Faking It

“You do not seem to realize what you’re asking me to do.” 

“Nay, Tôr-en-adar. It is you who chooses to ignore the magnitude of my distress.”

“I assure you, pen-neth, you are imagining demons and dragons where there are naught but honorable Men and Elves.”

“You needn’t ridicule my concerns thusly, Tôr-en-adar. You have sat in this council before and told me afterwards how well and thoroughly you abhorred it. Don’t try to deny it!”

Elrond stood from his perch on the edge of the young Man’s bed, turning away quickly with a swirl of his formal robes. “Nay, I’ll not deny it, Vardamir, though I can assure you that on the next occasion I will keep my remarks to myself, that you may not have the opportunity to fling them back in my face.”

“And on the next occasion I too shall keep my own counsel, rather than sharing my fear and risking more of your scorn!”

Vardamir regarded his uncle’s rigid shoulders, suddenly aware that his comment had almost certainly done no good for his cause. Indeed, he could tell that his arrow had found a mark, going deeper than he’d imagined it might. He sighed, worrying his bottom lip like a hound with a well-chewed femur, and wondered what to do.

Of course, he could simply sit in council as commanded by the High King, his uncle Gil-galad. In truth, ‘twas his duty and honor to replace his absent father and represent the future Men of Numenor. But it wasn’t fair, and he sulked over it. He’d made the journey to Mithlond with Elros voluntarily, his only objective to spend time with Elrond, his mentor and beloved uncle. Now he was being pressed into a service that he was beginning to detest with every fiber of his being. To make matters worse, sitting in council meant he was denied precious time in Círdan’s library with his tôr-en-adar.

It had been many months since he’d returned from a long sojourn in Forlond, where he had delighted in studying the healing arts and writing historical dissertations under the close eye of the young but already notoriously learned half-elf. Vardamir had been loathe to leave the High King’s keep for his home in Harlond, but his father had insisted he return to continue his studies and training as a future leader of Men.

So Gil-galad and Elrond sent him on his way, although he could tell that they too wished he might remain in their care. His king gifted him with several treasured tomes from his extensive library, as well as the thesis sentence and word count of a paper he expected from the young mortal on the occasion of their next meeting. For his part, his half-Elven uncle had given him naught but praise for his past efforts, saying he was destined to be a gifted scholar and healer in his own right. Vardamir glowed with pride at Elrond’s compliments, wishing that his own father placed as much value on such studies as he did on weapons training and diplomacy.

But the young Man was still eager to please Elros, although he often found the task much less pleasant than pleasing his father’s twin. Upon his return to Harlond, he spent as much time as Elros required in meetings and councils, as well as on the practice fields, hoping that simply doing his duty would teach him to enjoy it.

Although his performance was not as brilliant as in the library, he made progress, so much so that his father trusted him more and more to represent his interests in various endeavors related to their departure, a trust which Vardamir already regretted earning. Indeed, his fear of not living up to Elros’ expectations meant that he always approached such occasions with a profound anxiety that he did his best to hide from his father.

Unfortunately, upon arriving in Mithlond, Vardamir found himself on duty once again, when his father decided to journey east. While awaiting the departure for the Land of Gift, great numbers of Men had moved closer to the Grey Havens, to help in preparations and ready themselves to sail west. As their numbers swelled, so did the risk of seemingly petty conflicts. If Elros was available; he was ever eager to meet with his future subjects and aid in settling their disputes, that they might embark for their new homeland a united people.

Although he wished to travel east to aid in the peacemaking, the lord of Harlond and future King of Numenor would have been hard pressed to justify his absence from the council, had his heir not been available to take his place.

The previous evening, Vardamir felt growing dismay at the prospect of sitting in this council as a participant rather than an observer. To his mind it was a dreadful task, the very idea leaving him anxious and almost physically unwell. He struggled to keep his composure as he tried to persuade his father not to leave Mithlond as he seemed determined to do.

“Ada, these Men have settled a number of their disputes amongst themselves, and quite equitably, as you’ve already remarked. Why must you leave now, with the council planned for the morrow?”

Elros smiled at his heir, knowing his still sizable discomfiture with diplomacy and meetings, although he did not really understand its true immensity. He did know that if the lad could find an out, he would. “In truth, Vardamir, ‘must’ is perhaps too strong a term. However, I see this not only as an opportunity to solidify the unity of our people but also justify their reliance on the wisdom of their future king. We know not the dangers that may await over the sea, and I would give these valiant Men every occasion to know my commitment to our endeavor, to our future.”

“Well spoken, muindor.” Gil-gahad clapped his younger foster brother on the shoulder.

