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"Who is it?"
Elladan saw Celebnor hesitate. Elrohir, lounged on the bench like a lazy cat, raised his eyebrows.
"He appears to be a Dúnadan," Celebnor spoke. "But..."
"But?"
"His clothing is strange, seemingly gathered from all over the world. His shirt has an eastern style to it, while his breeches could be straight from Gondor. His boots appear to be dwarven made, but the style is different than I've seen in Moria, Erebor, or Ered Luin. And the language he speaks! He knows only a little Westron and his Sindarin is almost archaic, mixed with some strange dialect I have yet to know about. My lords, I do not think he is from these lands."
For a Dúnadan to wear clothing from foreign and faraway lands would be unusual, but not unrealistic. While they for the most part kept to Eriador, some travelled often – Estel chief amongst them.
For a Dúnadan to barely speak Westron and only a strange dialect of Sindarin was unheard of.
He could still be of Númenorean heritage, Elladan supposed. Dúnedain weren't solely in the north of Middle Earth. Many could be found in Gondor and even Harad, where still dwelled the Black Númenoreans. But no one with ill intentions could enter the valley, not even with their father outside of the borders of Rivendell. Elladan did not think he was of the Haradrim. And yet... How would a man of Gondor come to be in possesion of dwarven and eastern clothes?
He and Elrohir exchanged glances.
"Bring him here."
Celebnor gave a small nod with his head and left, his long silver cloak flowing behind him.
Elladan straightened his robes and threw a disapproving look at his twin. This was a formal meeting – he shouldn't look like a barbarian from the wild who couldn't even bother to sit properly. Elrohir's long dark hair was falling across the back of the bench, his legs crouched on the ground. He was still wearing his ranger clothes despite having hours to change since they've returned home in the morning. His eyes were closed, head turned towards the sky.
Elrohir promptly ignored his look. Elladan didn't expect anything different.
"My lords."
He turned around. Celebnor was back, although quickly leaving again. With him came a man. Elladan blinked.
He was a Dúnadan, of that was no doubt. He stood proud, shorter than him or Elrohir but still tall enough to match Estel's height. His shoulders were broad, his bare arms full of muscle. Celebnor was right with the strange clothing – and a strangely colourful combination of colours as well. In Rivendell, he stood out as a sore thumb.
Yet, looking at him, none of these things shocked or confused Elrohir as much as the man's face. From time to time, they have found a familiar face among the rangers – Arahael looked uncannily like a painting of Vardamir in Rivendell, Arassuil and Aragost strongly resembled Elros. Estel himself fit straight into their family.
None of them had them had silver starlight in their eyes. None of them had a slightly pointy year – not enough to be elven or noticed as standing out, but enough to alarm Elladan, a half-elf. None of them had a face that not only resembled their family closely, but felt right – it was almost as if a light glow was coming from him, a light Celebnor didn't seem to notice. None of them had a faint glint in their hair.
It wasn't elven light. More than anything, it reminded him of himself. Of Elrohir, of Arwen, of father.
But the traveller wasn't an elf. Elladan wasn't sure if he was a man either.
"Vardamir?"
The man's voice sounded choked. His eyes widened in disbelief. Elladan blinked. Elrohir opened his eyes and looked towards their visitor, startled.
"I am afraid not," Elladan spoke carefully, but his words weren't necessary. The man seemed to realize it himself. His hands shook slightly, barely noticeable for someone not with elven sight. "My name is Elladan and with me is my brother, Elrohir."
Elf-man. Elf-rider. The man's eyes narrowed, now appearing sharper.
"And who are you to bear such a name? Elf-man, you call yourself; yet I see no man in you."
Elladan had almost forgotten Celebnor's words about the man's Sindarin being archaic. Had he been the son of anyone other than Elrond Peredhel, he might not have recognized the dialect as being from the early Second Age.
Vardamir. Early Second Age. Dúnadan. Vardamir. Early Second Age. Dúnadan.
"Why should I tell of my name to a stranger? I am the lord of this Homely House. Who are you, nameless?"
The man hesitated.
"From the East I come, and there I am called Gázfad, but of the eastern folk I am not. I spent two Ages wandering their lands. I passed the fair Gondor and the land of the horselords on my way to this valley, through the Gap of Rohan and northwards."
"Gázfad you are called, but that is not your name, stranger. What secrets do you hide?" Elrohir asked, finally standing up.
"No more than old memories, elven lord," Gázfad bowed with his head.
