11 - This Means War

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Earendil

Tonight, there are no laughing elves in the street. Instead, there are serious guards who stand alert and watchful on the street corners. The bright swords are impossible to miss in their hands.

 I walk past a dozen of those elves on my way to the bar Erenion recommended to me. It is surprisingly bright, and opens into the street. A cool breeze wafts through it. It is the cheeriest bar I have ever frequented.

 I order a meal and a pint of mead, and find a seat near the windows. I look out into the nearly-empty streets while I wait.

I think about what the Dark One means for me. I think of many possible options, but it always comes cycling back to one word that threatens to draft both me and Elrond, depending on if Erenion lowers the draft age: war.

If we fight or if we don’t fight: it doesn’t seem to make a difference. Either we fight, lose the war, Erenion, and the Silmaril, or we don’t fight and still lose the Silmaril, and Erenion too, because the Dark One won’t let him live whatever the situation. Right now, the option leans towards peaceful surrender.

But because our king is Erenion, the Dark One will not get the Silmaril without a fight. It won’t matter if, as Jade says, we can’t have a hope of winning. The Dark One will get the Silmaril. End of civilization as we know it.

My food arrives, and I immediately reach for the mead. It burns my throat on the way down and settles in my stomach like molten gold. I take another drink and sigh in contentment.

I don’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed when Alaytar sits down beside me.

To my surprise, he doesn’t speak. Alaytar and I drink a pint apiece before I finally ask: “What is the current buzz?”

“Of the end of the world.” Alaytar says dryly. “People selling shares, people evacuating provinces, people sending home navy commissions.”

“Where do they think they’ll go?”

 “Who knows. They’re all cowards. The world is big enough without them.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

 There is a long silence. Alaytar flips a butter knife through his fingers. I order another pint of mead. On second thought, Alaytar does as well.

We are well into them when Alaytar addresses my comment. “You are not a coward because your motive is not fear.”

How did he know?

 “A war is not going to win for us. We need to win, not to fight. There is another way – there always is. Brains are going to prevail in this struggle, whether they be his or ours. But we cannot expect to beat the Dark One through strength.”

 “It’s hopeless.”

 “It certainly seems that way,” Alaytar says from the depths of his mug. “But all isn’t always as it seems. There is always hope, like stars. You just can’t see the stars in the daytime because they are outshone by something brighter than they. Hope is superfluous in the face of certainty.”

 “I have neither certainty nor hope. What time of day is it?”

 “Time for bed!” Alaytar motions to the clock. “The council opens early tomorrow, at eight. I for one, intend to be well-rested.”

We part in the street, and I make the journey through the high streets to my comfortable apartment. The silence is eerie, and I long for Elwing’s company.

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