“Indeed, Ada, I understand why this mission must take precedence. Why, then, may I not accompany you? There’s as much to be learned from these disputes as in the council meeting.”

“Are you quite sure of that, ion nin?” Elros wore a kind but serious expression as he looked into the anxious face of his heir. In truth, the boy was right, but the problem lay elsewhere, as Elros was sure the lad knew. “Indeed, the council will provide an excellent training ground for your diplomacy skills, especially if I am not there for you to rely upon.”

Seeing Vardamir’s panicked expression, Gil-gahad hastened to reassure the young mortal. “Fear not, nephew. Remember that I will be there to assist if necessary. In the absence of your adar, Elrond will also attend, to make sure that things go as smoothly as possible.” He looked pointedly at his brother, who now wore a strained expression but nodded his assent.

But Vardamir was far from reassured, and worse, he could tell his arguments were falling on deaf ears. His daeradar Círdan, sitting in a chair by the fire as he listened to the debate, had already expressed his considered opinion that Elros’ decision was well-made, and Vardamir’s capacity for diplomacy more than adequate for the routine council meeting. Gil-gahad and Elros were discussing the details of the Men’s disputes as Elrond stood by the fireplace, alternating following their conversation and gazing sympathetically at his favorite nephew.

Seeing that look, knowing his half-elven uncle’s own distaste for negotiations, Vardamir grew thoughtful as a plan began to take form in his mind….

~~*~.~*~.~*~.~*~~

The next morning, when a servant came to wake the young mortal, she found him still abed, red-faced and perspiring. Startled, Eirien stayed back near the doorway, calling out softly to the still slumbering boy. “Master Vardamir, what ails you?”

Turning his head slowly, Vardamir lifted his heavy lids to level a glassy-eyed gaze at the fearful housemaid. “Wha… Oh, aye, ‘tis morning…at last…”

“Master Vardamir?”

Heaving a sigh, the young man raised a hand toward the servant. Though already out of reach, the girl inched backward at the gesture.

Vardamir closed his eyes and rested both hands on his blankets. “Eirien…you must fetch my uncle Elrond. I fear I’ve taken ill…he is the only healer I trust.”

“Aye, hîr neth . At once.”

“Only Elrond, do you hear? Only Elrond…” Vardamir’s voice trailed off, and Eirien rushed out the door, surely making haste to bring the peredhel as requested.

When Elrond appeared in Vardamir’s doorway, Eirien at his heels, he quickly took in his nephew’s ragged appearance and turned to the young servant. “Wait here just a moment, please, Eirien. I wish to determine the nature of my nephew’s condition before informing the king.”

“Aye, hîr nin.”

Elrond closed the door and crossed to the bed, noting the damp locks surrounding Vardamir’s rosy face. His breathing seemed labored, his eyes closed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the peredhel whispered softly, “Vardamir. Wake up, lad.”

A wide grin suddenly suffusing his boyish features, Vardamir opened his eyes and laughed out loud at Elrond’s shocked expression. “Aye, I’m awake, Tôr-en-adar, but I’m not feeling so well!”

The peredhel leaned away as the lad pushed down the covers and sat up against the headboard, in perfect health to all appearances. Recovering from his initial shock, Elrond arched a brow at his nephew. “What’s the meaning of this, tithen pen?”

“I told you, hîr nin. I’m not feeling well.” He ducked his head, but not quick enough to hide a grin. “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss the council meeting.”

Silence reigned, and Vardamir finally raised his head to meet his uncle’s furious eyes. Realizing that he’d probably miscalculated, he ducked his head again. “I’m sorry, Tôr-en-adar. Please don’t be mad at me.”

“Don’t be mad at you? Don’t be mad? You brought me flying to your bedside, sick with worry. You’re apparently trying to use me to get out of fulfilling your duty to your father and your king. You’re willing to compromise my good name to satisfy your childish whims. And I’m not even allowed to vent my just anger? Who do you take me for, Vardamir?”

The mortal kept his face down, first tears already pricking his eyes to drop on the blanket. “Nay, ‘tis not childish! ‘Tis simply…well…I am sorry, hîr nin. I thought… I thought you would help me because…because you know how I feel. I thought that you, of all people, would understand.”

Elrond sucked in a breath, then slowly expelled it. He sat quietly a moment as the young man dashed away his tears with the back of one hand. The peredhel reached to take Vardamir’s hands in his. They were not rough, certainly, but not as soft as his own. He rubbed the calluses on the boy’s right index and thumb, and swept his own thumb slowly over the ink stains there.

