Wanderer

15 - Night Twists Many Thoughts...

Earendil

The room spins faster as I draw on my mug of potent mead. It no longer burns on the way down, and I can discern no difference in the taste.

I can hear voices around me, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. No one else, can either, because we’re all talking, oblivious to our audiences. If I listen to really hard, past the roaring in my ears, I can hear the wild cadence of Alaytar’s voice. I made sure to put at least three tables between us as soon as I saw him reach for his mug because I can vaguely remember the common knowledge being that Alaytar is a violent drunk.

 So far, though, he hasn’t done anything more than sit surrounded by men and women alike – women for him and men for his stories – and talk, albeit emphatically. I wonder who he will offend before the night is over with his candid, frank approach.

 Nothing matters right now, except the buzz at the back of my skull and my mug. Everything is hilarious and no one is hurt because Alaytar is only majorly tipsy instead of dead drunk.

 Thinking is getting harder. The room is whirling in bright colors and I can’t manage more than the basic facts. I forget the name of the bar, how far it is from the palace, how to get to the palace, and why the hell everyone keeps giving me condolences. No one has died, have they? If only I could remember…the effort is enormous.

A colossal crash shatters through my consciousness. Someone has fallen off a table, to the delight of the onlookers. A spontaneous dance begins, though I push to the back of the onlookers because I’m seriously unsteady.

The night progresses, although I am unaware of it. There are brief snatches of sanity, where I regret my actions and have short moments of unnatural clarity.

I see Alaytar laughing hysterically and passionately crying all in the same breath.

 I see the rain outside pounding onto the marble streets, and hear its rhythm.

And finally I see a pretty blonde elven girl holding a glass of a burning liquid to my lips. I do not return from their tenacious grasps.

The Next Morning…

My poor aching head. I try and concentrate as Erenion opens the final session of the war council. He looks pale and I wonder how he spent the last night.

 To my surprise, Erenion says; “Good morning. May the stars never set in your eyes. I am going to make this short, because I have a confession to make to you all. I drank myself into oblivion last night. Now you may all feel better about your own sore heads.”

Everyone shuffles their papers, reaches for their pens, and try and bite back groans of discomfort. Anything but look at the king.

Erenion smiles. Valar, he is sharp. “I understand. I am in good company. Let us proceed with the oath of loyalty and discretion. Then you are dismissed, except for Ëarendil; I need to talk to you. The bad news is that the real council starts in three months, when Ëarendil is safely away. Understood?”

 No one pays attention to the oath – we all want to be off – but we say it anyway, and we all know that we will be bound by it when the time comes.

 Alone, Erenion is sincere and gentle. “I fully understand the implications of what I am ordering you to do, Ëarendil. This is not going to be an easy task, nor a short one. I am asking you to put your life on hold for the good this country. But I must admit I am surprised by your reaction. Your fame as a mariner is almost legendary.”

 “Majesty, I would delight at the prospect to save my country – as well as travel to a new land – if it were not for my wife, Elwing. She finds it very hard to let me go, even to come here, and trade and buy and sell. I know she will take my departure very hard.”

Erenion drops his eyes. “I cannot relate to you, Ëarendil, only say what I would if I were in your circumstances. If you can make her understand that this is absolutely necessary, and that this is for her well-being and the well-being of all of us, it should be easier. At least trash my name, tell her how much you don’t want to go, and say it was my orders.”

 I have to laugh. “‘That thrice-accursed king tied me up, darling, and spat in my face and ordered me to leave the earth forever! Monstrosity! Can you imagine?’”

Erenion cracks a smile, and lays in my hands a pouch heavy with clanking metal. “The Capitol is always open to you and your family, Ëarendil. This should cover most of the cost. Write me if you need more.”

 He grows serious. We all depend on your speed, Ëarendil. I wish you inhuman speed. Please, for Valar’s sakes, hurry. My blessings go with you, and may they go with you to the end of the earth!”

 We shake hands, and Erenion’s hand is burning hot. “Don’t stay up to late,” I say over my shoulder. “An invalid king is useless.”

And so we part.

 I’ve already convinced Alaytar to take my ship home so that I can ride home ‘the short way’, so I head for the stables. I mount Alaytar’s stallion and canter out of the city onto the wharf, and board the ferry, where the elves lead the horse to a stall in the hold.

The ferry is slow, and I impatiently look to the open fields and the cliffs beyond past the river’s edge.

Finally I disembark and give the horse his head. He surges forward in a burst of lightning speed, racing through the frost-covered grass close to the cliff’s edge.

I find what Erenion says is true: that I am looking forwards to the journey. Not the arrival in the Valinor, or whatever befalls us there, nor convincing Elwing that it’s for the best. But the idea of long nights with ice-stars above, warm salt water lapping at the hull and the cry of the seabird appeals to me. My father Tuor said I was born with sea salt in my veins because of my seafaring ancestors. My mother said she gave birth to me on a ship, fleeing the ruins of what would have been my home city.

Valar, give me strength to reason with Elwing.

Give her strength to bear it.