Music for this chapter: I Was Born for This, Austin Wintory
Chapter 17: The Last Ship
Tuilë. Lairë. Yávië. Quellë. Hrivë. Coirë.
The years turn, and Tol Eressëa and Aman stand green and unchanged in the endless wheel of seasons.
Letters come from Middle-Earth to Avallónë, and return in even greater numbers. At first the letters come and go often, when Círdan's people still helm the grey ships that sail the straight road between the hither shore and Tol Eressëa; but as the number of Eldar remaining in middle Earth dwindles, the letters come but rarely.
There are celebrations in Elrond's house and Tirion alike when there is news of the birth of Eldarion son of Aragorn and Arwen; then great joy from Bilbo and Frodo at news of the birth of Faramir, son of Peregrin, and Goldilocks, third daughter of Samwise, and every addition to the families of the Fellowship after.
Elrond treasures his children's letters above all else, and yet, they bring with them profound sorrow as well as joy. Opening letters from Elladan and Elrohir always brings a scent of fresh leaves, and mountain air – the scent of Rivendell, achingly familiar. The first few years, the twins' letters speak of the cleansing of the mountain passes, the flourishing of the Dúnedain, and the running of the last Homely House; but as the years pass and the valley empties, the letters speak instead of the birdsong within the quiet valley as the leaves turn golden in the autumn; of Celeborn and the remnant of he and Galadriel's people departing Lothlórien at last to dwell for a little while longer in the company of their cousins in Rivendell.
Arwen and Estel's children seem to grow to maturity between one breath and the next; the clumsy children's drawings folded into their parents' letters turn into elegantly inked sketches, poetry, eager letters from grown grandchildren who only know their grandparents by their hand alone.
Estel and Arwen accomplish great things; the garden of Arnor in the north flourishing once more, great battles then treaties of peace with Khand in the east and Harad in the south, Minas Ithil cleansed of the foul breath of Mordor at last; and yet a part of Elrond grieves to see the hands of his children change with age, to see the careful strokes of ink across the parchment where not so long ago it seemed they wrote with swift vigour.
The number of grey ships dwindle as the decades pass. The ships that come from the east now bear mostly Silvans, or Sindar from Thranduil's house that wish to come west at last.
Then, one morning, in early October by the Shire reckoning, sixty-three years after the fall of Mordor, one last ship is sighted from the old watchtower of Avallónë – a great, lofty-prowed vessel wrought of white beechwood as her sister-ship Vingilot once was, her great sail of silver-white sewn with the sigil of Círdan's house in brilliant cerulean.
The ship halts for a moment in the mouth of the quay, lowering a sleek white rowboat to the waves with a few cloaked figures within. The ship answers the hail of the harbor bells with silver trumpets of her own, then turns northwest. From there she sails to Alqualondë, where she sails under the great arch of the harbor to the joyful singing of the Falmari, and Círdan the shipwright steps at last onto the white shores of Aman, to be embraced by his old friend Olwë.
But the sleek white rowboat puts out silver oars, and rows in on gentle waves to the quay, where Elrond his closest friends and family are waiting.
For an instant, Elrond believes he sees only one dark-haired head at the prow of the boat, and fear strangles the breath in his throat; but then his vision clears against the glare of the rising sun, and he hurries forward with Celebrían beside him.
Two dark-haired figures leap onto the quay, and help up a short, grey-cloaked figure with a silver star at his throat. A stately-looking Noldorin Elf follows, whom Glorfindel leaps forward to greet with joy.
Sam, grey-haired, exclaims with surprise when he sees a very hale Bilbo hurrying forward with Frodo to greet him.
Celebrían makes a choked noise, and breaks into a run, her hair a gold-limned silver pennant behind her in the dawn light.
Elladan and Elrohir turn from Erestor and Sam to stumble back from the force of Celebrían hurling herself into their arms; they sway and fall to their knees on the dock there together, Celebrían's silver hair buried between their midnight braids.
Elrond can bear it no longer; he takes three stumbling steps forward, crashes to his knees, and crushes all three of them to his chest, pressing a kiss blindly into a temple, murmuring comfort. All of them are weeping, himself included.
A quiet, grieving part of him reminds him that there will be no more ships from the hither shores, except perhaps one; that what letters Elladan and Elrohir carry with them will be the last he reads from Arwen and Estel for long, long years until his younger children pass away.