“You do not like to speak in council.” Elrond’s voice was quiet but sure, all traces of anger vanished.

“Nay, Tôr-en-adar. I…I fear it.”

“You wish that your words flowed as easily from your lips as from your quill…You fear embarrassing yourself, and your father.”

Vardamir looked up cautiously at his uncle, but found the earlier condemnation gone from his striking features. “Aye. I knew that you would understand, Tôr-en-adar. And I’m sorry for trying to use you. ‘Twas unjust.”

“Aye, nephew, ‘twas badly done.”

“Worse for me, it didn’t work.” Vardamir looked up at his startled uncle. “You understand, I can see it in your eyes. But still you will not help me.”

Elrond sighed and shook his head slowly.“You do not seem to realize what you’re asking me to do.” 

“Nay, Tôr-en-adar. It is you who chooses to ignore the magnitude of my distress.”

“I assure you, tithen pen, you are imagining demons and dragons where there are naught but honorable Men and Elves.”

“You needn’t ridicule my concerns thusly, Tôr-en-adar. You have sat in this council before and told me afterwards how well and thoroughly you abhorred it. Don’t try to deny it!”

Elrond stood from his perch on the edge of the young man’s bed, turning away with a swirl of his formal robes. “Nay, I’ll not deny it, Vardamir, though I can assure you that on the next occasion I will keep my remarks to myself, that you may not have the opportunity to fling them back in my face.”

“And on the next occasion I too shall keep my own counsel, rather than sharing my fear and risking more of your scorn!”

Vardamir watched his uncle’s back, considering the alternatives but knowing that he really had little choice. If Elrond refused to help him, sitting in council was inevitable. Worse, he alone would represent to the Men of Numenor and speak for their interests. To compound matters, his uncle the High King would be there to witness his inevitable dishonor as he faltered for words, voice shaking with barely contained fright. The very idea made his throat close even as his breathing sped up, anxiety pumping through his body and contracting his every muscle.

Turning back toward the bed, Elrond saw his nephew on the verge of hyperventilating, a fearful expression darkening his handsome face as his hands forcefully twisted the blanket. In that instant, the peredhel made his decision.

“There is no time to convince Gil-gahad, if indeed my brother could be persuaded to release you from the duty left you by Elros.”

Vardamir looked up, a ray of hope kindled in his tear-washed eyes, as his uncle continued to speak. “I’ll mix you a sleeping draught to make sure you stay abed.”

“’Tis not necessary, Tôr-en-adar! I can stay abed all day without your potions.”

Elrond scowled. “And manage to look as ill as you did when I arrived? Nay, I would be assured that you will not betray your good health through carelessness. You will sleep, and when you wake, the ‘fever’ will be gone, and we shall thank the Valar.”

“Must I sleep all day, then?”

“Aye, tithen pen, you must. And do not try to sway me with that sorrowful pout! I assure you that I’ve not the humor for it.”

“Aye, Tôr-en-adar...and thank you.”

“Vardamir, I would help you overcome this irrational fear. ‘Tis dreadful, to be sure, but not incurable, as I am well aware.” Elrond’s expression grew solemn. “I only wish that you had spoken to me of it before now. I do not want to imagine what would transpire if we were so unlucky as to be found out.”

The half-elf moved to the door, then looked back at his nephew. “Lie back and close your eyes. I must speak to the servant.”

Vardamir did as his uncle bid, savoring the sweet relief that still bathed his body in languid satisfaction. He sighed, wishing again that those squabbling Edain had not disturbed his plans, yet knowing in his heart that the accusation was misplaced. It was not the Men but Fate, it seemed, who had dealt him an unpleasant hand; fortunately, he had been able to turn his luck.

~~*~.~*~.~*~.~*~~

“The fever did nothing to check the lad’s appetite, it seems.”

Vardamir, mouth full, managed to grin up at his daeradar, who stood shaking his head in disbelief. The young mortal was finishing up his second tray with gusto, and showed no signs of slowing down. Círdan glanced over to Elrond at the window, lost in his inner musings, it seemed. Gil-gahad had pulled a chair up to the bed and seemed delighted that his nephew’s earlier illness had been nothing more serious than a sudden high fever.

“’Tis only common sense, Ada. The boy’s not eaten since evening meal yesterday. Finish that up, nephew. Shall I call Eirien to bring you up another?”

“Nay, hîr nin.” Vardamir glanced over at Elrond, who’d roused from his musings to turn his brows down in direction of the bed. “Yet, perhaps there is still some dessert?”

“Aye, tithen pen, Cook made a delicious fruit salad with spiced wine. I shall send for it.”

