Author: Project Autumn.

Disclaimer: Lord Elrond owns Rivendell, and Mr. Tolkien owns them both. Cualle and Varyar are © Project Autumn, 2004.

A/N: Re-published in 2008 in order to clean up formatting errors.

--The Last Verse for Rivendell--

"A mortal?"

"Yes, my Lord. A young lady."

(A slow rustle of summer branches; a distant wind chime.)

"Why so quiet, my messenger? Come; surely you are not suddenly afraid of me."

"I am only afraid of what you might say."

"Varyar… you know that she cannot dwell here."

"But my Lord! …I mean no disrespect, but I had long believed that we welcomed all creatures whose paths crossed ours."

"I did not say we would turn her away, Varyar. Indeed she is welcome, and shall rest and be at ease here for a time. Hear me again, and understand me: She may stay briefly in Rivendell. But she cannot dwell in Rivendell."

Elrond, Elven Lord of Rivendell, blinked. It was in this way that an entire half-century slipped from Middle Earth in front of his eyes.

Now, to the race of Men, such a statement would be accepted only as poetic metaphor. They can never fully understand how hastily Time can ride. You see, mortals are born, and mortals die; countless lifetimes are gained and spent in the passage of such years. They feel the weight of shorter time intervals, then, and feel them more strongly, because they know - and are constantly reminded - that their own existences are short. But to everlasting creatures such as Elrond, years and even decades are as seconds: measured and suddenly gone. Thus it is true that a few Elf-blinks can encompass the entire world of one who counts his days and walks in the shadow of his days' ends. To realize this tragedy is to be wiser than most immortals. And Lord Elrond is incredibly wise.

He blinked once more. This time, however, there were no battalions of years rushing past him. Instead, the moment seemed to float in his mind like a dandelion seed that refused to land. In Elrond's dismay he actually believed that it might last forever – that Time had tired, and staggered, and fallen asleep, and that though fifty glorious years could flash and fade on his eyelids, this one unpleasant moment would never dim.

Dandelions. He smiled softly despite himself, and his pain was slightly soothed. Dandelions.

He still loved the little weed, even as they rested over the mound that lay at his feet.

"Cualle!"

The young woman looked up from her parchment.

"Varyar!" she echoed.

It was a magnificent autumn afternoon in Rivendell. The sun and the changing leaves seemed to guild all of Middle Earth from horizon to horizon, and in such weather the gold-washed beauty of an Elves' domain is staggering. It was strange, then, to find only these two companions roaming about in their Lord's open courtyard. Every other resident was apparently busy elsewhere – doing Elfish things, one would suppose, though Cualle wouldn't know much about what those things actually were. Varyar would, of course; and that would probably explain why he wasn't doing them.

He trotted swiftly to his friend with a lightness that only Elves and deer possess. Beneath a great tree just beyond the courtyard circle she sat, sprinkled with brown-gold leaves and smudges of ink and dandelions. She was terribly fond of dandelions. A broom was resting in the grass.

"Cualle," he repeated, using the Elven name she had been given. "Shouldn't you be sweeping the grounds?"

The girl brushed her hair behind her ears. More ink smeared. "Of course," she answered, "but I really had to write these thoughts down before I lost them."

Varyar peered at her parchment. Cualle covered it.

"You cannot hide things from the eyes of Elves," he grinned.

"Then do you think perhaps the others have noticed you aren't with them?"

Varyar raised an amused eyebrow. "Attendance was optional."

"What are they doing, then?"

"Oh, Elfish things, one would suppose."

Cualle smiled at his ambiguous smirk. She went back to her parchment. "You're impossible."

"If I were not-possible, I would not exist." And with that, he dropped nimbly next to her.

The wind and slanted sunlight danced on their hair, his chestnut and hers yellowish-tan. Nature always seemed to give Varyar's a magnificent glow. Cualle's was like the fallen leaves. "More verse?" Varyar asked seriously.

"Yes," she replied, without looking up. She was scouring her written words as if she was searching for a lost trinket in the dark. "I'm not sure it's working, though. Something… something's off, I think. Not there yet. Or perhaps it's buried beneath the wrong words." She sighed.

