Starlight on Western Seas

Disclaimers: If I owned them, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction in the early hours of Christmas Eve. They all belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.

Rating: PG.

Summary: A solitary figure mourns for the sorrow of the passing of the Elves, and contemplates his world without them in the wake of a personal tragedy. Reflections on Rivendell, Elrond, Aragorn and Arwen. Angsty and sappy – my favourite *does a happy dance*

A/N: The title is an abbreviation of a line from the song of Elbereth from the chapter 'Three is Company' of FoTR ('Thy starlight on the Western Seas'). The quotation from the Lay of Luthien is taken directly from Aragorn's singing in 'A Knife in the Dark'.

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Vines grew here now, straggling and writhing across the fine stone floor, clambering up the once ornate walls. Shelves, bereft of the books which they had harboured for so long, creaked and sagged.

In the middle of the room a man simply stood, contemplating the desolation around him with fierce grey eyes. The gentle breeze tangled his long dark hair around his sorrowful face.

All was lost; all faded and failed as the Elves left the shores of Middle-earth. What was once magnificent was now forlorn, abandoned. The sanctuary of Rivendell was empty, its people scattered in all directions across the Hither Lands. Without Master Elrond's wise rule, those who did not go into the West found no reason to stay. Without its founder, the palace grew gloomy, the air which had given it the title of the Last Homely House west of the Mountains waning. And so Imladris fell into decay, as if the merciless hand of nature was trying to reclaim her own, to take revenge for all the changeless years of the Third Age.

The man, whose unlined face spoke of youth, although his clear eyes glittered with the weight of the years, slowly paced from the study, trailing one hand along the wall. His callused fingertips picked out an intertwining pattern of mallorn leaves, and he closed his eyes briefly, pain flickering across his features. Lothlorien … the Golden Wood … so much despair now dwelt in that name for him.

Numbly, he sank down on the edge of a broken step, through which blades of grass sprouted, oblivious to everything except the urge to seek the sun. He gazed into the far distance, ignoring the lost grandeur of his surroundings, thinking lonely thoughts of what was once and could never be again, calling to his mind faces which he had known, and which had now fled from the waking world. And he tried to imagine Elrond Peredhel as he had sat in council long ago, dark hair flowing freely down his back, face grave with the cares of the world, yet vivid and kind. But he found that he could not. The only image which appeared was of an old man, wizened by relentless time, snowy-haired, his face riven with lines of age and strife, eyes weary with seeing, heart weary with beating. He might tell himself that it was not so, but all that appeared before him, after so many tales of unspeakable woes, was this.

He scrubbed his hand across his face, and abruptly rose to his feet. He had come to visit Imladris, and visit Imladris he would, no matter what pain it caused him.

With swift steps, he entered the gardens, which had been the pride and joy of the Evenstar. At this thought, his breath caught in his throat, an icy tingling creeping across the back of his neck. He gazed round at the roses choking the delicate arbours, at the ivy draining the life from the ancient trees. He knew that this was the way that things would continue; he had always known. His childhood had been filled with songs and tales of the passing of the elves to Valinor, leaving the world to mortal Men, yet, sitting here in these gardens which had once been alight with music and laughter, the pain stabbed him anew, augmented by fresh wounds. All that he thought was how much his world was dimmed, diminished by the passing of the Firstborn. No dictate of the Valar could lighten the heart of one who had known the Elven-kin, once they passed to the Undying Lands.

His pace slowed as he came to the shrine, buried in weeds and a mass of filth. With one reverent finger he touched the statue of Elbereth, tracing the lines of the ethereal face which watched over the grave of Gilraen. However, something drew him inexorably onwards until he reached a great space, open to the sky even now: the archery fields.

With the footfalls of a dreamer he trod the hard-packed earth, his head filled with visions of the warriors who had trained here, sinewy arms pulling bowstrings taut, skilled hands fitting arrows with effortless precision. In this place, the armies of Imladris had trained for life and for death, and from here had gone forth to their fate.

There was no deadly hum of weapons here now, no echoing ring of metal upon metal, no soft murmur of intent voices. Only silence reigned among the verdant trees, a soft reverent absence which seemed aware of its own lack, of the hollowness, of the abyss.

Yet, at the edge of his vision, he could almost see a wisp of golden hair, the sleek movement of graceful limbs. He could almost hear the delighted peals of musical voices, the muffled whispers of lovers on a warm night. In this place, the past was so near that he could almost touch it, reaching out with wistful longing for the sensations of his childhood; yet so far away that all the depth and breadth of many lifetimes barred the way between the worlds.