“He doesn’t need fruit salad, or wine!”

Gil-gahad looked over at his little brother, startled at his gruff tone. “Indeed, muindor? Might it undo his healing?” The High King looked quizzically at Elrond, who approached the bed.

Elrond stood frowning down at the young mortal, who busied himself with arranging the tray and flicking off crumbs, deliberately ignoring the glare from the half-elf who towered over him. “Aye, Gil-gahad. I fear it might.”

Vardamir looked up at his uncle, disappointment clouding his bright eyes. Gil-gahad looked from one to the other. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“In truth, I fear that all this food and company might be overwhelming our patient. We must remember how ill he was only hours ago, and it’s scarcely been an hour since he woke up.”

Gil-gahad nodded at his brother. “Very sensible, muindor. We’ll leave you to your rest, Vardamir, that you might be in perfect health for tomorrow’s council.”

The young man’s eyes widened in shock. “To - tomorrow’s council, hîr nin?”

“Aye, tithen pen. Did Elros not mention it? ‘Tis often enough that this council of Elves and Men runs longer than a single day. The longest I’ve attended lasted three days, although the elders tell of councils lasting a full week. Those were darker times, though.”

Gil-gahad returned his chair to its place near the far wall, as Vardamir sat unmoving, eyes down on the tray before him. Elrond, seeing that Círdan was considering his daerion thoughtfully, spoke quickly. “I’ll just see that my patient’s settled comfortably for the night.”

“Then I shall bid you pleasant dreams, nephew. It eases my heart to know that you have shaken off this illness.” Gil-gahad spoke sincerely, his love for his brother’s heir evident in his voice and his expression.

Vardamir managed to meet the gaze of the High King, but his good humor had faded measurably. “Aye, hîr nin. Good night.”

Elrond moved between them, anxious that the young mortal’s sadness not be remarked upon. He scooped up the tray and placed it in his brother’s hands. “Put this on the table in the hall, muindor, so that Vardamir will not be disturbed.”

As Gil-gahad moved to the door, Elrond kept his body between his ada and Vardamir, noting the look on the face of his sharp-eyed foster father. He feared that it was too late; his suspicions seemed to have been aroused. Círdan put his hand on Elrond’s back, deliberately moving him out of the way so that he might approach the bed. “Look at me, tithen pen. All is well?” he asked when the young man complied.

“Aye, Daeradar…I’m just tired.”

“And missing his dessert, I wager.” Gil-gahad called from the doorway. “Don’t worry overmuch, nephew. There will be more on the morrow.”

“Aye.” Círdan watched as Vardamir lifted his blankets and stretched out on the bed, Elrond moving quickly to smooth the covers over and tuck them in. Neither looked up to meet his gaze. “Rest well, tithen pen.”

“Thank you. Good night, Daeradar.”

At last Elrond could breathe easier, alone again with his formerly favorite nephew, who had now become a source of festering guilt. Coming after the long, tedious day sitting in council, this evening meal in the sick room had worn him to the very last nerve. He felt ready to scream the news of his transgression from the rooftops, if only it would ease his remorseful heart. Shutting the door after his ada, he rounded on Vardamir with barely contained frustration.

“ ‘Some dessert?’ By the Valar, nephew, you have precious little sense of self-preservation! Do you seek to be discovered in this fabrication?”

Ignoring Elrond’s rebuke, Vardamir spoke softly. “I hadn’t thought the council might sit more than one day. What now, Tôr-en-adar?”

Elrond’s mouth dropped open in shock. “What now? Why, you must go to the council tomorrow, that is ‘what’! Indeed!”

“But if I took another sleeping draught - ”

“Curse the sleeping draught! I was beyond foolish to have given it to you in the first place, and I have regretted the act all the length of this interminable day. No more. I am through. Just be thankful that I am yet cowardly enough to fear confessing this conspiracy, although I may yet change my mind.”

“Nay, Tôr-en-adar, you must not betray me!”

“Hush, Varadamir. Do not fear. To betray you is to betray myself, and if indeed I manage to salvage some shred of courage to expose this falsehood, I would convince you as well before doing it.”

“Thank you, Tôr-en-adar.”

“By all things blessed, do not thank me, Vardamir! ‘Tis a bad piece of business, and I won’t repeat it. May the Valar help me, this is the last time I allow my sentiments to sway my reason!”

Reassured that his uncle would be silent on the matter, Vardamir let it drop, as he had absolutely no interest in confession. Even as he bid Elrond good night, assuring him of his intention to face his fears and sit in council the next day, he was plotting his way out of it…

~~*~.~*~.~*~.~*~~

to be continued