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Proverbs 20:2 — “A king's wrath is like the roar of a lion; he who angers him forfeits his life.”
The irony of the room was not lost to Elrond, nor was its choosing a mere whim. The window which was subtly barred by winding white branches had a scenic view of the waterfall and it was high enough that one could not hear the voices from adjoining halls or woodsy paths below. There was a cot and a hearth, a waterpump and basin, a nook by the window and a trunk full of blankets and cloaks after the first winter mishap, but no other furnishing. The scrolls in the trunk were also for the usual occupant, who had reread them so many times that he thoroughly despised the verses.
Admittedly it had been some time since Elrond had last reviewed them.
Gil-Galad had not used this cell in years. Not since Elros… but that was centuries ago and afterwards Elrond hadn’t given them need for it. He’d had no one else to turn to and no one to drag him into trouble. (Not that he didn’t find it on his own, he was quite capable of subtle rebellion, but independence lost its savor when there was no one to share it with.) The Elves of Lindon were loyal to their king and Elrond in turn, and he had come to feel as one of them.
Tonight reminded him that he would aways be a little different. Not quite Fëanorian or Sindarin or even Elvish enough to defend his cause. Galadriel could lose her company far north and Lorel could put a burr under his comrade’s saddle and they would still be shown favor in the king’s hall. Whereas Elros was incriminated by association — a spawn of Maedhros and Maglor’s upbringing — and Elrond was often guilty by association.
The cell at least was comfortable. He’d spent enough time here in his youth, when he and Elros were separated after an incident and Gil-Galad personally discussed the matter with each of them to ascertain the truth. Often Elrond had found himself sitting at this very window, straining to catch the birdsong from the nearby tree for some semblance of company, and Gil-Galad had nudged him aside and listened to the chirping as well before asking in soft tones what really happened and what must they do to make sure it never happened again.
Elrond’s answer was well-rehearsed. It was my fault, my idea, I did not consider the rules, Elros was following me. And then he would contrive some sort of awful punishment, the likes of which would make the king clack his tongue in dismay and say that mucking the stables for a week would be quite sufficient, and then he and Elros would finally be released and the loneliness would end like the sun breaking through the clouds.
It was the solitude that wore on Elrond more than any fear of punishment. Perhaps his heritage gave him a heightened sense of time compared to the Elves. Minutes were counted, hours to be endured, days agonized over, without a word spoken or a spirit present except to exchange his food and drink. Sometimes he quite forgot himself, leaving an untouched tray by the door, and then the king would remember him and they would try to find new ways to fix what was wrong inside him.
Nothing ever worked until Elros left him behind, and then there was no need for errancy. No need for this room, until Elrond stole the Elves’ hope and somehow was not dashed upon the rocks.
He was surprised to live — relieved, certainly, for though he longed for his brother the trees were still young and he felt that there was a higher purpose for his Choice — but after he dragged himself to shore there was the sinking sense of anarchy such as he had not felt since he and Elros disobeyed orders and detached from the king’s company to search for the scouting party that failed to check in. (He never regretted it, and Camnir became a close friend, but it had been weeks before the king’s anger settled and he never allowed Elrond and Elros to ride in the same company again.)
Looking out the window at the Elves which passed under dying trees, Elrond wondered how long before his punishment was decided. Perhaps his sentence would be to stay here forever, doomed to linger while the Elves sailed to eternal shores. They would have to leave a guard to feed him, however, and that would be an unjust punishment to the ones left behind. Lorel and Núrein would have compassion at least, and they were not above skirting the rules so long as they weren’t accused of overt rebellion. Others would not be so lenient. Vändel was heavy-handed and Lannah often forgot to brush her own horse. To be left to one’s thoughts was miserable enough. To be subject to another’s mercy could make every day feel like an Age.
The king did not seem eager to make his decision, and it had already been days.
Scratching one nail down the living bars to fill the silence, Elrond shivered and hunkered into his cloak. It was not his own, for Elros’s cloak was lost in the river and the trunk was packed with heavy wool after the first winter misunderstanding, but this was his cell in his formative years and the mouse brown hue was at least familiar. Soon autumn would bring frost and the gloves in the trunk would also be required. Dear Eru, he hoped it would not be that long. Already he pined for a word — even in censure — and the sound of his own voice was startling. He never liked to fill the silence, finding himself unnerved with the sense of losing his mind when he sang to himself. Words were meant to be reciprocated and the silence did not answer, so he kept his thoughts to himself.
