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In the greeting-hall of Rivendell, which was packed with spectators, Lord Elrond looked coldly at the messenger. The messenger’s bearing was noble and he was outfitted with all the jewels one would expect of Noldor royalty, but that did not soften Elrond’s expression.
“What are you doing here?” Elrond asked plainly in the common tongue. It seemed to Frodo like it must be an insult to the other elf but he did not know why Elrond would do that. He trusted Lord Elrond had a reason, though.
Those gathered peered curiously at the messenger, seemly unconcerned by Lord Elrond’s dislike. Frodo, who was at the front of the crowd, understood their fascination. It was vanishingly rare for anyone to return over the Sundering Seas.
“I…” the messenger didn’t seem to know what to say.
“Lord Ciridan is the eldest ruler of Middle Earth,” Elrond explained. “Lady Galadriel is the eldest of the Noldar to rule. Should you not take the message to one of them?”
“Could I not wish to see my son?” the other asked. He kept to Common, as Elrond did.
“I find such a motive questionable,” Elrond said. “You have never showed much interest in acting as a father before, Lord Eärendil.”
Eärendil! The mariner who sailed the sky as the evening star! Frodo’s mouth dropped open and he hastily closed it again.
Then this was Elrond’s father, Frodo realized. He should have known, from the whispers of the elves around him; they had called the messenger ‘mariner’. But Frodo would have expected Elrond to be leaping for joy (or the Elvish equivalent) if he was able to see his father again, so Frodo had been misled.
How old had Elrond been, when Eärendil left, though? In the histories, it was said that Elrond had been fostered by Maedhros and Maglor Feänorian. That would not be so, if Elrond had been fully grown when Eärendil left.
“You are being unfair,” Eärendil scowled. “I was not some commoner who could devote myself fully to fatherhood. I had a duty to our people!”
“Many other Lords are fathers, too; somehow, they find a way to balance duty to their children with duty to their people,” Elrond said. His tone was even and calm, but Frodo thought his words betrayed old pain. “Be we need not speak of ancient history. Whatever reason you have to overlook my peers, speak your piece, messenger of the Valar.”
Whatever reason. To overlook his peers. Either Elrond was truly bitter, or he had not accepted his father’s explanation.
“Fine,” Eärendil said shortly. “The Valar have taken mercy on the peoples of Middle Earth. They are sending a host to fight the armies of Sauron. The first ships of the host shall land on the shores in a month’s time.”
The hall seemed to hold its breath for an instant. Frodo couldn’t hear the slightest shuffle or murmur. He understood. He, too, was shocked by the proclamation.
Then, pandemonium broke out. An elf near Frodo fell to her knees, weeping in relief. She was not alone. Others shouted praise to the Valar. Still others began singing.
Frodo felt a smile growing on his own face, until he knew that his cheeks would hurt come nightfall from the wideness of it.
On his throne, Elrond slumped slightly, as he looked up and smiled in clear relief. He did nothing to stop the celebration breaking out.
An elf behind Frodo picked him up suddenly and tossed him lightly through the air. Frodo laughed as he was caught again.
The hall became a swirling crowd of delighted, dancing elves. Frodo laughed and sang alongside them, borne on shoulders. He was as happy as any of them to hear a host from the Undying Lands would come to save them all.
Only two things stood out, imperfect against the backdrop of joy.
One: the messenger of the Valar was never quite included, the dancers avoiding him with uncertain glances. Even the glad and joyous news he had brought did not bring him the acceptance of his son’s people.
Two: Frodo felt, as if from a great distance, like the leaping of a far-off bonfire, a flicker of pure panic.