A/N: My very sincerest apologies for this late (and short) update (of rather dubious quality), but I have been extremely busy, which while being far from a valid reason, the truest and best that I can give. That said, I hope you'll like this. Thank you for all your support - it's what keeps me writing (apart from my love of this pairing)!


Celeborn is attached at the hip to his wife, the rumours go. He is not. Elrond, however, is known for bringing Celebrian along to far too many meetings – or so the rumours go, because it is actually Celebrian who insists on going along. Celeborn and Galadriel are far older, and too used to separation to do such, although they understand. So does Ereinion Gil-galad, but he still can't help but tease Elrond whenever he gets the chance to.

They often sit at the rocks of the beaches facing the east, together – and Celebrian will let Elrond go alone, trusting, if not Ereinion entirely to keep him from trouble, her father. They used to do that often as well, back in Middle-Earth, although for a very different purpose and with very different sentiments altogether. The irony is not lost on them as they stare over the seas for a sight that even the keen elven eyes cannot see. Despite all they have gone through together, their eyes are still a little different (apart from the colour, that is) – Celeborn's a little calmer and subdued, Elrond's more pained than longing, and Ereinion's… well, less acute than strange.

Most of the time, none of them talks. It is an oddly interesting thing, to see the boisterous Ereinion Gil-galad silent, but even the youngest of elves on these shores know of the deeds he has done in Middle-Earth, and some, if not all, still understand. The three figures seem strangely forlorn, and at times, older than they usually look, as they stare out. Elrond is a little more scholarly than the others, Celeborn a little more lordly, and Ereinion more kingly. None of them look princely, so far as the title extends to young spoiled sons of kings. There has been talk, lately, of the crowning of some of the adolescents in the royal families, one of the odd things that even the wisest of elves sometimes indulge in due to the generally mundane cheerfulness of Aman as a whole. There are princes everywhere, every corner in the House of Finarfin, and for a few days the three were almost to be crowned princes together as well, by blood, relation, or deed.

The escape had been somewhat a rougher strategy than the three would have liked, but enough to set the Houses on fire regaling the dramatic tales of how they grandly refused the honour and disappeared (never to be seen again, some had wished to add, but the tales are ruined by their rather blatantly nonchalant tours of the cities).

"What do you say to another walk around the town?" Ereinion suddenly asks.

The two stare, lift eyebrows, and affect similar countenances of indifferent incredulity. "I sincerely doubt Galadriel or Celebrian will ever forgive me should we ignore these… customs with such deliberate grace again," Celeborn remarks dryly.

"Grace?" He looks every inch the Master of the Last Homely House as the customary smile disappears, even as it leaves in its wake amusedly twinkling eyes. "If you would call that grace, I would even deem Galadriel's fury graceful."

"It is, to an extent," Ereinion insists, then at Elrond's raised brows, continues, "that is – until the first vase transforms gracefully into a thousand shards."

Celeborn rolls his eyes – inwardly. "Have you found someone to interest you? Perhaps then you will find other things to do that do not include laughing at us – for what reason I've never found out."

The only unmarried elf laughs and shakes his head. "As delightful as some of the elleth are, I find it much more interesting to laugh at you."

"More amusing, you mean," Elrond mutters darkly under his breath, but the tone turns somber, a little resigned, a little wistful as he continues. "Those who have gone through what you have – or at least something of similar darkness – are no longer alone, and would rather not be burdened with memories as such you have. Those who have not…" he trails off, and shrugs. "Those who have not know too little of death."

"Or of life," Celeborn interjects quietly. "They have seen too little of what we have to understand life as we can."

Ereinion looks thoughtfully at the both of them, then shakes his head again. "It isn't so much of what they do not know, once one gets to know them. It's not seeing things through rose-tinted glasses, but seeing things through –" he waves vaguely at the invisible substance around him, pausing. "- the air. Too transparent, and too… surreal." He shakes his head once more, sighing in mild frustration. "Everything is too simple for them here – they're taught everything without being given the chance to stumble and stand again. The most interesting ones are less intriguing than any of those puzzles in Middle-Earth. I lose interest far too quickly – or know that I will, to truly delve deep." He laughs, a little self-effacing. "To stay long enough to see what is underneath the simple layers – although as of now I suspect there is nothing."

"And yet they still pursue, and you are too kind – or too amused, I wonder – to reject them."

"As they still pursue you too, father-in-law," the younger of the dark-haired Noldor remarks casually.

Ereinion snorts. "Celeborn was always too pretty for his own good. The only reason why none of the elleth has made a move is because Galadriel is rather poisonous and capable of jealou –" He ducks quickly as a rock, too jagged and dangerous for play on Aman, although too useless if they were on the shores of Middle-Earth, is thrown at him, "-sy."

