The Spectre at the Feast

The Spectre at the Feast

Author’s Note - Countless thanks to my wonderful beta Andreth


The year 442 of the Second Age

I

A shadow passed across the floor. Elrond gasped and turned, his heart racing for a moment until he heard the beating of wings outside his window and gathered that another bird had flown past. He wandered over, leaning on the sill while he craned upwards, and saw tail feathers disappearing towards the top of the tower. The eagles' cries to one another cut across the warm, still air in which the city was wrapped and a single bronze feather drifted down from the eyrie to a paved square. Elrond followed its progress, watching it disappear amongst the bustling bodies below.

He stayed for a while by the window, his arms folded and resting on the sill, while the warm sunlight brushed his cheeks. The view was incredible, since the king’s palace towered over most other buildings in Armenlos and Elrond could survey the eastern quarter of the city as it bathed in the sun, the white stones gleaming brightly. The coloured banners of the palace fluttered like butterfly wings in the light breeze and a flock of tiny scarlet birds flew in an unceasing circle above the square, swooping and rising en masse. Looking down on them, Elrond almost imagined he could catch one if he stretched out his hand.

He sighed deeply. Perhaps, under different circumstances, he could have enjoyed visiting the island. However he could not look at the buildings and the grandeur of the place without feeling a conflicting blast of emotions rising from the pit of his stomach. Númenor was so very beautiful and exotically strange, yet he longed to leave and return to the Havens. He knew he should admire the achievement; that in less than five centuries, Men had forged this grand kingdom. Part of him was proud that his brother had succeeded and had made this wonderful life for himself. Yet above it all, Elrond’s thoughts turned inward. He felt lost amongst it all, he who had been left behind and achieved nothing. He was just one of many noble-born Eldar around Gil-galad’s house,. His brother, on the other hand, was a king. He felt ashamed of his envy but it was there nonetheless.

His mind churned over a dozen possible reasons why Elros wanted him here now, after nearly five hundred years without a word exchanged. When the letter arrived, delivered in the clutches of one of the eagles from the palace eyrie, Elrond’s first thoughts had been panicked. He imagined some great disaster had struck Númenor or that Elros’ choice had finally taken him. He was mortal after all, and Elrond always knew, at the back of his mind, that one day he would hear of Elros’ death.

The letter, however, had been polite, formal and unenlightening, simply inviting him to the island to ‘discuss some old matters’. The eagle messenger seemed unperturbed and had not waited for a reply, but had a knowing glint in his eye that let Elrond think there was some plot afoot, one that even the birds were keen to aid Elros with. Elros had always been the calculating one, the one who thought everything through with thorough precision before acting. Elrond felt sure he was planning something.

He turned from the window at last and wandered into his room, which was large and bright, full of white plastered walls decorated with smooth carvings of seabirds and blue mosaics of maritime scenes. Indigo drapes and tapestries of elven ships on wild seas hung near the bed and the floor was tiled in warm vermilion stone. The sun streamed in on him as he drifted around, his hair and clothes ruffled by the lightest breeze.

He waited, having rested from his journey and changed into his finer clothes, for the team of courtiers who seemed to be orchestrating the visit on the king’s behalf to fetch him. He had not seen Elros as yet, and had no idea what the king had planned for the evening. According to one of the lackeys, he had gone up to the Holy Mountain alone and would not return until it was late. That explanation did nothing to soothe the disappointment that gnawed at Elrond’s heart upon entering the harbour at Rómenna and finding that his brother was absent. No grand escort or welcoming committee could stand in his place.

Moreover, each hour that went by, left to stew in his room, irked him intensely. If things had been reversed, he would have come to meet Elros at the quayside. If he was intent on seeing his estranged brother, he would not wait. But then Elros was the logical one. He was probably afraid to act until he had every detail under his control. Elrond often wondered if that was why he had made the choice – a final effort to seize the reins on his life. Elros could control the one thing that was usually left to chance. He could decide the time of his passing and what became of him.

He sighed deeply, watching the birds flit past the window once again in a streak of scarlet. Why should Elros come to the harbour to meet him? He was nothing, he told himself, drooping wearily onto the edge of the bed. In the music of the world he was no more than an echo of the grander theme. Elros had made himself great. Perhaps he had called Elrond here so he could show off his accomplishments, and drive it home that his choice had been the right one. That he controlled his destiny now.