Elladan quietly observed him. He seemed surer of himself now that he got over his initial shock. Vardamir, Vardamir, Vardamir. There was a Vardamir in the early Second Age, a pureblooded Númenorean, Elros's son. "More an elf than a man at heart," his father would say, "yet he did not get the Choice and died of old age. You are much like him."
Much like him, much like him. He recalled the startled face of Gázfad when he first saw him, the way his voice shook when he called him Vardamir. Father, wouldn't you know who he is?
"Whatever your name is," Elrohir interrupted him from his musings, "I do not sense ill will from you. The doors of this House are open to all who seek it, travellers from distant lands. If your wish is to rest here, then so be it – you are welcome here for however long you find the need to."
"Thank you."
Elladan shot him a look.
"Come. I'll show you to your chambers."
Elrohir sat down on the bench again, but his indifference and laziness were gone. His limbs were tense, his eyes alert. Elladan beckoned for Gázfad to follow him and they fell into step. Looks followed them as they walked the pavements of Rivendell. A light wind was blowing, the sun was high in the sky. Elladan tried not to stare at his companion, but Gázfad had no such quarrels.
"You still haven't answered my question."
Elladan raised his brows.
"You gave me a name, but not the one I asked for. An old memory, you call it, but the name is one of the deepest windows into our soul. I know not the languages of the East and Gázfad tells me nothing. But you are not from the East – you have said so yourself."
"And what is your name, if not the window to your soul?" Gázfad struck back. "You ask me to tell you what I haven't told anyone for longer than many live; but how can I trust you?"
"You can not," Elladan easily replied, "yet there is no evil in this valley, nor any lies. You have not told me much, yet you told me more than you intended – and with what I know, it is not hard to guess."
"Is it not?" Gázfad's voice grew quiet. Elladan suddenly got a feeling that he told precisely as much as he had wanted. He wasn't trying to hide who he is, he realized. He was simply avoiding the disappointment of saying it himself and no one recognizing him.
"Vardamir, you called me," he spoke softly after a few minutes of silence. They were nearing the chambers. No one was around – during sunny days like today most preferred staying outside.
"So I did. But you are not him, elf-man."
"No. No, I am not," Elladan agreed. "The language you speak is Sindarin, but older; the look you bear is of the children of Lúthien, of Númenor. Longer than most live you have not told anyone your name, but of the Men you appear to be. I am not witless, cousin."
If Gázfad was startled, he hid it well.
"Then who do you think me to be?"
They've finally reached the doors of the guest chambers. Instead of opening them, Elladan stopped and looked Gázfad straight into his eyes.
"I have heard tales of a sailor, one of the mightiest. He would sail the seas for centuries, to the far Harad and the Gates of the Morning in the uttermost East. Yet from one of his voyages he never returned; and no one in Númenor or Middle Earth has heard of him since. What say you, Atanalcar the Bold? Does the tale ring true to you?"
Atanalcar closed his eyes for a second. His hands clenched into fists. Then, he stood straighter and returned Elladan's gaze.
"Aye, I am him. And who are you, elf-man? I took you for an elf, but now I am not so certain. A descendant of one of my brothers perhaps, one more elvish looking than he should be. Who are you to look so much like Vardamir Nólimon?"
"Not one of his descendants, certainly. Nor one of Manwendil's. We are closer family than that, cousin." He took a deep breath. "For I am Elladan, son of Elrond; and it is his House where you stand now. I have no doubt he will be glad to see you."
He finally opened the door to the chambers and turned back towards speechless Atanalcar, granting him his first smile. It felt a bit shaky.
"Come in. I won't let you stand in the hallway forever. Despite what some people might tell you, I am a better host than that."
As he followed him inside, Atanalcar finally shook himself out of jolt.
"Uncle Elrond married? For Arda, if father or mother or Tindómiel heard that- him being single was a running joke in the family! I- Wait- You are uncle Elrond's son? Uncle- he is here? In this valley? Alive, well?"
Elladan would have laughed at the poor man's confusion had he not been overwhelmed himself. This was Atanalcar, his cousin who was supposed to be lost and dead, whom his father mourned and told stories about. Atanalcar the Bold, the Adventurer, the youngest son of Elros. Seeing him here, very much alive, talking about people from the past long gone as someone who knew them, for whom they were as real as Elrohir was to Elladan, was almost too much to bear.
"He is alive and well," he gently replied. Atanalcar looked as if he was about to cry, barely holding himself together. Elladan led him to the couch in the middle of the spacious and bright room, helping him sit down. Without thinking he settled down beside him and took his hand into his.
"Are you well?" he asked.