The Elf passed a quick eye over her writings. He could see what she meant. There was definitely something that was buried, or missing, or both - but he would never tell her that. Nor would he tell her that he felt the same was true about all of her verses, or that most of the other Elves shared his same sentiments. They all appreciated her efforts, of course, and Varyar himself more than the others, but there was no denying that there was always something wrong with them. They weren't like the beautiful Elven poems of new or old. In fact, the only Elf who really embraced them was Lord Elrond. At least someone did. But why was anyone's guess.

"Maybe it'll come to me," Cualle said after a long pause.

"Maybe as you sweep the grounds," the Elf added.

The girl laughed. "Fine." She got up, took her broom in her hands, and gave her companion a good-natured wallop.

"Do not tempt the anger of the Elves!" he shouted jokingly, but Cualle was already pretending to ignore him.

"I don't understand, my Lord. She will be happy here. All who come are."

"Indeed."

"And you will not let her remain in our care? Can you possibly mean to keep this eternal happiness from her?"

"Her very nature will keep it from her, Varyar."

"I still do not understand."

(A sigh tinted with sadness.)

"You soon will. You have spoken only the truth, but your vision is yet angled.

"Yes, all may dance through the haven of Rivendell with a light heart, feeling the joy of life play on their fingertips and hair. But you can do something that this girl, and countless others, can never do. You can rejoice – though perhaps you do not do so consciously, for the blessed often overlook their blessings – in the knowledge that your dance will never tire. Mortals, in being what they are, can never experience that essence of perfect happiness. Their steps will inevitably fade, and they know this."

"But could we not let her live here, and at least be happy to the end of her days?"

"If she lingers here for the remainder of her life, I promise you she will not be."

A tall figure was walking upon the snow like a spirit might, making no sound or mark. It was still a dark morning; not one star had yet faded in the grey onset of dawn. The figure was left alone to ponder things: things that shouldn't have been, things that were, and to think on every single moment it had had to change them both. It was left alone to ponder how deeply it presently disliked itself.

That morning Elrond had jerked awake as if he had been struck, and for a moment had believed that Celebrían was clutching at his robes, having never before been so disoriented and frightened with the shattering of a mid-night dream. But it was not she.

"Cualle! Cualle, little girl!" he had uttered with restrained alarm as he scrambled to a sitting position, grasping the mortal's upper arms in an attempt to steady and support her. She was half kneeling on the floor, and weeping like one weeps when they try to subdue a great tide. He felt a great movement inside of himself. He did not like to see such sorrow in anyone, and especially in someone that had grown close to his heart.

And Elrond had closed his eyes when he realized. She had looked ahead to her footsteps fading beneath her. She had come to it on her own. How could he have been so careless? So unthinking? He should never have let her stay so long, never have let her realize. He had never meant to. The pain of ending her stay would have been nothing compared to this. Did his own words mean nothing to him? Were his arguments against Varyar nothing but empty, meaningless shells? And oh, to think on Varyar! His suffering too will be swift and terrible. Elrond had meant well, he knew. Cualle had been happy, and he and others had delighted in her, and it was for those good things that he had delayed. But he also knew he had been a fool; he had left the gentle mortal to unlock the despair he long knew Rivendell held for her. Her cries wracked his soul like arrows.

"O! Lord Elrond," she sobbed with such despairing force, "to know that I must leave this perfect place and this Middle Earth one day, even as I feel it under my feet, and to think of that inevitable moment when my spirit will release and I will have to close my eyes upon my wonderful Elven friends, and you, forever, even as they and you presently make me smile – I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it…"

He had let her face rest on his knees and he had stroked her head, until her sorrow had ebbed.

And so it came: the Day of Parting. The Elves of Rivendell would gather together on the great stairs of their domain, offering little gifts and kind words and waves, and drifting in the little mist of sadness brushing over them, as the little mortal went on her way. They would think of the dear thing for a small time, but would soon return to their Elfish things and Elfish lives. They would remember her fondly, of course. But they would not miss her.

All of that was to happen later, however. At the current moment, the young woman was standing before Elrond in his chambers, and he before the her. His eyes drifted from hers to the piece of parchment in her hands.

"Your last poem?" he asked gently.

