On the Shores of Valinor by Maybe
Summary: In the land of Valinor, Elrond meets someone believed long lost to him. Nominated for the 2003 My Precious Awards, and a finalist in the 2004 Mithril Awards.
Disclaimer: The characters and world are the creation of Tolkien and belong to him. New Line Cinema also has rights to them, which I cannot claim. No copyright infringement or offence intended by the use of them. No profit made.
Authors Notes: This is set after Return of the King, when Elrond and other elves of Middle-earth have departed for the West and the Undying Lands.
Publishers Notes: This story has been reposted under the collection 'An Absent Author' by the requests of readers, as this story has become available only by limited sources, and has been published to be read online here with permission of the author.
"The further you run, the more you recall,
The loss of your innocence, after the fall."
(October Project - After the Fall)
Prologue
He signed his name without his title, and sat looking at the curling script upon the page. Over familiarity with his own hand made strange the individual crafting of the letters. It had been so long since he, amidst official paperwork, had held no status to claim it. By his father's rank alone which had grown great in the crescendo that brought the First Age to an end he had been recognised, and partially for running wild with Feanor's sons, though that choice had not been his own. Deserted by them, he had made the choice to walk into eternity and the court of the High King as merely Elrond. But therein, with Gil-galad's guidance, he had ascended, his talents as a scholar quickly raising him to loremaster, then healer – by Gil-galad's deflection – and finally the herald of the high king. Before the fiery close of another Age he had built the house in which he now sat, and become Master of Imladris, Lindon's second stronghold. Over four thousand years he had held that place and now, at the closing of the Third Age, it was relinquished. This final letter signed and sealed upon a more personal note the coming of his sons into their inheritance: lords Elladan and Elrohir now the Masters of Imladris. Tomorrow, he would ride out of his valley for the final time.
He knew he need not go, that he could remain in the dwindling sanctuary of his creation. But to do that was to make a choice: to become, if not mortal, then nearly so; in time those who remained here would fade, as the world turned over to the Second Born. There was curious comfort, he discovered, to impress the seal of Imladris into the hot wax and close the letter. He was perhaps the only elf to have ever made that choice before, when his path parted from his twin at the beginning of the Second Age. Peredhel in name and nature, Elrond's ancestry mixed the blood of mortals and that of elf kind in equal measure, as such, and as it had been to his parents, his choice at majority had been simple: to adjoin himself to one race and with it take death or eternity. Elrond's lips turned up in a wry smile: a simple choice indeed. Eternity lay, endless, behind and before. Yet as he placed the letter upon the final stack of completed papers, he felt the weight of the world lift a little off his shoulders. Twice confronted with the 'impossible' choice, he had made the same decision.
His gaze settled upon his handiwork, and as it did so it occurred to him that the papers were disarrayed. Reaching a hand to straighten them, he found the leaf before him written in a foreign tongue: Quenya. The language of the kinslayers had long been forbidden in Middle-earth, but as his hands moved to lift sheet after sheet he could find no words of Sindarin inscribed. A frown passed like a shadow across his brow. As he raised his eyes, he realised that the familiar grey stone of Imladris' walls was slowly fading to the shimmering white of chalk.
Elrond ran his fingers over the grain of his desk; the wood was newly crafted unlike the one he had worked at for the better part of two centuries yet another exact copy of the one he had designed to suit himself in Imladris. He turned in his chair to find the room strange to him. The windows opened eastwards to the mist-veiled oceans. The swell of music rose with every wave, humming along his veins as he focused upon it; yet absence lay where before there had been the persistent, suppressed desire to cross it. The chamber itself was wide and airy, beams of sunlight warming the interior to shades of gold and scattering across the white sheets of the bed. The armour he had not used since the Last Alliance stood in the alcove, beneath the banner of the Lindon shining with the twelve stars of its high king's shield. Upon the shelf above the dresser were his eclectic collection of bottles and bundles of raw herbs that filled the room with the distinctive scents of sage, vervain, and mint. The windows reached almost to the floor, a low balcony visible beyond the veiled drapes that ghosted inward with the sea breeze. Set against the sections of wall that separated the three windows were tall bookcases, the most prized of his extensive library in Imladris building a new wall within the first.
Curious, Elrond rose to his feet and, as he stepped into the first line of sunbeams, as soft knock preceded the opening of the chamber door. Celebrían left the door open as she entered. Cupped in her hand she bore a tiny vial that outshone the daylight, the pure white glow of Earendil's star trapped inside the crystal. She smiled at him and shook her head.
"It's late," she said softly, "You should be resting."
Elrond glanced away from the starlight to the day beyond the window, and then back to Celebrían, who had set down the crystal upon the bedside table and was seated upon the white sheets, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from them. She lifted her eyes as he frowned.
"Celebrían," Elrond said, "It's still light."
"The sun doesn't go down anymore."
From the doorway a second voice spoke and Elrond whirled to face it. Distantly he was conscious of his heart slamming up into his throat, of his eyes filling until he was blinded, but he was aware that he stood quite still, a smile upon his lips, unsurprised by the arrival. Gil-galad stepped into the room. He was garbed quite simply in cobalt breeches above dark leather boots, his tunic unadorned save the crest of his former kingdom emblazoned upon the front in gold thread. The only reminder of his status was the mithril circlet crowning his dark hair.
Elrond looked between his king and his wife.
"I don't understand."
Celebrían half-smiled, lifting her eyes to meet Gil-galad's. They glanced toward him, secret knowledge warming their eyes, and spoke in unison.
"You will."
The papers on his desk came into focus before him and Elrond blinked at the grey stone of Imladris' walls. Twisting around, he found his chamber unchanged from that one he had occupied for the last Age. As the dream vision faded, he wiped his eyes and smiled. The words echoed in his ears as he rose and moved to the window, to look westward across the Sundering Sea allowing himself to feel the ocean's pull.
"I don't understand."
"You will."