How loud they felt in this empty room.
The key turning in the door brought hope and Elrond whirled expectantly, shivering as the creaking crack broke the stillness. The guard who entered was not above the rules, however, and Elrond’s untouched tray was removed without acknowledgement. He turned back to the window with burning eyes and a dagger he could not swallow. Nuréin at least would have waved, or Lorel whistled or Méri smiled, but insurgents were not permitted to climb to this floor. Another spurn, another promise of continued ignorance.
Elrond had deliberately tried to forget the passing of days, but as Men were wont to do he could not help the count. It had been sixteen so far. The longest stint before was fourteen, and then it was only broken because Lannah forgot to bring more wood and a healer was fetched after the chill set in.
After so many centuries away from this cell, it was more difficult to endure than ever before.
He couldn’t bear to think of lingering here for an eternity.
Evening fell, so early now as the leaves trembled and frost threatening the clover buds, and another tray was left beside the door. Elrond hadn’t moved. There was no need. He was warm here and the fire did not need to be rebuilt. He rested his cheek against the window and the feeling was bitterly nostalgic. He could almost imagine that Elros had caused the council consternation and soon they would both be released, riding forth once more on the king’s mission.
He could only grasp the illusion for a moment, but the surge of familiarity choked him all the same. Closing his eyes, he tried to lose himself in that dream.
Conflict consumed the mind like fire devoured wood. Galadriel’s thoughts would not rest in the following days after Elrond was retrieved from Mithlond. The council fretted over the lost rings and arrangements had to be made for all of Lindon to leave behind their temporary possessions and depart. Treasures were suddenly meaningless and apprehension gripped both experienced elders and children. Scouting parties had to be be retrieved and outposts recalled, and there was still the matter of border defenses. Orcs would not stop hunting while they saddled horses. As commander of the king’s armies, it was Galadriel’s task to oversee to all of these preparations and more.
And then there was the matter of Elrond.
Elrond, who had secluded himself since he was returned in disgrace, and would not be found in the meal hall or the library or the nearby covens. Elrond, who took personal affront to Celebrimbor’s work and had unsettled every Elf with centuries of wisdom beyond his own. Elrond, who would not even speak to Galadriel for the duration of the ride back.
Galadriel wanted to track him down shake sense into that impertinent scowl and there was no time.
Time which was wasted for naught, creating the rings that now drifted beneath the bones of the continents. They should have departed from the havens months ago and Elrond had convinced Gil-Galad to tarry. Now they faced the oncoming winter as well as Orcs. Time was no longer a friend.
Elrond would not even give her the time of day, and for this Galadriel was increasingly vexed, and she vowed that for once she would not be the one to track him down. Too often she gave in first, marching to his room and hammering until he opened the door with that surly expression, and the first cross words exchanged between them were savage enough to burn the ears of courtiers ten halls down. How often she had capitulated first, seeking peace while it may be found, but no more. If Elrond wished to speak with her before their departure, he must meet her halfway. She could not spare another hour for his sulk.
The evening meal passed, and then another council session, and then she was forced to redirect the herald delivering the High King’s missives because Elrond had forfeited his position and someone else had to take responsibility. Even his absence was an exacerbation and Galadriel had a mind to track him down and haul on his ear. Her one consolation was that it was not Elros, for he would have besieged Lindon with untraceable subterfuge and there would be no peace. Elros used to force the king’s hand, ending his punishment early by inconveniencing half the city. Suddenly there would be weevils in the bread flour or horse manure on the path or vines choking one’s ankles because nothing was short of an Eldritch’s mischief but they couldn’t prove it was Elros. There were many occasions where Gil-Galad sent him to Mithlod for a fortnight, where a far more lenient Círdan put him to work sanding down helms and towing sea water, and perhaps that had inspired him to sail across Middle Earth when he made his Choice.
