If there was one thing Tyelpetári Artaníel (because she was her mother's daughter here) despised about court affairs, it was having to dress the part of a proper lady.
"Lairë," she said, and her maid straightened to attention, "you may leave me and make your own preparations. I am perfectly capable of fastening up my gown and of doing my hair."
The dark-haired woman nodded and slipped out of the chamber, leaving Tyelpetári alone. She sighed and disrobed, leaving the pale violet shift she'd brought from Imladris on her bed before fighting her way into the cream lace underdress she'd had made especially for that day, and then the silk bliaut done in deep indigo with gold trim on top of that. It was cool in the evenings, and the layers would not stifle her. She looked at herself in her mirror and sighed. Beautiful, even with her hair loose and undone; even she could acknowledge that. By all accounts she ought to be happy for this night. Her mother was at last returning home, and her grandfather was beyond ecstatic to have the last of his children returned to him. And I am happy as well. I shall see my nana again after so long.
I am happy. I am very happy and my nana will be happy to see me and we will all. Be. Happy.
This is Aman. You can't be unhappy in Aman.
But...
His name was on her lips almost instantly, and when she whispered it the word turned to a prayer, and a plea, and a moan of longing representing countless sleepless nights, and a resignation to emptiness. He will wait until Estel has died. I know he will. But...
She groaned and sank her head into her hands before sitting down on the stool before her boudoir.
Husband, meleth, el-nîn, please... please come back to me...
There was a knock on her door, and Tyelpetári flinched and mentally cursed herself for being so sentimental. It's probably Lairë, with something I've forgotten. Lovely.
"Tolo." she called in lilting Sindarin, reveling in the moment when her first language was in her throat once more, and the door opened. No one here speaks Sindarin. It's all Quenya, which is lovely enough, but I miss the softness of my mother tongue. She picked up her brush and began to work at her hair, focused on a particularly frustrating tangle. She didn't look up.
"Lairë," she said, switching back to Quenya, "you do not need to assist me. As I said, I'm perfectly capable of - "
"Celebrían."
She dropped the brush and heard it smack against the floor. Slowly, carefully, hardly daring to breathe in case this was some vision or ghost, she turned around on her stool and looked up.
He was there before her, wearing crimson robes, the same circlet on his brow that he'd worn for their wedding. Were it not for the lines on his face, each one a sign of some new worry or fear, she would have thought him a figment of her (admittedly overactive) imagination.
For a long moment, she sat and stared at him. Her heart thudded in her ears, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.
Here. He's here. He's here, in front of you, right now.
Slowly she got to her feet, not taking her eyes off of him. Not even blinking, for fear he would vanish. She inched closer to him, each step taking another fraction of their distance away, and as she moved she opened up her mind tentatively. Waiting. Hoping.
Elrond...?
And he answered, their marital bond crashing over her like waves long held back by a now-broken sea wall.
That was all the sign she needed.
"Elrond!" she cried, and threw herself into his arms, knocking him completely off balance and back onto her bed. They were laughing before they even hit the mattress, and as her lips met his she knew that at last she'd come home.
