Second Age De-Aging AU

(Title is a work in progress.)

The workshop looked as if it had recently contained a small to medium sized explosion.

That concerned Gil-Galad a great deal less than what had been left in the wake of that explosion.

Namely, a very small peredhel currently perching catlike on one of the few sets of shelves still standing and who was hurling every throwable object in reach at a wincingly placating Annatar.

The thrown objects were accompanied by what he first interpreted as a yowl, which was really only reinforcing the cat impression, right up until he belatedly realized it was actually a wail, at which point he had to remind himself that it was not at all appropriate for him to throw things at an emissary of a Valar.

Even if he was almost entirely certain that, despite the seeming impossibility of the thing, the very small peredhel in question was Elrond.

Still. He was king. Kings did not throw things. Kings very calmly and not at all frantically demanded, “What happened?”

Elrond’s wail at last became intelligible words. “He lied!”

Gil-Galad switched his gaze to Annatar.

The maia was holding his hands out in a conciliatory fashion. “Dear Celebrimbor and I have been working on some things to better help Men preserve their minds as they age. Perfectly safe for both elves and Men, I assure you. Lord Elrond expressed a natural interest. I had no idea that with his . . . unique nature . . . it would react this way to his touch.”

“It exploded,” Gil-Galad said flatly.

“Not at all!” Annatar assured him. “It merely . . . affected his fea in an unexpected way. And it seems his hroa followed. At which point, he was unsurprisingly distressed . . . “

Gil-Galad reconsidered the explosion in the context of a highly frightened descendant of Luthien.

“ . . . and I am afraid that the resulting . . . incident . . . led to it . . . ”

Gil-Galad redirected his attention to the scorch marks on the workbench as Annatar very visibly searched for a word that was not “exploding.”

“And at which point in this process did you lie to him?” he asked pleasantly.

Annatar winced even more deeply. “He asked where his brother was,” he said apologetically.

Gil-Galad went very, very still.

He remembered, very clearly, just how closely the twins had stuck to each other in the early days of their being sent to Balar.

He remembered, very clearly, the grief on Elrond’s face when Elros had sailed.

And he remembered, very clearly, the grief that even still had not vanished when the bond between them at last had fully snapped.

“I’m afraid in my distraction that I said that was an interesting theological question.”

And Elrond, even at this age, had put the pieces together between that statement and the aching void Gil-Galad was sure he still felt in his soul when he reached for his brother.

Maiar, he had to remind himself very firmly, did not view death as Men or elves did. Annatar had not intended his statement to lead to . . . this.

This was even now changing. Whatever expression was on Gil-Galad’s face must have convinced Elrond that it was not a lie after all because there were no more objects being thrown from the shelf.

Unless, of course, you counted Elrond himself, who was slowly but surely turning the color of bleached bone and sliding inexorably off the shelf.

Gil-Galad sprang for him, catching the far too light body just in time.

“Fix this,” he ordered Annatar, clutching Elrond to his chest. Elrond had gone deathly quiet, and he had to move his hand on Elrond’s back until he could feel the heartbeat through the ribs just to be sure it was still pumping.

It was not the correct way to talk to an emissary of the Valar.

Gil-Galad did not have enough left in him to care.

. . .

Several hours later, he still had not determined what precise age this version of Elrond was.

This failure was mainly because of what else he had discovered. Namely, that this version of Elrond did not want to talk.

Or eat. Or sleep. Or do anything, really, but curl up into the smallest ball he could manage and block out the rest of the world.

He did not object to Gil-Galad talking. Or singing. Or pacing.

He did object, after those first few moments, to being touched. Gil-Galad had set him down in the window seat of his borrowed office the moment he could. As far as he could tell, Elrond hadn’t moved since.

He also objected to Annatar’s entrance. At least, that’s what Gil-Galad assumed the infinitesimal tensing of his shoulders meant. It was tempting to drag Annatar into the hallway to just meet there, but that would mean leaving Elrond alone, and Gil-Galad felt . . . uneasy about that.

(The window was narrow. The window was covered with beautifully stained glass that some of the artisans here had apparently been experimenting with. The window was not that high off the ground, really, as elves usually considered things.)

(On the other hand: Elwing. Maedhros.)

(Even if Elrond currently remembered only one of those formative experiences, Gil-Galad was not in the mood to take any risks.)

“You have a solution?”

Annatar shook his head mournfully. “I have a better idea of what went wrong,” he corrected. “A solution will likely take weeks. Longer, perhaps. It is a good thing you accompanied Lord Elrond on this visit; I am not sure a messenger could have found Celebrimbor in time.”

Gil-Galad paused in his pacing. “In time,” he repeated.

“Since the dwarves have been so reluctant to share the location of their sacred places to others in the past . . . ?” Annatar’s voice hinted gently, embarrassed to repeat what Gil-Galad already knew.

He knew full well why a message might take a while to find Celebrimbor; the complications of Celebrimbor’s expedition with the dwarves of Khazad-dum falling, he was assured unavoidably, in tax year, coinciding with a few mix-ups in delegation and communication . . .

