L'ÂME IMMORTELLE
"Pilgrim, how you journey
On the road you chose
To find out where the winds die
And where the stories go.
All days come from one day
That much you must know,
You cannot change what's over
But only where you go."
"Pilgrim" - Enya
* * *
He had grabbed for the first book he could get a hold of, and it had just happened to be one of his brother's. Poetry.
He was used to handle sword and bow, not playful words. So now he was sitting here, the opened book he wasn't interested in on his knees, and this was, considering the circumstances, not a very wise thing to do - of all untimely ends possible "being killed by Orcs while sitting under a tree reading poetry" was definitely not one he would have chosen for himself.
But the tall, ancient oak tree had always given him a strong feeling of security and comfort, and as a young one, he'd often come here to sit underneath it, just letting his mind wander and day dreaming.
Those peaceful days were long gone; so many things had happened and forced him to grow up faster than others, and now, though he was still young, an important decision had been burdened upon him, and no matter which way he'd chose, his life would be changed for ever. And this place was as good as any other to find out what it was his heart really desired - at least he was alone with his thoughts.
At the sight of the soft green meadows around him he wondered what this place would look like a hundred years from now. Or a thousand. Would he still be able to fully appreciate this beauty a millennia from now? Would the changing of the seasons still fill him with awe, eould he welcome every new day to break - or curse it? And would a kiss by his loved one still be sweet or taste shallow?
Immortality. He remembered how he had asked his mother once what it was like to be immortal. She had run her hand through his hair, smiling, telling him to wait with this question till he was older and able to understand.
But when he had come of age, his mother hadn't been there anymore. So he turned to the one he called father.
"What is immortality." The older elf repeated the words, gave the matter some thought and then sat down beside his son. He pointed to the sky above, and said: "Look at the stars." He had done so. "Now, try to imagine the end of the sky above."
He had tried, but then got scared by realizing that it was not possible to imagine the unimaginable - the end of something endless. "I can't do it, father! It's not possible!" he cried. His father had put his arm around the young one's shoulder, and hugged him close.
"You are right. It is not possible to imagine or understand. But it is possible to experience."
In the years to follow, he had spent many a night watching the stars above, trying again and again to imagine what eternity was like, the impossibility of this task and the thought of being part of something this big and unexplainable filling him with awe.
But now he was not a boy anymore. The days when he had practicized his skills with a wooden sword and chased after his brother in playful game were over. He was a man now - or was he not?
"Peredhil" they called him - Half-elven. His brother, always cheerful and ready for a witty word, had often tried to comfort him. "Don't be upset, brother - just look at them! We're nine decades old already, and still they haven't established which half of us is elven: the top or the bottom!"
He didn't like being called "Half-elven". Ah, the grey ones - he felt like his and his brother's existence were a spec of dirt on a white tunic for them, something unholy, forbidden, wrong. As if the siblings had defiled something pure. Among the fair-haired he sometimes felt like a freak of nature, noticing very well the glances his dark tresses attracted.
Men, on the other hand, showed him respect - for his kind, for his knowledge, for his skill. There was no upmanship between them, they were equals.
He sighed. He considered immortality more a curse by the Valar than a gift. The thought of millennia of losing friends and love, of never finishing the road he was walking on didn't tempt him, and trying to imagine such a life lead him again and again to the very same border his father had shown him so many years ago. Even death seemed to have its favours - wasn't it a blessing to lie down after a long and fulfilled life and finally sleep? No more pain? No more losses? Maybe finally - peace?
If he had been wiser, studied in his people's history, if he had been a lore-master - then, yes maybe then immortality would have had its favours, giving him the means to pass the knowledge and wisdom of his people on to the generations to come. But he was a warrior - and warriors came twelve by the dozen, and a broken arrow was much easier to replace than a wise thought.
He picked one of the white flowers that covered the hill; they were small and didn't look like much, but their smell was sweet and reminded him of his mother, who had often put them in her hair. It was strange - at times, he couldn't even remember her face anymore, having lost her when he was still so young, but the smell of these flowers he would always connect with her and never forget.
***
"So there you are. I've been looking for you."
He looked up, and saw his brother, hair ruffled from the wind and a little untidy, as usual. His twin sat down beside him, and for a while, the brothers shared the silence.
"Have you been sitting here for a long while, Little One?"
He nodded.
"Yes - and I doubt the two minutes you arrived earlier the day of our birth make that much of a difference, Ancient One."
They laughed, then he gave his brother a thoughtful look and finally asked:
"I wonder - have you ever tried to imagine the end of the sky above?"
His brother frowned.
"This is a very strange question. No, I've never tried to imagine such a thing, and why should I? The stars are there, for us to enjoy and to watch over us, isn't this knowledge enough? How comes your thoughts are wandering on such an unusual road?"
He shrugged.
"It is nothing - just a memory of our childhood."
He gave the flower one last look, then carefully placed it in the book, closed it, and handed it to his brother.
"Here - this is more of your liking than of mine."
The older twin took the book, then studied his brother's face.
"So ... have you made your decision, then?"
He looked up to the sky and closed his eyes for a moment.
"Yes. Yes I have."
***
Epilogue
The crowd had dissolved, and now, as the shadows were getting longer, heralding the night, Elrond was alone. The only sound to be heard was the wind in the trees, and for this, he was grateful.
For a while, he just stood in silence, then he searched through the pockets of his robe, finally fishing out a small book. He opened it, and went through the pages, picking a dried flower, still there after all the centuries, soon to become dust and blown away by the wind.
He stepped forward, and put the flower on the grave his brother had been laid to his last rest this morning. Then he looked up to the sky, where countless stars sparkled, and somehow it was comforting to know that they would never fall.
* * * * * *
"And Elrond chose to remain with the Firstborn, and to him the life of the Firstborn was granted. But to Elros, who chose to be a king of Men, still a great span of years was allotted, many times that of the Men of Middle-earth; and all his line, the kings and lords of the royal house, had long life even according to the measure of the Númenóreans. But Elros lived five hundred years, and ruled the Númenóreans four hundred years and ten."
J.R.R. Tolkien - The Silmarillion / Akallabêth