"Yes," she sighed. "The last one for Rivendell."

"The Elves must hear it, then. They would love to hear it before your Parting."

"No they wouldn't," the girl laughed. It wasn't a laugh of mirth. "I know they never liked my verse. I will not read it."

Elrond looked back at her with a gaze so layered with emotions it was overwhelming. It was like staring out into the most open meadow you could imagine, a meadow so open it ended past all visible horizons.

"Do not take it to heart," he said gently. "They did not understand them, Cualle. They are Elves. They cannot feel what you feel, that knowledge of limited days, the need to hold to the present because it is ever slipping away. Their present lasts forever."

Cualle looked at him with an unreadable expression – precisely the kind Lord Elrond was good at reading.

"Oh, I loved your poems indeed," he answered. "They connected with me in a way that many Elves can never comprehend. It is true," he answered when he caught the look on Cualle's face, "that the blood of Men runs in my veins. A small amount, but enough to let me feel something of what you feel, at times." He smiled. It was the most comforting smile one could imagine.

And then Cualle did not know quite what to do. She began to feel the suffocating inevitability of her departure, and with it came the sudden doubt that all she had decided was a mistake. She looked at the ground. Surely the pain of remaining in Rivendell could be nothing compared to this.

"Now that it has come to it," she whispered sadly, "I do not want to leave."

The Elven Lord took a few regal strides forward, put the girl's chin in his palm, and tilted her gaze towards his. "You must," he answered. "I did not name you 'Little Dove' for nothing. Fly to where there are things to be done, not pointless tasks like sweeping courtyards to keep one busy. You will only find rest in unrest, in the belief that there is something more, that there is something to work for, something to be won. Such is the valiant struggle of Men." His face was glowing with affection. "Take comfort in this: I will not forget you, and I will miss you."

She handed him the parchment. He handed her a dandelion.

The girl hugged him, and wept again, and smeared ink on his robes.

"It is not only for her sake that I limit her time, Varyar."

"Oh?"

"Try not to get attached to her. To live with the grief of a good friend's departure is hard enough. But to have a good friend pass beyond your realm, to know you will never see them again? It is torture. Unbearable."

"You are asking the impossible, my Lord. You are asking that we take in a being but forge no ties with her. Even if we could do so, neither Elves nor this girl would be happy in that arrangement."

"And alas, even to create the happy bonds is to sentence both to sadness. In either end, her visit will only bring pain."

"Then why do you even allow yourself the choice of letting her stay?"

(A weary, defeated glance.)

"Because when a gentle creature crosses my path, the ties have already been forged. I cannot turn her away."

"My Lord, now you see my point."

"Then see mine: when the path ends, Varyar, we will bless this day in the same breath that we rue it."

The Lord of Rivendell would not have denied the amount of sorrow he felt in regards to Cualle, if someone had asked. Nor would he have denied that he did not truly realize how much he enjoyed her presence until he saw her figure flying from his Elven sight. That was the small trace of Mankind in his blood, warmongering within him again. He had felt like he was parting with a favorite niece.

Varyar had taken it hard, to Elrond's dismay. The thought of never seeing his good friend again ate away at him. So it was that shortly after - and this time to Elrond's relief - Varyar had actually set out to follow her. Elrond had felt a little better, then, when he watched his faithful messenger take the same path beyond his sight. He would miss them both, but at least neither was now alone. The birds eventually brought news that he had found her.

The benevolent Elf blinked once more, and returned to his endless present. The dandelion mound was still there, the mound that he had not seen or known of until this day. It had not slipped from Middle Earth with his mighty Elf-blink. He knew it would not for quite some time.

The pain was great, but not so terribly great anymore. He knelt down in front of the flowers and laid a gentle hand on them.

"Dear little girl, I hope that in the end you found everything you were looking for. A great happiness is indeed worth a great sorrow, for without deep sorrow there is no great happiness. But this end is not one for tragic songs, I feel. It does not close on a bitter note. The notes are resolved, for Varyar goes with you, and you will be remembered for the rest of my Elven days. As long as dandelions bloom, I will think of you."

Then the Elven Lord of Rivendell rose, and paused, and strode quietly away.

--Fin--