But “in time.”

Were the effects going to get worse or - ?

“He’s a child,” Annatar said, very slowly, in response to the confusion Gil-Galad feared was on his face. “His fea will need to be nurtured. Preferably by a relative.”

“That’s just superstition,” he protested.

Annatar looked at him very oddly.

“ . . . I’ve heard,” Gil-Galad tacked on, like an elf who had certainly had two very present and alive elvish parents to nurture him throughout his childhood, and not at all like a feral former fugitive who had been raised by human bandits in the woods.

“From whom?” Annatar asked incredulously.

“Elrond,” he said after a slightly too long pause. He flicked his eyes hopefully to the child on the window seat; Elrond hadn’t so much as twitched. “He survived the first time around, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Annatar agreed after an equally baffled pause. “Forgive me for any indelicacy here, but you do realize that no matter how forsworn the sons of Feanor may be, they do still count as relatives . . . ?”

Right.

And Gil-Galad . . . did not.

Which shouldn’t matter, he told himself firmly. He had survived, hadn’t he? And he was perfectly fine.

Perfectly alive, at any rate. And any of his various moral shortcomings were just down to his personal failings. And the more practical side of his upbringing.

Definitely.

His eyes flicked worriedly to the very pale, very still, very small figure in the corner.

“I don’t suppose you have any advice in that direction?”

(Annatar did, as it turned out.)

(It did not turn out to be enough.)

. . .

He had felt guilty before about lying about his place in the Finwean family tree.

None of it came close to what he felt watching Elrond slowly wasting away.

He had lied and cheated his way to this point, and if this point got Elrond killed -

No.

He could stay here and pray Annatar finished fixing the device before his own deficiencies got Elrond killed.

Or he could take his company and ride hard for Galadriel.

Probably that would be the end of his masquerade; probably all that sharp edged suspicion in her eyes would turn to certainty and that would be that. Definitely of his career and possibly of his life.

But Galadriel was Elrond’s cousin; Galadriel was a mother. Galadriel would know what to do. Elrond would be alright.

(“I’m sure this isn’t necessary,” Annatar said as Gil-Galad’s guards prepared the horses. Elrond had let himself be hauled like a terrifyingly heartbroken statue onto one of them. “You must be a closer relative to him the sons of Feanor were; surely with a few more days of trying to bond with him - ”)

(He considered just blurting it out. ‘No, actually, he might be more closely related to you, considering that maiar blood.’ ‘No, actually, I wouldn’t know Finwe from a dead toad on the ground.’)

(‘No, actually, there’s something terribly wrong with me. Possible more wrong than there was with thrice kin slaying Feanorians.’)

(He smiled, instead, with a closed mouth. “I’m really not father material,” he said. “Lady Galadriel, I’m sure, will prove as ferociously competent as always in my stead.”)

(Annatar did not argue with this.)

. . .

(There weren’t any Feanorian guards with them. Gil-Galad had insisted after what had happened the last time he had let Elrond bring Farande to Eregion. He wasn’t sure if that was for the better or the worse now; if Elrond would be relieved to have a face he recognized or terrified due to how he recognized it.)

(At least that might be better than the terrifyingly hollow look that was currently in his eyes.)

(But it would be better soon, he assured Elrond. They would reach his cousin Galadriel soon, and wouldn’t that be nice?)

(Elrond remained curled in the tightest huddle he could manage by the campfire. He no longer bothered to wince when he was touched.)

. . .

Galadriel met them at the edge of the forest she had made her new home in, so at least the messengers he had sent had managed to find her. She gave her usual shallow courtesies to her nominal king, but her eyes were locked on Elrond.

Now, at last, was the moment to confess.

Gil-Galad slid from his horse. Carefully, oh, so carefully, he helped Elrond down.

His ribs had been less prominent when the Feanorians had sent him to Balar.

“I couldn’t help him,” he said, his quiet voice sounding like the crack of doom through the silence.

“Of course you could not,” Galadriel said.

Of course.

“His fea was orphaned once; it will not accept a replacement again. Not - ” And here, in the face of Elros, even she faltered. “Not under these conditions.”

A different, more dreadful doom wrapped around his heart.

If Celebrimbor had been deemed too difficult to find -

He noticed, dully, that Galadriel had come alone.

And that despite wearing a fine woven cloak against the snap of the late autumn chill she was carrying another one.

And a flute.

“Lady Galadriel,” he said slowly.

“Do you want to help him or not?” she snapped. She paused. “My king.”

“Oh, I want the help,” he said instantly, fervently. “I’ll welcome him into Lindon with open arms if he can do this.”

“Well,” she sniffed. “I don’t know that you need to promise that.”

“Especially since it seems you came well prepared with bribes yourself,” he said, nodding with considerable relief to the goods in her hands.

She looked down at them. “ . . . Yes,” she said. “Bribes.”

What kind of a stupid superpower is Heart anyway?

The post about Frodo from earlier got me thinking about the underuse of Heart as a superpower in modern fantasy, by contrast to perhaps its overuse in older texts.

