Hold His Own | on ao3.
Elros and his family, for @nolofinweanweek.
Elros left his children the tools and the means to commit all the mistakes of his forefathers, and new ones besides; and he was not sorry for it in the slightest.
(All of them come to him in the dark once at least, crying and seasick, wanting to be held and sang to quietness. There was a wave, little Vardamir said it first; and his children after him, too, weeping and afraid as he had vowed they never would be. A wave, and it was angry, and it came for everything).
In his old age, Tar-Minyatur looked little older than his grandson's children. Silver was in his hair, and the silver of his eyes a little dulled; but his mind was sharp still, and eager. He walked the quays every day, and bent his back on harvesting seasons.
Only his son's growing weakness kept him from venturing out on the fishing vessels that scoured Ulmo's realm for fat tunas and rich whales - and all his children and their children were raised more on tales of the first eventful seal-hunting expeditions up and down the shores of Númenor than on tales of Beleriand.
Sirion, Doriath, Gondolin and Hithlum - those came later, when they learned their letters and their histories. His brother, in love with lore and the keeping of lore, would argue against it, and no doubt rear his children in the wisdom of Melian's line and the solemnity of eternal memory.
Elros was mortal. He raised his people to love themselves first of all, their cities and language and ways. They sang new songs every season, composed new and useless rhythms with dizzying speed - and the king of Elenna, who had grown among enemies, and made war on Melkor, delighted above all things in this speedy work, the restless pettiness of every day's effort.
The work of one's hands was rarely more beautiful than when it was raised up to protect against wind, hail and spray - than when towers were raised on strong foundations, and around them cities raised on beautiful lines.
He wrote his deeds and thoughts in treatises and decrees, the lore made to be read by lore masters in centuries to come. It was important to keep the past alive, and prepare for the future, study portents and ignore not foresight - Yet not, Elros wrote in the letters he tossed at the waves, Mithlond-bound, at the expense of this year's seaweed nurseries.
Vardamir was hungry enough to learn, and Tindómiel cared mostly for the business of the ships and the studies of the stars - Atanalcar went pearl-diving most of the summer, every summer of his life, and Manwendil liked riding best of all, and was a friend to the sea-birds that brought him small tokens of sea-glass and feathers.
Elros left his children the tools and the means to commit all the mistakes of his forefathers, and new ones besides; and he was not sorry for it in the slightest.
(All of them come to him in the dark once at least, crying and seasick, wanting to be held and sang to quietness. There was a wave, little Vardamir said it first; and his children after him, too, weeping and afraid as he had vowed they never would be. A wave, and it was angry, and it came for everything).
He soothes them all. Lullabies, half-forgotten and half-improvised, sweet with Menegroth's lilting rhymes; a few tries at the harp, and their little heads rested trustingly on his shoulder, asleep without fear again.
Dreams were only dreams, in the morning. None of them saw bloodshed before their coming of age; none of them would shed blood unjustly, for greed.
Tar-Minyatur knew this, because they were his children. He knew also that their children were like to have children themselves, and for all the friendship of the sea, an island was only so large and plentiful as the number of its people allowed them to be.
The gulls brought gifts to him, too. Perhaps they would do so to his descendants, too, five or ten births down the line, if not twenty. Did birds lose the keenness of their memory, as old men did?
The king's windows were always open, to the fresh star-lit light of the evening, when the weather allowed. In his last years, his bones turned into tyrants even on warm nights, but Tar-Minyatur found time to evade his minders, to bring out his bowl of seaweed and dumplings to the parapets of his towers and speak to Gil-Estel all the same.
All the old people of the island did, when they were soon to die. That last bearing of witness, some of the Edain held, was what stars were for, and this one most of all.
They may choose to tear them down in time, and build them anew, wrote Tar-Minyatur, silver-haired and trembling with the cold of an open window, young still in a way his brother would never be again.
He had taken to reading old philosophical texts with his son's grandchildren, now that they were old enough to be interested in these things, to know death and be a little angry at it, and petulant about the old king's way of teasing them. They went off to complain to Vardamir, who explained everything a little better, a little more sensibly.
No one had called him Elros in many years. All the same, the king wrote: Let them be as they would! That will be their choice! But they shall choose, and choose to look onwards, not back into the unalterable past. The best gift I can give them is to give them some stone and soil to stand upon, and the will to go onwards as they would, with the years they have to live.
Tar-Minyatur raised his children to know this. Great and terrible things came of that, and he foresaw many, if not most; but then, one must think of this day's effort most of all. The future would come, as certain as the tides and the summer storms. It was enough to leave behind strong foundations, and something of estel to pass onwards. All wise old men in Elenna knew this, and held it to be true.
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