Returning to the house, his keen eyes noted the melancholy stain of rainwater streaking the pale stone. As outside the Bruinen had jumped its banks, released from its long captivity, and swept a new path through the lower valley, so here rivers of grey and dull green flooded the whiteness of the walls.

Not one surface remained untouched. The delicate tiling was piled with drifted leaves, the ceilings mottled, the pillars peppered with spots of moss and mould. Living creatures ran wild, insects nesting in corners, mice scurrying from room to room, yet to the man, who stood among all this with tears in his eyes, it only seemed to be a charnel-house.

Who would remember the glory of the days of old in Imladris? All who had known it at the zenith of its power had passed beyond Middle-earth to Valinor or the void. The sanctuary, with all its joys and its woes, its fierce humanity and the serenity of the elves, would dwindle into shadows and mists, beyond recall slipping into the realm of legends.

"And I am supposed to rejoice in the ascendancy of Men!" he thought bitterly, a humourless smile twisting his fine lips. "It were better never to have known at all what had gone before than to know, and yearn without hope for an Age which has fled."

Without joy, he contemplated how apt the decrepit state of Rivendell was to the Fourth Age. While Elrond had remained in Middle-earth, the valley had been blessed with an enduring beauty only surpassed by Lothlorien. Now, he and his folk had sailed into the distant West, and the land was revealed in its mortality, aging and dying as did those who were now the guardians of Middle-earth. No, he found nothing to gladden his soul in the passing of the Elves.

Aimlessly, he wandered from chamber to chamber, opening and closing doors, peering into dusty closets. What he sought, he knew not, only that he was looking for some sign, some ephemeral symbol of the vitality which had once dwelt here. Eventually, his feet carried him to Elrond's quarters, where he slumped to the floor, idly drawing shapes in the thick dust.

His eyes swept every contour of the room, picturing the way it must once have looked, crowded with books and papers, rich silks adorning the walls.

His weary gaze snagged on something, but he could not immediately perceive what it was. He could not think what would be so incongruous as to capture his attention thus. Then he saw it: the corner of a sheet of paper protruding from one drawer of the massive stone desk.

Springing to his feet, he quickly covered the intervening space. Opening the drawer, he gently freed the crumpled sheet. To his immense disappointment, it was blank. As he began to return it to the drawer, he realised with astonishment that piled within there was a great mass of paper.

Lifting this out, and settling onto the cold stone window seat, he gazed at the clear, firm handwriting which covered the page. At the top, it simply read, The Lay of Luthien. Beneath this was inscribed a name, each graceful stroke of the pen speaking of power and certainty: Elrond Peredhel, son of Earendil.

Eagerly, he hunched over the sheaf of paper, drinking in the ebb and flow of the haunting narrative, relishing the sight of the handwriting of the Half-Elven, still stubbornly black and unmarred after all these years.

As he read, he sang the melancholy tune under his breath, his voice ragged with emotion.

The tale was as familiar to him as the halls of his home, as the gleaming stars in the night sky. It had been his childhood companion, more faithful than any dog, lulling him to sleep, and awakening him to the bright fairness of the morning, yet there were verses here which even he did not know. It spoke of more grievous despair and of more poignant love than the heart could bear.

"And long ago they passed away

In the forest singing sorrowless"

At these words, he trembled, and his hard-won composure broke.  Memories assaulted his brain: of loss, of death, and of the passing of the fairest of things.  As he wept for himself, for the joining of the bloodlines of Elves and Men, and for the sundered fates of those two kindreds, tears spilled freely from his silver-grey eyes, soaking his sleeves and his trembling hands.

He mourned for the uncertainty of Men, the dark void which opened before his people, swallowing all their good intentions.  He mourned because without the Elves the story of Middle-earth could only be written in such besmirched fragments.

Most of all, he cried bitter tears for his family.

Finally, he could weep no more, and in that instant of exhaustion, a breath of acceptance came.  Sorrow and loneliness and the desire to pass beyond the Sundering Seas lingered in his veins, yet he would not shirk his burdens.  He was bound to the race of Men, and his regrets and distress would not lead him to dishonour his name.

Absent-mindedly bringing one hand up to touch the blunted point of one of his own ears, King Eldarion of Arnor and Gondor rose, tucking the papers beneath his warm cloak.

Solemnly, he faced the West and the setting sun.

"Namarie, daeradar," he murmured.

Swiftly, he turned, and strode away into the gathering twilight with a resolute expression upon his face.

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namarie – farewell.

daeradar – grandfather.

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