The idea that I started to get at in the tags is that Frodo is “above average” in a non-standard sort of a way, and that is in compassion. His name, Maura, means Wise, and he’s very deliberately named after Froda, doomed king of the Hathobards, famed as a (failed) peace maker. And that is what makes Frodo “special.” He has other virtues, sure - heading off on the quest because it needs to be done even though he hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing takes a huge amount of gumption. But that if anything goes into “hobbits are just kinda great that way.” The thing that sets Frodo specifically apart is the wisdom to make peace and show compassion. The Taming of Smeagol, which is for one reason or another really the last thing Frodo actually does as Main Character ™ is the single thing that allows the quest to succeed, and it is above and beyond what is normal and expected (contrast Sam’s reaction). Because although Frodo ultimately falls, he does not, in fact, fail. It takes Sam’s loyalty and determination to get them to Mount Doom, and it takes Gollum to get the ring into the volcano. And it took Frodo’s compassion (and Bilbo’s pity) to get Gollum.

And this is a thing about Frodo. He takes mercy on Gollum with the Taming of Smeagol, and he takes mercy on Saruman in the Scouring of the Shire. It’s something he grows and develops into, but you can see the roots of this flavor of Wisdom even in how he reacts to Sam’s eavesdropping in the very beginning (despite the absence of eaves on Bag End). Taking Sam along is the first major step towards ensuring the success of the quest. It’s not just that Frodo needs help, it’s that (with some token stubbornness) he’s wise enough to accept help. Kindness, Mercy, Compassion.

There’s an old style of fairy-tale which I have referred to as a “gift fairy-tale.” And in it, the heroine’s superpower is, once again, kindness. I had a book called Old Bony Legs, which was a version of the Baba Yaga story, and it went about like this. There’s a little girl, who goes to see the witch, and packs a lunch - bread and butter, and a little meat. When she gets to the gate it creaks, and so she gives it her butter to oil her hinges. The gate is grateful and swings easily. She likewise gives her meat to the cat and her bread to the dog, who in return giver her a magic comb and a magic mirror, and instructions on how to use them. When she has to escape (because the wants to eat her), well, the gate opens easily before her, not even creaking to give away her flight, the comb becomes a thick forest, impeding the witch, and the mirror becomes a vast lake, ensuring her escape. There’s a number of these sorts of stories, and the common pattern is this:

random acts of kindness/compassion –> gifts/debts from the powerful –> PROFIT

What makes the hero or heroine special, then, is the decision to be kind. All the magic and power and whatever comes from outside, from the beneficiaries of that kindness. The heroine succeeds not because she is Great, but because she gets help, and she gets help because she is compassionate. Kindness, Mercy, Compassion.

So, my childhood was shaped, even before Tolkien, primarily by impoverished itinerant do-gooders called the Doctor. Let’s talk about the other one. Doctor Doolittle’s superpower is that he can talk to animals, right? WRONG. Doctor Doolittle’s superpower is that he’s a really nice guy. One of the crucially important things in universe is that talking to animals is not an innate ability - anyone can learn it, if it occurs to them to try. Tommy Stubbins, the Doctor’s apprentice, is training to be a great naturalist and he can talk to animals as well, or at least is learning.

The story is this. John Doolittle, successful physician, acquires at some point an African Grey Parrot and names her Polynesia. And, in an act of kindness, rather than training her to repeat a few words, goes all the way and just teaches her English. And she, in return, teaches him Parrot. And, upon realizing that animals have languages and personalities as rich as humans, he gives up his practice and his respectability to be an animal Doctor - not a vet, but a Doctor who can actually communicate with his patients. Because he cares. He gives a voice to the voiceless and then stops and listens to what they have to say. And, importantly, anyone could have done this, but only John Doolittle does, because only John Doolittle cares enough to try.

Dr. Doolittle has no superpowers. He’s small, unassuming, quiet, unsuccessful (by human standards), penniless, a disgrace to his family, a joke to his colleagues, kind to a fault, trusting to the point of naivite, assuming the fundamental goodness of every living thing and returning it without question. And every animal on earth (and on the moon, eventually) knows his name, and would do anything for him. He is the Great Man. And what’s so great about him? Only this: he took the time to be kind. Kindness, Mercy, Compassion.

There was a really fun comic about why all superpowers suck, if you only get one, and the only power that gets you everything without the drawbacks is Being Rich, as long as you don’t waste all your time angsting about your dead parents or trying to kill Superman. But Dr. Doolittle is penniless, and flies to the moon on the back of a giant moth, and moves mountains with the help of some friendly whales. Frodo Baggins sells everything he has to set off into the vast unknown - but he has a magic sword given in friendship by a King of Dwarves, a light when all other lights go out given in friendship by a Queen of Elves, and a loyal friend to wield them both (not to mention a King of Men as a guide through the wilderness). Little Sasha has only her lunch and she gives that away - and yet throws behind her magics powerful enough to defeat Baba Yaga herself. One of my favorite lines in one of my favorite Doctor Who episodes is this:

“We couldn’t change our future - but we talked to people, influenced them, and they changed it for us.”

The best superpower is Heart.