If Elros was here right now, the task load would be unbearable. Thank Eru his brother had more sense. Though Galadriel suspected Elrond seldom was the cause of mischief, he had no qualms about following in his brother’s disastrous wake and shared in his disgrace. The High King’s methods at the time seemed cruel, depriving him of song and laughter which all Elves craved, yet a period of solitude often tuned Elrond’s thoughts quickly to the error of his ways and he always rejoined them wiser in heart, if not less impulsive. He acquiesced more quietly than his brother, insomuch that Galadriel often had to nudge Gil-Galad and remind him that the waiting period must end sometime before the next Age. When Elrond emerged he would carry his silence until he was embraced and tutted over and scolded properly, and then he would return to himself and the cycle would begin anew.
After Elros left their shores, there was far less mischief and more mistakes on Elrond’s part, which merely needed guidance and the occasional correction. Certainly there were ideals that only the Fëanorians could have indulged, and questions which inspired questions that taxed Gil-Galad’s last thread of patience, but those were not crimes and did not need to be treated as such. Thus the last occupant of the tower had been Lorel some fifteen years ago, after he was banished up there to clean and Nuréin turned the bolt. (What a shame he didn’t starve. Everyone would have slept easy for the next century.)
In all reasonable understanding, it was only to be assumed that Elrond had endured his tongue-lashing and resumed his duties where he would not be troubled by Galadriel’s sheer presence. She was, after all, the one who accused him to the king. Thus when Lorel finally hunted her down and stood on her cloak, looming until she threatened to strike him, she had no inclination to believe that Elrond had been waiting in the tower alone these last few weeks.
How long was the first timorous question that widened her eyes and shivered from her tongue.
Who is guarding him gave the answer which had her springing for the old cell that they had sworn never to use again, not on Elrond, not since he returned from the sea alone with eyes that seemed to drown whenever he looked at the stars. Elrond had ever chaffed at solitude. Once it became his world Gil-Galad had found other means to guide him, pulling him away from the darkness whenever his fëa began to wander in search of those dear ones he would never find again in this world.
Surely he had not given the order, even in anger. Never for so long.
Bounding up the last steps, Galadriel reached for the door and hissed when Vändel slung down his spear.
“No one is to enter save the assigned guards, by orders of the king.”
“I am your commander,” Galadriel reminded him tersely, “And I order you to step aside.”
Seldomly would she speak ill of her people, yet Vändel she hated nearly to the extent of comparing him to an Orc, for he dragged his horse by the bridle and cared not for the nests which he crushed while climbing. Impervious grey eyes dismissed her with words that she would rather like to wrap around his throat.
“No one but the assigned guards may enter, by order of the king.”
“We will see,” Galadriel hissed, whirling on her heel with a swish of green cloak. Oh how she wished he would sweat over her words. For centuries she had tried to remove him from his post for one reason or another, but his most hateful quality was that he served his king well. Even now she could not argue that he had maligned his duty.
If Gil-Galad thought she would leave Elrond there another hour, however, he would find out how well-behaved and guileless was the lost twin. Elros had nothing on her formative years.
When the king looked up with some measure of relief when Galadriel swept into the war room, before his expectation melted into a scowl. “What is it now?”
“Did you or did you not restrict Elrond to the old tower?” She would not banter around with indulging hints and flattery, nor would the king expect it.
Dark eyes slid towards the ceiling before Gil-Galad blinked in measured deliberation, releasing a controlled exhale. “Now is not the time to coddle him. He knew full well the ramifications of disobeying his king. Insurgence must be addressed and I will not have him flogged.”
“So you would cripple his spirit?” Galadriel declared. “How long is the punishment to last? A year? A century? Until the stars fade?”
This time Gil-Galad did not contain his irritation. “Your outbursts are unnecessary and childish. He’ll only be there a few days while I decide what to do with him; after which we will have no more of this theatrical nonsense, I’m sure.”
“Three weeks is an eternity for a Orc, let alone Eleond!” Galadriel exclaimed, her nails biting into her palms as Gil-Galad swung up to look at her with sudden misgiving. “A flogging at least would be swift and sure, rather than this slow wasting away wondering what will become of —”
“Who told you this?” Gil-Galad snapped, already sweeping past his attendants and forcing Galadriel to trot after him. “It hasn’t been more than a few days — a week perhaps. Perhaps I have been latent but he deserved it this time, I assure you.”
