Those Lost Yesterdays by Himring  

Those Lost Yesterdays

Voronwe sits on a flat slab of rock. Occasionally, little waves ripple up the beach to lap at his sandy toes. It is another balmy day on Tol Eressea. The morning sun shines pleasantly. The breeze is gentle. The waters of the bay of Avallone sparkle with light. 

That is not what Voronwe sees before his mind’s eye, however. He is facing straight east, in the direction that most inhabitants of Avallone prefer not to look anymore. He sees the dark storm clouds that hang above the Meneltarma in the distance ripple out westward until all the sky is overcast.  He sees the sea between Tol Eressea and Numenor run inky black, darkness beneath mirroring darkness overhead.  The expectant air is not hot nor cold, and yet somehow it burns.

There is nothing Voronwe can do to prevent the coming storm but still he keeps his lonely vigil. 

He remembers the early days: Elros’s high hopes for Numenor, the planting of the White Tree, their long conversations in the evenings. He remembers sitting discussing history and lore with Vardamir and his grandson, telling them about Tuor’s arrival in Gondolin. He remembers all the others: how so very gradually, almost unnoticeably a chill crept in, even while everyone still received him cordially, over there, how he had not noticed how much things had soured, until a member of the Council got drunk and railed at him at a banquet—the uncomfortable silence in the room, as he recognized that too many others were thinking along the same lines and had just been polite to say so, and how things had worsened after that.

One elf, even the erstwhile companion of Tuor of the House of the Wing, could not be enough to stem the black tide, but Voronwe still feels he has let Tuor down, he has let Elros and his family down, and all his friends in early Numenor. There must have been mistakes he made, things he could have said and done that would have made a difference, slowed things down at least.

It has been more than three thousand years. It is Voronwe who remembers Elros vividly; to the kings of Numenor who hold the Sceptre now, although Elros was their ancestor and his tomb looms majestic in Noirinan, he is just a name in a history book.

Chapter End Notes

If you are wondering about the references to Tuor: this is set in a timeline in which Tuor lives but is unable to set foot in Numenor and able to meet even with Voronwe only occasionally (see my fic A Halt in a Long Voyage).

This ficlet relates to my earlier ideas for the unwritten second chapter of The Place, the People. But in this version, the relevance to the plot does not become evident (and I don't anticipate being able to continue and make things clear soon); therefore, I decided to post it separately.