Elrond swept off the bed again and paced the room for a while, before returning to the window. The square now lay empty and the coloured paving stones basked in the languid afternoon sun. The courtiers and councillors forming an ever-moving bustle there had now completely vanished. A strange calm fell, broken only by the birds in their unending circle.

Elrond stared at the clear blue skies outside and remembered scenes from his distant childhood. He almost laughed, trying to equate the boy he knew with a great king. He tried to picture an image of himself, but had little success, even when he tried staring in the mirror and imagining the reflection as a separate entity. After all those years, he could not believe he was actually there, in Elros’ palace, perhaps only minutes away from seeing him at last.

As his nerves began to tingle once again and the apprehensive nausea returned, Elrond pondered over a few more possible excuses to avoid the meeting. His life was fairly stable and content in Lindon, so did he really want to upset it all, and rake up the troubles of the past? What if the tiny voice inside him was wrong, and that there was no hope of a reconciliation between them? After all, it had been nearly five hundred years, and Elros had never before expressed a desire to see him. There had to be something else behind it.

If Elros had wanted to save their relationship, surely he would have come to the harbour, Elrond reasoned. He would not have left him to brood in this room, surrounded by unfamiliar things, foreign smells and sounds that simply added to his anticipation and concern. Too much had happened, he told himself, for them to ever find the love they had known as children. There was too great a division between them. So many things had been said, he thought with a deep sigh and closed his eyes. There were too many wounds to be healed by a simple meeting.

The little voice, however, refused to give up. It continued to nag at him, whispering to him that perhaps – just perhaps – Elros felt the same way as he did. Beneath every other churning sensation coursing through Elrond’s body he knew that he missed his brother. He only hoped that Elros might share the sentiment.


II

Elros admired himself in the mirror, wondering if it was a premonition of what was to come. He tried to imagine his reflection was a person in its own right and thought how he would react looking into eyes exactly like his own. His imagination could not quite cope with the endeavour, however. It had been so long since he and Elrond had parted, he could only visualise his brother as a youth. Far too often, however, when he pictured Elrond, he remembered their last meeting and was forced to close his eyes to shut out the memory.

He turned away from the mirror, his embroidered silk tunic now fastened and his circlet set properly on his head.

“Did they set that extra table in the hall as I ordered?” he asked, glanced across the room. His eldest son Vardamir hovered by the door, arms folded. He stepped forward on being addressed.

“Of course,” he replied. “And the chamberlain tells me he’s seconded another fifty kitchen hands, since you’ve invited the whole of Númenor, practically.”

“Good,” muttered Elros. “Good.”

“It promises to be a fine night,” Vardamir went on, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Elros smiled proudly when he noticed, but said nothing. He only prayed that Elrond would take to his children with the same enthusiasm.

“I hope it is,” he answered simply.

“How long is it since you’ve seen him?”

“Too long.”

Vardamir sighed thoughtfully. “What’s he like? I mean, is he like the other Eldar who’ve come here?”

“Are you bringing your family to meet him?” asked Elros, avoiding the question.

“They’ve gone to the hall already,” said Vardamir, regarding Elros with narrowed eyes, trying to fathom him. It was a difficult job, even after hundreds of years in his father’s company. As Elros’ reign progressed and the realm strengthened he seemed to become more adept at concealing his thoughts behind a regal mask. “They’re with Manwendil. I thought I would join them once I’ve brought Elrond to you. Then we can wait in the Hall for you both.”

“That would be a good idea,” said Elros. “Though promise me that when you go to him you will forgive him if he reacts strangely to you. A good deal has passed between us that ought not to have.”

“Of course.”

Elros stared into the distance for a moment. “Vardamir, I want you to consider something else.”

“Name it.”

“Whatever his reaction, I would have you consider Elrond family, as we ought to have done from the start.” Elros turned away and wandered to the window, where he could watch the birds circling around the square. His expression betrayed nothing and the sigh he let out was so controlled as to be indiscernible. “You will be all he has,” he continued. “You and your sons. Once I am gone.”

Vardamir straightened. “You need not ask, father. Your brother will always find a welcome in Númenor.”

