Note:
I like this chapter - I'm such a romantic sap! And I like an exploration of what it's like returning home to discover your home doesn't exist any more.
Slippered feet padded softly over the polished wooden floors of Rivendell's library. The bright summer sun poured through the arched windows, casting long pillars of light across the bookshelves and illuminating the dust motes that hung in the still air. Nelwen idly ran her fingers across the tops of the books as she walked down the rows of shelves, mentally counting off the titles she had read and the titles still on her list. She had already been to her old house, stayed only long enough to deposit her pack and wash-up after her long weeks of travel, but walking through the painted halls of the library, gazing at the majestic arch of the vaulted ceiling and the delicately carved pillars, Nelwen finally felt home.
She paused at her favourite spot in all of Rivendell, the bay window overlooking the cloistered courtyard and the Glandagol tree, and a crooked smile broke across her face.
"What is it?" asked Faramir from over her shoulder. She turned to beckon him closer, smile broadening as he neared, then tugged him onto the windowsill. Their knees knocked as they settled on the cramped ledge, bodies pressed close to fit under the narrow arch of the window, and Nel felt a thrilled tingle at the proximity.
"This," she said, punctuating her words with emphatic arm gestures, "is the best spot in all of Rivendell."
"Oh really?" he questioned, one brow rising in amused scepticism.
"Absolutely – from here you can see the entire city all the way down to the Bruinen River. See that tall spire to the north?" she asked, pointing to a white, cork-screwed tower that rose from a canopy of green, "that's the tower that graces the music hall. The crystal chandeliers inside are so brilliant; it looks like the ceiling is bedecked with stars. And see that green dome?" she pointed again, "that's the Eldanyárë. That's where we display historical items: remarkable examples of elven craftsmanship and pieces of exemplary beauty or historical importance. We can go there next. You'll love it."
She fell silent, gazing wistfully over the panorama, hands pressed against the glass as if she wanted to reach out and touch the city spread out before her. Faramir regarded her fondly, charmed by the way her face lit up at the sight of her homeland, the way her words quickened as she eagerly told him of Rivendell and her childhood spent playing under the green canopies and tearing through the white-stone streets.
"You really love this place," he said quietly, almost sadly. Seeing the way her face shone, the way her steps danced, upon returning home, Faramir was struck with a leaden sense of dread at the prospect that she would wish to stay. They'd spent most of the two months since the destruction of the Ring together, seeing to the injured in the House of Healing, reuniting refugees with their families, organising Aragorn's coronation. Even while working tirelessly to help in the rebuilding efforts, they still somehow managed to steal time to read to each other in the archives of Minas Tirith or walk through the tiered city's many gardens. Nelwen had seemed so at home in Minas Tirith, such a natural addition, that Faramir had forgotten that she was an elf of Rivendell, that she would likely want to return home eventually.
"Yes – of course I do – it's home," she said, sounding out the last word almost reverently. But then her face sank, her smile drooping though not quite dying completely.
When Nelwen had first caught sight of her home, spotted the white towers and curled arches emerging gracefully from the mantle of emerald green trees that cloaked the Bruinen Valley, her heart had soared. There was no sight in all of Middle Earth, not the gilded Meduseld or the towering capital of Gondor, that could compare to the elegant, organic beauty of Rivendell. But walking through the haven's streets, Nelwen was unnerved by the stillness, the impenetrable silence that seemed to smother the city. No music drifted from open windows, no laughter from the gardens. She had always found Rivendell peaceful, taken solace in its tranquillity, but now, walking through the abandoned streets, she felt stifled.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, noticing the abrupt change in her expression.
"No," she answered a little too quickly. Faramir frowned, gave her a pointed look to try and draw out an honest response. "It's just," she shrugged, looking a little lost, "I don't think this is my home… not anymore. My people are gone, only the buildings remain. And a city without people is no home."
"Will you follow them? To the Undying Lands?" he asked, fearing that he didn't really want to know the answer.
She could feel his eyes upon her as she looked out over her city, at the quiet streets and the sunlight streaming into empty houses. "Probably… eventually," she murmured, eyes still fixed on the view outside the window.
She felt him stiffen beside her and turned to look at his face, noted with a pang in her chest the way his face pinched, eyes strained. She reached out cautiously, took a hand in her own and ran her thumb over his knuckles. He looked down at the gesture, somewhat transfixed at the sight of her tiny hand holding onto his.
"No – I'm not going anywhere. Not when everything I care about is still in Middle Earth. Everyone I care about."
He looked up at her words, smiling shyly, and took both of her hands in his. She was about to return his smile but was instead interrupted with his lips pressed to her own, gentle but eager. She felt a little light-headed, remembering a time only a few months before when she thought such simple pleasures, such sweet human contact, to be forever lost to her. When he drew back, she rested her forehead on his chest, drawing comfort from the rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed so close to her own.
"Come," she finally whispered, interrupting their quiet reverie, "there's so much yet to show you."
She uncurled from the sill, smoothed the crinkles from her long skirts and adjusted the belt of twisted silver around her waist. Taking Faramir's hand in her own, she led him from the window, feet gliding so fast over the wood she seemed to be almost skipping with enthusiasm. They were half-way across the room when she suddenly stopped, turned, and hurried toward a low couch opposite their previously occupied spot on the windowsill. She bent down, swept her arms under the couch and pulled out a long-forgotten book with a triumphant smile upon her lips. She stroked the leather-bound cover, thought back to all those months ago when she'd first spied Annamir in the courtyard outside her window.
She returned to Faramir, book grasped tightly to her chest, "come on", she said, taking his hand in her own, "I know the perfect spot we can read this."