The War of Wrath was finally over. That last battle had been…there was nothing Elanor had ever seen—not in this world or her previous magical one—that could quite compare. Then again, not even the Second Blood-War had been nearly half so horrific as the decades long war which the Valar themselves had finally come to end, taking their errant brother away in chains.

But that wasn't what she was thinking of now as she sat alone in Gil-Galad's tent, waiting on each of her brothers to finish their conversation with the Herald of Manwë and the General of the Host of the West.

They'd been told before, during that first planning session before this last battle and the breaking of Thangorodrim, that each of them would have a choice to make at the end of the war. A terrible choice.

She knew, of course, to which kindred her brothers would choose to belong, even as she mourned for them and herself. She'd only been struggling with her own choice, deciding grief on either part for her brothers could be set aside until the moment came. She had been debating back and forth between the merits of each; should she choose the Gift of Men, eventually die to pass beyond the circles of the world, or should she choose to join her Fate to Arda, and become tied to the world until its eventual ending and remaking?

She was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of war. Tired of prejudice from every race. Tired of hiding her abilities—though apparently the Maia Herald had seen through her for that. Elanor was just plain tired, and she didn't know if she had the strength to endure the Ages to come, much of which she knew the vague future which would pass before her.

She had nearly decided to choose as Elros would, nearly as soon as she'd walked into the Herald's tent. The only thing which had stopped her from directly informing him of said decision was her curiosity over being called to him first. She was the youngest, and therefore she had thought she would be asked to present him with her choice last.

It had not been so.

"Elanor, daughter of Eärendil, your gifts mark you apart from your brothers…"

Her gifts, in other words her magic, a power brought over from a different world and a past incarnation of life, had stolen her choice from her.

She'd been informed, quite succinctly and with little pity at all, that she did not in fact have a choice to make. Her fate would be joined to that of the elves, so as not to potentially pass her magic down a mortal line.

She'd stood before the Herald in shocked, angry, silence. The only thing which had kept her from retorting and ranting at the unfairness of it all had been her experience in this world, her training by and second upbringing with her Fëanorian foster-fathers.

So she'd nodded her head silently, turned sharply on her heel, the sword at her hip swinging violently, and stalked out of the tent, face impassive but eyes burning. She'd walked straight past her brothers, ignoring their cries of her name, straight past the King Gil-Galad sitting beside them, and past King Finarfin, and right into Gil-Galad's tent to silently fume at the injustice of the world.

A very treacherous voice was whispering in her head that Fëanor had been right to rebel against the Valar, even though she disagreed with the way he'd gone about it. She was still fuming in silence, the air around her heavy with ozone and magic—her magic—when she heard the tent flap swish open.

She snapped her head towards the tent entrance and hastily made to stand, but a hand rose to stop her.

"Please," King Finarfin, her great-great-uncle, said, "stay seated. I merely wished to speak with you concerning your Choice, as you did not appear satisfied with what you decided as you exited Eönwë's tent."

Elanor bit her cheek so hard she could taste blood. She was not permitted to speak of the decision which had been made for her. She shook her head and tried to restrain the tears which wet her eyes. "I am not allowed to speak of it other than to say my Fate is joined to Arda's." She made sure to keep her tone level, but she could do nothing about the aura of her magic flaring and the unshed tears blurring her vision.

Finarfin sighed, then took a seat across from her with such grace Elanor was envious. "I take by this," he waved a hand at her, "you had not intended to choose for the elves."

"I am not allowed to speak of it," Elanor repeated again, barely resisting the urge to flinch back in the face of the fury which flashed in the Amanian King's eyes.

"I see," he said mildly, though his jaw was clenched. "I suppose the Valar have their reasons for denying you your wish, though I cannot think of any just reason why."

Elanor responded in the only way she could think of which would not violate her oath not to tell. She allowed the aura of her magic to flare more powerfully, so much so that a silver light became visible around her, she raised her hand, flicked it, and levitated a blanket from the cot beside the chair she sat upon.

Finarfin's eyes widened at the display before narrowing. He took a couple of steady, measured breaths before speaking again. "I can speak to Eönwë on your behalf," he offered, even as Elanor could see it pained him for some reason.

She shook her head. "No, it is done. For better or worse. Besides," she tried to move her mouth into a smile, wry if it would be, but she was sure it appeared more like a resigned grimace, "at least Elrond will not lose both of his siblings this way."

He inhaled sharply. "So Elros will choose the Gift of Men," he stated.

Elanor nodded. "I have always known he would, and truthfully, I believe that is the best choice for him. He…he does not have the proper temperament for near immortality." She paused, considering, but asked, "Please, do not speak of my…choice, not to anyone. No one was supposed to know anything other than my fate."

Finarfin closed his eyes for a moment, but when they opened they were clear of any emotion. He smiled, however, and it was a kind smile. "I shall only tell your parents which fate was chosen, not how it was done."

Elanor let out a breath of relief. She didn't think much of Elwing, but both her and Eärendil deserved at least that much information. She wouldn't have to deal with seeing them for a long, long time anyway if she had her choice. She was not, at least, being ordered to sail to Valinor, and she was grateful for that small mercy.

"Thank you. I would appreciate it."

"I cannot say I am displeased with your fate," Finarfin said wryly, "even if I am displeased with the manner in which it was given. I…I hope one day you will come to find peace with the decision."

"Perhaps," Elanor hummed, a golden flash of something not quite tangible blinking across her mind. "Perhaps one day I shall be glad of it, but that day is far off for now."

"Will you sail with us?"

Elanor tilted her head as she turned the offer over in her mind. Peace, she would find peace in Valinor. She wouldn't have to fight the long defeat which she knew was coming, would not have to endure the fading of the elves as the Age of Man encroached in Middle-Earth. But some small part of her instinctively rebelled against such a fate. If she left, the only good thing to come of her so-called 'choice' would leave with her. Elrond would be abandoned once again by his family and kin, and she could not quite bring herself to do that for so selfish a reason.

"No," she finally said, turning away against whatever expression her multiple greats uncle would bear. "Elrond will choose to stay, if I know him," if I know what is to come, which I do, she more accurately—and with no little bitterness—thought. "No, I will stay, and by staying remain with Elrond."

And by staying live in peace for a time as we rebuild, only to be called to fight once more, and again. Only to watch as the Ages pass me by before I finally sail away to find the peace I already much desire.

"I will stay," she repeated again in a whisper.