Elros nodded, relief washing through his body like a cool mountain stream. “Very well then, I think it is time,” he concluded at length. “You should go to him.”

Vardamir bowed and smiled, then withdrew from the chamber.

Elros continued to stare pensively from the window, serenely noble as if he had been carved there. The sunlight brightened the colours of the city and pride swelled in his breast as he looked upon his legacy to the world. It had been a good life, he concluded. One thing only remained to be resolved.

He was not entirely worried about the meeting. He expected there would be tension and probably a hail of harsh words before the night was over, but he knew that there was a chance of making amends. The idea tickled him with excitement; seeing Elrond again, seeing what his brother had become after all those years. He had often imagined him living a peaceful, enriched life amongst the Eldar in Lindon, probably surrounded by books from dawn till dusk. He saw hints of his brother when he looked at his own children, particularly Vardamir, and wondered if Elrond would have a brood of his own, who would show traces of their estranged uncle in their eyes.

The only twinge of apprehension came to him when he thought again of their parting. He understood so much more now. Over the years he had examined that moment and realised how much of the rift was his fault. The embarrassment had stayed his hand from contacting Elrond for centuries. He had been an idiot in his youth, he thought with a dry laugh. And that foolishness had cost him years that could otherwise have been spent with Elrond.

He felt a twitching in his stomach as the hour drew nearer. If all went well, he would have his chance to make things right. He had thought it through meticulously and had planned the best approach, the best room to use, the best time of day. The thrill of it made him feel like springing around his chamber and singing, something he had never done in his life.

After all, if Elrond wasn’t interested in reconciliation, surely he wouldn’t have answered the invitation.


III

Elrond sprang to his feet as someone knocked his chamber door. Without thinking he inspected his robes for creases and checked his hair, his heart thudding so hard it felt ready to burst out of his mouth. For a moment he wondered if he would even be able to recognise Elros again, after all this time. Then he convinced himself that it was a foolish notion. Of course he would recognise his twin.

The door opened and Elrond’s heart fluttered. The tall, handsome man who stepped into the chamber was not his brother. Yet a flash of recognition stifled Elrond’s disappointment. He looked into the stranger’s eyes and knew that they were kinsmen. He stared, unable to coax words from his brain. The thought had never occurred that Elros would have children, and yet it now seemed such an obvious thing.

Vardamir smiled warmly, spotting the same familial traits in Elrond that the elf lord had seen in him. He rushed forward offering his hand.

“My Lord Elrond,” he said, bowing. “My name is Vardamir Nólimon, son of Elros Tar-Minyatur. And it’s my great honour to meet you at last sir.”

Elrond studied him for a minute that seemed to last for a century, grasping his hand lightly.

“My brothers and sister await you in the great hall,” Vardamir went on, beaming. “Father has arranged a feast in your honour later this evening. They’ve spoken of nothing else save your visit for days. Really, it is wonderful to have you here.”

Elrond nodded. None of Vardamir’s words registered with him. “Your name is Vardamir?” he asked finally.

“Yes sir, and consider my line at your service.”

Elrond frowned and drifted away, gazing at the floor. “Your line?”

“I have three sons and a daughter and six grandchildren.”

Elrond shook his head and laughed dryly, shuddering as he tried to take everything in. “My apologies,” he said at last, trying not to sound as shaken as he really was. “I had no idea.”

Vardamir gave him a sympathetic look. “I understand that you and my father haven’t spoken for some time, though I was never told the reason.”

“No, I don’t expect he would speak of it.”

“It isn’t my place to ask,” said Vardamir. “I only know that he has planned this visit for months, eager that all should be perfect. And I for one would like to take the opportunity to welcome you to our family. I hope we’ll have time to talk in depth before you leave.”

“So do I,” replied Elrond, only vaguely aware of what he was saying.

“Well, if you’re ready, I can take you to father. He’s waiting for you in the gardens.”

Elrond nodded and, and after a moment’s hesitation, followed him out of the room.

Vardamir talked to him constantly, pointing out features in the palace, telling him stories about its construction, showing him places that meant something to Elros and the family. Elrond maintained a mask of calm but sensed his limbs trembling and growing unsteady. Not only was Elros a king, he thought, the founder of his realm, but he had his own dynasty. He had married and seen his children born, all without a word.

