kind the
surface was never wholly still. He had
never used them, never sought to gaze west to Valinor, although the presence of
the stone in its tower had been well known in Rivendell.
“Is this
the last?” said Nerdanel.
“No, not
the last. All reached Middle-earth, but
two were lost in a ship-wreck and, a third fell into the Great River Anduin,
long ago, when the tower in which it stood was destroyed. One was taken by the enemy, and most likely
perished when his Dark Tower fell. Two
more remain, in the keeping of the Heir of Elros, my daughter’s husband,
although one of these I understand to have become somewhat intractable.
“This
Stone was, for a reason I do not know, not in accord with the others. It would look only West, and stood long in a
tower near the Havens, from which it was possible to see at times the Great
Tower on Tol Eressëa. But the time for
the final severing of the kindreds draws near, and I deemed it right for the
Stone that had gazed so long West to be returned to its true home.”
Nerdanel
lifted the Stone, and held it thoughtfully for a few moments, then returned it
to its place. Perhaps the return was
unwelcome to her, or seemed simply purposeless, there could be no need for such
a thing here. Yet he still believed he
had been right to come.
“I must
think on it,” she said. “Decide where it
would be best bestowed.”
Elrond
inclined his head, feeling no need for further answer, and they sat silent
again until Nerdanel said, “I had heard of your daughter’s marriage. It must have been hard, to sail alone.”
“It was
hard.” Plainly Nerdanel had heard of his
sons’ choice also. “I had long known I
would lose Elrohir and Elladan. They
were mortal at heart, like my brother Elros.
They fretted at the passing of the centuries. I would have left and freed them before, but
there was the Shadow, and my heart told me I had a part to play against
it.” So hard it had been, watching his
sons’ unhappiness, their dislike of their unchanging lives. Caught between mortal and elven kindred,
neither could bear to wed. Perhaps it
was not too late for that, but he doubted.
“But Arwen… my daughter’s soul was elven. I know it.”
He had
never thought of himself as having decided to be elven. He was elven, always had been, heart,
mind and spirit. And Elros had been of
mortal kind, to the core of his being.
However great the pain of separation there had never been any question
of either choosing differently. But
Arwen had chosen against her nature. For
love.
“Hard to
lose children beyond the circles of the world,” said Nerdanel. “And few here, I think, would understand.”
Yes, few
of the Elves would understand such loss: without end, without hope of reunion,
for all they could hold their anger through long Ages, as he himself had good
reason to know. Perhaps he did less than
justice to the people of Aman, yet he still did not feel at ease here, for all
the joy that had leapt in him when he saw Celebrían again.
He had
never longed for Valinor, and that was strange.
Unlike some of his kin he had not wished to govern realms, he had had no
liking for adventure, and like so many Elves he did not care for change. Unchanging Aman, with endless time for the
scholarship he loved, that realm should have drawn him, and yet it never
had. Perhaps he was too mortal after
all, or too much the heir of Fëanor’s sons.
He looked
at Nerdanel beside him, the sun striking copper lights from her hair, and he
sighed, thinking of his foster father and his first liege lord, both loved in
different ways, whom he did not look to see again and could not even grieve for
cleanly.
That too
had not been a choice, no-one save Elros had ever understood that. He had not chosen to give his loyalties to
the slayers of his kin. It had happened
before he was old enough to understand, and could not be undone, only
betrayed. Yet his grief must be a slight
thing beside that of Nerdanel. Seven
sons lost to their own crimes, grown from their father’s madness. Worse than
his own loss, and he and Celebrían could share their pain. Nerdanel endured alone, but endure she
did. He thought of the joyful sculptures
he had seen, and marvelled.
“Few
would understand,” he said, “but some.”
“The
choice runs in your line,” said Nerdanel quietly.
The
choice of mortality; or did she mean the need to choose? Both ran in his line indeed and he was not,
after all, the first to endure such a loss. He wondered, not for the first time
but with a new sharpness, if Eärendil and Elwing had wept when the choice of
Elros was made known to them. One child
they might hope to see again, but not the other. And if the tales of Eärendil were true then
Arwen was not the first to have chosen against her own nature. For love.
Did his
father fret as his sons had done, against the passing of the centuries? Was it harder or easier to lose forever a
child lost already in childhood than to lose one who had been comfort and
companion the space of almost an age?
Even in
Aman not all griefs had healing. Yet
perhaps grief could be shared. Was that
not what had brought him here? There
were others who might mourn his brother, if differently, others who might
understand the loss of his children, might grieve too, in their way. If he could not be a true child to his
parents he could, perhaps, share some understanding with them. It might be something. It might be better than nothing. For their sake he should at least try.
Evening
was coming close when Elrond rose at last.
Around him the air held the heaviness of grief, but there was a peace in
it also, and an acceptance.
“I will
come again, if I may,” he said.
“I would
like that,” said Nerdanel.
He would
go to the White Tower soon, Elrond resolved, but first he would return again to
Tol Eressëa. To Celebrían.