“High King,” Galadriel panted, now scampering to keep up with his long strides. “We rode from Mithlond seventeen days prior. If he has been there since we returned —
Gil-Galad did not give her the opportunity to finish. He ran, stately robes billowing about him as startled idlers scattered out of the way. Galadriel pelted three steps for each of his strides and she still fell behind until Lorel loped up behind her and seized her hand, dragging her along at dizzying speed. Up the flights of stairs they charged, the king ever a vanishing flick of ebony hair and gold silk, until they rounded the last flight and he shoved Vändel aside, pushing back the bolt himself.
The relief that spilled from Elrond’s eyes smote Galadriel’s heart. Fumbling to unscrunch himself from the window ledge, the young Peredhel scrubbed the telltale evidence from his cheeks and straightened the rumbled robes he hadn’t bothered to change since they had dragged him up from Mithlod.
“Am….” The word came out as a strangled croak and Elrond swallowed and coughed in mortification, trying again. “Am I to be sentenced now? I am ready to face judgment —”
Whatever breath he had to speak was punched out of him as Gil-Galad yanked him from the window and enfolded him in warmth and silk. “I did not know. Forgive me.”
Hollowed grey eyes searched for meaning, craving understanding, and Elrond continued to stammer. “I did not – I can’t – I have no apology, please tell me what I must do and I will bear it without complaint. Only….” As though afraid he would give the king a novel consideration he clamped his teeth over his lip, his swallowed keen speaking for him. Anything else I will endure, only do not leave me here alone.
“Ai, Elrond,” Gil-Galad sighed, clasping the unkempt hair and scowling when his hand found a knobby shoulder that trembled in the room’s chill. Ashen was the hearth and cold was the draft seeping through the window. “I am angry, but to leave you here was not my intent.” He stepped back with stormy gaze, scrutinizing the wan cheeks and loose-fitting tunic until Elrond ducked in shame, expecting censure. “Vändel! Did I not order you to report if his condition worsened?”
Haughty grey eyes flickered anxiously from the bedraggled youth to the sovereign. “We were given orders to report if Yenneth was required.”
Gil-Galad’s voice dropped dangerously low. “And did you not step inside long enough to assess whether a healer should investigate?”
Silence spoke for the guard and when anger rekindled the king’s gaze, it was not aimed at Elrond. “See to it that this soldier does not enter my company again.”
“It will be done, my lord,” Galadriel said with just enough spite to knock Vändel’s knees.
The bewilderment in grey eyes as Gil-Galad slid off his robe and wrapped it around thin shoulders was nearly as cruel as the timidity in Elrond’s voice as he ventured once more, “I am ready for whatever punishment the king deems fit.”
“That is not the matter of discussion,” Gil-Galad said with dispassion that veered on cossetting and secondary murder. “Loreláthon, see to it that Yenneth sets a cot by the fire. The usual measures.”
Ai, Elrond. How easily he forgot himself when the darkness closed over him. This time it had gone unchecked, and he would have to be reminded that salts and fluids must be replenished before sweets lest the hröa remind him that the fëa had neglected it for too long. Dark eyes were filled with self-incrimination when they synced with Galadriel over the bowed head. This will not happen again.
So you said before.
This time I will ensure it.
Two weeks from now the door would be removed and the tower reconstructed into a sort of aviary. Elrond would never set foot in it again, not for the rest of his years on Middle Earth. It should never have been designated in the first place. Not when he was newly found, and certainly not when he was too lost to look beyond the bars for hope.
They were fools not to see it then, and Galadriel would not absolve herself from blame. She took Elrond’s wavering hand and enfolded it with warmth, pulling him close when his breath hitched. “I am here, mellon nin,” she murmured, granting him this moment of quiet breaking. “You are not alone. Leave the stars and come back to us.”
“I will.” The promise was a plea — another absolution to avoid a worse fate. “I will, only — please.”
Wounded by the unsaid, Gil-Galad brushed past them to fetch Yenneth himself. Indeed, he would think more carefully before scolding his herald in the future. This time had been too close.
He who guarded his people would not easily forget the wounds he inflicted, and even after – when they gathered around the golden tree to sing the last farewell – Elrond would not be left unescorted by at least two kindly guards who would engage him in dice and odd comments about the weather and an ear tug if nothing else.
He made sure that Lorel and Nuréin received the first assignment.