Elrond glanced at Vardamir and counted all the years he had missed. His only relatives in Arda, and he had been denied the chance to know them. Nervousness mixed with anger and frustration. Elros had everything, and now he wanted to flaunt it in front of his lesser sibling, the one who spent his days idly pottering in his workshop in Lindon, unmarried, childless, and likely to remain so indefinitely.

As they came out of the tower and crossed the square, Elrond’s heart yelled at him to turn around and go back, to say he was leaving and abandon this effort. Elros had calculated this whole affair, he decided. Orchestrated it to introduce Elrond only when it suited him, having kept him distant all those years. Bitterly, he wondered if he was just an amusement. Perhaps he would be the night’s entertainment. He began to think that Elros might have wanted him there to show his newfound subjects just how far their king had come, having abandoned the ‘decadent Eldar’. He wanted to be furious with Elros for this. He wanted to scream at him and storm off, back to his comfortable life amongst the elves. In his heart, though, he knew that he could not blame Elros for his success, no matter how horrid it made him feel.

The argument, after all, had been mostly his fault.

They came to a stone arch, beyond which a flight of stairs descended towards ornamental gardens. Since the daylight was beginning to fade, the palace staff kept lanterns burning amongst the flowers and bushes. The lights formed a hazy path, like a string of will o’ the wisps, showing Elrond the way. Vardamir paused and touched him lightly on the arm, almost as if he could sense the hurt that filled him.

“My father wanted this to be perfect,” he said quietly. “He wants you here. As do we all…uncle.”

Elrond faltered. He wanted to yell at his newly discovered nephew and tell him exactly what he thought of Elros and his ‘careful planning’. He wanted to show them that he would not be manipulated just because Elros had decided that it was to his advantage to have a brother again. His heart protested violently and the sickness returned to his stomach. The words, however, stuck in his throat. He no longer knew if he was furious or terrified.

He had come so far, he told himself.

He stood for a long time, Vardamir waiting patiently by his side, contemplating the archway, before he finally summoned the courage to step through.


IV

Elros chose a spot in the heart of the gardens, where the lamplight was soft and the willows hung delicately in a flowing curtain. A small fountain trickled noisily in the centre of a paved terrace, the sound like childish giggling filling the air. There was a stone bench beneath the trees to one side, where Elros thought they might sit later, if things went well.

Although he barely showed it, Elros had never felt this anxious in his life. He had not been concerned when this meeting was just a carefully plotted idea but now that he was in the garden, now that Elrond was expected any moment, it was an entirely different matter.

A voice inside him warned him that Elrond might not come, not if he was still as stubborn as he had been in his youth. Elrond had always been the headstrong one, frustrated when his brother failed to share his enthusiasm. He felt things so deeply, Elros mused. Every decision was a blow to Elrond’s heart. He was filled with such passion and drive that Elros often envied him, and wondered on several occasions if Elrond might not have made the better ruler.

Despite their differences, however, Elros longed to see his brother again, no matter how awkward their meeting might be. He understood things far better and knew that his anger had been unfounded. He only regretted that it had taken so long to fathom that. Perhaps that was a side effect of his choice, he mused, finding a deeper understanding. Knowing that his life would one day end, with no idea of what would lie beyond death, maybe he could appreciate his circumstances more ably.

He sat on the edge of the fountain to wait and ran over his plans for the feast to calm his nerves. He was glad as he thought of his children being there to welcome Elrond. Yet he could not help, as he pictured them, but think of each life slowly winding towards its conclusion. Although he understood the choice he had made, now better than ever, and knew that theirs was a blessed existence, he could not bring himself to like the idea of parting from them, knowing how he had ached when his wife had passed away.

Losing her had cleared his mind. He knew he had no time to waste. As soon as he had realised that, he knew he had to reforge his ties with Elrond. After all, Elrond would be left behind and if things were left unresolved, Elrond would dwell alone, a life as long as Arda’s to contemplate his grief. Elros hoped his children would follow Vardamir’s example and embrace him. They would be Elrond’s future.

He wrung his hands, the sounds of the dying day forming a fog around him. He wore a sombre expression, his gaze unfocused. Then finally he heard the rustle of silk against the stones.

He looked up towards the archway.


TBC