"You were never exceptionally steadfast in Middle-Earth either," Elrond points out. "How many hearts did you break during your reign – or even before?"

"None," the answer comes swiftly, a little amused. "Too many of them were more interested in the crown than me to have had any more than a stunted hope." His voice stops abruptly, grey eyes darkening a little.

"All except one," Celeborn's voice is calm, low – if a little quiet. "Where is she?"

There is no answer for a long moment – but eventually it comes, stilted and stiff through painfully gritted teeth. "Married." He doesn't seem inclined to continue in this line of conversation for a few minutes, and neither of the others speak. There is no need for explanation – the bonds forged in the dark times of Middle-Earth seldom continue unhindered on the thither shores. Aman is too much light, too much goodness such that more often than not the darkness in the one who returns later becomes unbearable where in Middle-Earth it would have seemed merely natural. Coming back from the dead is no exception, and they all know it. Ereinion sighs. "Before any of you had come back, she married on these shores. I was too young at that time to attend her wedding, but those memories had already returned. I knew. I understood." He chuckles self-deprecatingly. "It was rather childish – I didn't eat for ten days, and Mother was rather worried. She came over to visit me, alone – once. I believe I wasn't the most friendly of hosts, but she has since disappeared from the circles of the nobility."

"You never sought her?" Probably a question aimed more inwardly than to Ereinion, Elrond receives a raised eyebrow.

"She's married, Elrond."

Celeborn looks over, expression unreadable. "And you, Ereinion?"

Dark silver eyes stare back into deep blue for a long while, then Ereinion stares and disappears even as Gil-galad laughs and changes the topic. Owing to some unknown design, they end up laughing at the horrors of Dagorlad, their laughter low and not at all amused, and if one were to listen closely, very much haunted.

That night, almost as though it were a mockery to the terrors of Dagorlad, thirty adolescent elves dressed in orcish armour (where they came from, though, no one knows) ambush the three. They ward them off easily enough, but they do not stay long together after that, knowing themselves to have known too much darkness for comfort to any of the others.

- - - - -

Celeborn knows better than to indulge in these fears, because things that have already passed their time to happen will not happen. But he still fears, irrational as it is, because when he returns, a little wounded and extremely tired, Galadriel has gone, leaving a note in her wake. It is clear enough a missive, if a little short, but he immediately leaves the grounds and disappears for days. It is half a month before he is back, a week after Galadriel returns. They are courteous, if not fully civil, and do not speak of his sudden, uninformed departure. Haldir and Rumil, still in service of their own willing, hope that they have finally gotten over quarrelling entirely, but see their Lady's eyes deepen in resolve, and their hope is instantly dashed. They leave the grounds silently, knowing by experience that the night will be long.

Evening grows old. "What happened?" She finally asks, directly and without ceremony.

He looks a little too surprised to be shocked, then speaks, but does not answer. "Gilwen married," he says shortly. "Before you returned." The silence draws on too long, and he continues, too willingly to yield any truly relevant information. "Ereinion is still Gil-galad," he murmurs pointedly.

"We both know that," she returns a little impatiently. "What happened?"

"He is troubled, but certainly he will be fine, and without aid from us," he supplies, and watch impassively as her features turn to stone.

"You are hiding," she declares, and he bites back the urge to laugh. Laughing would give him away, he knows, and simply stares back. Again, silence continues its long tyrannical reign over the conversation, and Celeborn sighs, only to look back sharply at her as her mind closes in, pressing for information.

His barriers slam down, blue eyes steely, warning her not to press. "It is nothing of relevance, Galadriel."

She stares, angry. "Nothing of relevance? Perhaps you would say nothing of importance as well, hervenn? What pleasure is there in hiding, or do you enjoy worrying me? I left, leaving a note because he needed me urgently, and when I return I see nothing but an empty home. You did not even think to inform me of where you went – and now that I am asking you what happened, you refuse to tell me."

"You shouldn't ask," he says smoothly, strong undercurrents beneath the false calm of his eyes.

"I shouldn't ask?" Ire aroused, she steps closer, grey eyes flashing, and he immediately steps back. "I return from an urgent affair and find my husband gone without a word. Now he says that I shouldn't ask?"

His reply is short, even if only because he knows if he says more, the matter will be out in the open in seconds, and he is not in a mood to have his heart and mind laid out for probing and experiments. "You can if you wish to."

"You are acting as though you were jealous of Celebrimbor."

He stares at her for a moment, then turns and leaves without another word.


A/N: And now for shamelessly asking for reviews! Please, please, please do review and tell me what you think of this! It's not over, not yet, and I know it is of really horrible quality, but PLEASE do review!