"I think so. Yes," a shaky laugh escaped him. "I don't think... I don't think I have felt this good in a long time. You are my family. Family. Ah, how long has it been since I could call anyone by such a name! But tell me, dear cousin – you called yourself lord of this House. Where is your father then? For it would be my greatest joy to see a familiar face again; to hear the voice of someone I know."
"Out riding, but fear not. He shall be back soon. And gladdened will be his heart when he sees you again!"
"I hope so. I... Too long have I wandered alone. I want to live again, to love again, to rest again."
Elladan understood that feeling all too well. He saw his mother's eyes, the evil faces of orcs, himself and Elrohir covered in blood. He shut the thoughts from his mind. Not now.
"How come? I understand if you do not feel comfortable answering me, but my mind is curious. You are a mortal, born thousands of years ago. How come you have wandered so long? How come you still live and breathe? How did you escape the Gift of Men?"
Atanaltar hung his head. His hair, cropped down to his shoulders, fell into his face.
"I rather wish I did not," he admitted. "Nor was it by choice that I did. Yet here I still stand, and the tale of my wanderings and fate is long. I do not wish to repeat the tale twice. I will wait for my uncle and then I will tell you all – but no sooner."
"So be it."
With his free hand, he hugged his cousin from behind. Atanalcar leaned into his touch almost instinctively. Silence fell between them.
"Father was right when he said you were short," Elladan said randomly, his voice solemn.
"Oh, shut up," Atanalcar groaned. "I am not even that short! Just because my siblings are- were like towers – and so are you, apparently – does not make me short!" He paused. "You are trying to distract me, are you not? To clear my head. You sly fox."
But when he lifted his head and looked at Elladan, he was smiling for the first time that day.
"An if I am?" he smiled back.
Atanalcar hesitated before answering.
"I should... stop pitying myself and longing for the past and enjoy what I have now, as hard as it is. Tell me, do you have more siblings? Elrohir, I have met, if only briefly – what is he like?"
"Elrohir you can get to know yourself!" Elladan replied. "And aye, I do have a sister also – Arwen is her name, and she is called Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people."
"Undómiel?" startled Atanalcar.
Elladan's eyes saddened. He squeezed the other man's hand.
"The Morning Star, The Evening Star, Gil Estel – they are all one and the same, yet represent something different. Your sister was the dawn of Men, their hope and sun. Mine is the elven dusk, the last memory of old days. My father remembers the star that once shone in Númenor."
"He would," Atanalcar replied. His voice was much quieter than mere seconds ago. "She liked him the best, you know – right after Manwendil, uncle Elrond was her favourite. She would dance to him and sing to him, asking him for stories of Middle Earth, the elven Mithlond."
"She sounds delightful."
"She was, unless you got on her bad side," Atanalcar said. A distant look was in his eyes.
"Like Arwen, then."
Elladan was sure she was still in some people's nightmares.
"A pity they haven't gotten the chance to meet," Atanalcar said softly.
"It is," he agreed. "Although, I don't think Arda would survive two of them."
"I can't argue with that," his cousin's voice shook. He closed his eyes. Elladan squeezed his hand again.
"Are you fine?"
"Yes. No. I... miss them. And this place, it reminds me of them so much. It't nothing like Númenor, and yet... I... I am sorry. It's been six thousand, I shouldn't be... emotional like this."
Elladan could sympathize with that. Mother. Orcs. Blood. White ship. Centuries. Arda, he had keep calm.
"You have every right to be," he told him. "You said you have spent the last two ages in the East, right? I do not think there would be many reminders of your old life there. Here on the other hand... In the end, we all sometimes break."
"I am not used to this, you know. To be this..." He looked at Elladan, his eyes full of tears. "You are much like him. Vardamir. You look like him. Act like him. Talk like him. I hardly know you and I can already see him in you."
Elladan let go of Atanalcar's hand and tightly hugged him instead. At first, he could feel his cousin's hesitancy, but soon enough two strong arms were tightly hugging him back. Atanalcar's head fell on his shoulder. He felt his tunic getting wet.
"I am sorry," Atanalcar said in a muffled voice, quiet sobs barely held in his throat. "I... Fuck, I hardly know you. This is all so overwhelming. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am not usually like this. I am sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for. You are family," Elladan whispered back. He meant what he said.
He had plenty of distant kin among Dúnedain, cousins so far removed no one bothered to count the generations anymore. But Atanalcar was Elros's son. How many times had he listened to his father's tales of his uncle's children whom he had never met? How many times had he wished to meet them? Father, won't you be glad to see your nephew again?
Atanalcar was here, flesh and bone. For now, that was enough.
Maybe you can find a new home here, cousin.