“this time, although it’s the last time / i’ll be shaking but i’ll hold my head up high”
Círdan the Shipwright stood before Elrond in the shattered bowl of the hill in which Isildur had slain Sauron. The fallen Maia’s body was gone, his soul rent to tatters of wind and dust and ash amidst the wind and dust and ash of his former domain, all that remained the empty husk of his obsidian armor. Beside the armor, though, lay the bodies of Elendil, High King of Gondor and Arnor, and Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor East of the Sea.
Isildur stood beside Elrond and Círdan, Sauron’s Ring clutched in one hand, Elendil’s crown already upon his brow. “Come, Elrond,” Isildur said, taking one step forward, then another, and reaching out to clasp his friend and battle brother’s shoulder. “Together you and I must take up the mantle of kingship and reunite our peoples against the darkness that we now have a chance to dispel.”
But I do not want the crown, Elrond yearned to say. I never wanted it.
Upon his finger, Vilya was warm and hot, hot, hot, a brilliant blue star for his eyes alone. She blazed, in mourning and in triumph all at once—in mourning for the bearer she had lost, in triumph for the death of the one who had slain him. This—this Ring of ancient and untold power—was all the mantle of leadership Elrond desired.
“Elrond,” Círdan said softly. “We need you, now as much as—if not more than—ever. Your people need a king, for today even if not for tomorrow.”
Elrond, shaking, lifted his head high. “Very well,” he said softly, voice hoarse and ragged from the screams that had been torn from his throat as Sauron tried to tear his fёa from his body, not ten minutes before. “Today, they shall have a king.” He looked at Círdan, then Isildur, then Círdan again. “But tomorrow,” he said softly, “tomorrow they shall not.”
“So be it,” said Círdan. “Now come, my lord,” he said, and lifted his hands. In them, to Elrond’s surprise, was Gil-galad’s crown. “Let us send these foul beasts far from this land.”