"Adar," Elrohir whispers, burying his head in the hollow of Elrond's shoulder as he used to as an elfling. Elladan's face is pressed into his mother's hair.
Elrond exhales.
His younger children may be fully sundered from him at last, but both his eldest sons have chosen to be numbered among the Eldar, and here, on the docks of Avallónë, he is at last no longer a father whose children are all sundered from him.
Elrond smiles through his tears and presses a kiss to Elladan's brow first, then Elrohir's, and then Elladan's again and Elrohir's after, and Celebrían for good measure, until his sons laugh and squirm away from him.
A tall shadow looms over them, blotting out the sun. Someone clears their throat politely.
The sound strikes a chill in Elrond's heart.
The first time he heard that voice he had been in the war-camp at Daglorlad, asking permission to write Celebrían–
Elrond raises his head, and glimpses a regal head of silver hair crowned with gold in the rising sun.
"Father!" Celebrían exclaims in delight, leaping up to throw her arms around Celeborn's neck.
Elrond becomes instantly aware of the flyaway state of his braids and the crumpled mess of his robes after both his sons had wept into his shoulders. He surges to his feet, and chances at glance behind him up the dock to Galadriel; he finds her already looking at him with a cool, sly smile on her lips.
It has been over fifty years of the sun since he ransomed the house of Fëanor with his own life and nearly abandoned Celebrían to an eternity alone, Elrond reasons desperately. Perhaps…perhaps Celeborn's fury will have abated with time.
Celeborn raises his head from his daughter's hair and fixes Elrond with a gaze fiery enough to burn straight through mithril, and Elrond knows he has hoped in vain.
"Adar–" Elrond ventures, and when Celeborn raises an eyebrow, retreats to safer vocabulary. "My Lord Celeborn," he murmurs, bowing deeply.
"Elrond," Celeborn says, sounding deeply unimpressed. "I see you have recovered. My daughter wrote me several deeply concerning letters half a century ago."
It really is no wonder Galadriel chose Celeborn as her husband, Elrond thinks, with detached horror. Only the two of them could put as many veiled threats into kindly words as these – the two of them, and perhaps Fëanor.
Celeborn narrows his eyes, and Elrond slams his mind shut.
"I thank you for your concern," Elrond murmurs, pushing back the memory of stumbling over his words asking for Celebrían's hand – Celeborn had looked as though he was considering removing Elrond's hands then, as he does now.
"Father, please," Celebrían laughs, a cascade of silvery notes, as she catches her father's arm. "Do leave Elrond alone. I love him very much, you know."
Celeborn looks down at his daughter beside him, and the ice-fed marble of his expression melts into a warm smile. "Then I will, my daughter."
Then Galadriel is there, and Celeborn steps up to her, looking entirely unbothered that she is taller than him, takes her hands in his, and presses his brow to hers. They stand in quiet pocket of contentment, eyes closed, with the snap of ósanwe passing between them.
Elrond takes the opportunity to pull his sons a little further up the dock towards his four parents. Elwing and Eärendil have tears in their eyes; Maglor and Maedhros stare at Elladan and Elrohir with misty memory in their faces, as though remembering a different pair of dark-haired Peredhel twins.
"Adar, Naneth, Atar, Atarinya," Elrond says, smiling so widely his cheeks ache. "My eldest sons. Elladan and Elrohir."
It is a testament to the change in Elwing's prejudices that she embraces her grandsons without questioning the stars of Fëanor sewn into their collars. There is faint awe on Elladan and Elrohir's faces when they come to Eärendil, but their shoulders ease as Eärendil greets them with the same familiar warmth he always has with Elrond.
Then Maglor and Maedhros step forward, and Elrond notes with concern that Maglor's face is sheet-white and Maedhros is holding his expression carefully closed, as though bracing for something.
There is a terrible pause, where Elrond's sons and foster fathers stare at each other across a thick wall of silence.
Then Elladan and Elrohir exchange a glance, and erupt into peals of laughter.
Elrond begins to smile. "Boys," he chides gently, as his sons howl with mirth and Maglor and Maedhros look on, looking equal parts perturbed and bemused.
"Elrond?" Maglor ventures, faint alarm on his face as his grandsons fall over themselves with laughter.
"Apologies, Grandfather," Elladan gasps, wiping at his streaming eyes. "It's only–"
"–They're exactly how you said they would be, Adar," Elrohir manages, giggling into his brother's shoulder. "What– what was that phrase you used?"
Elrond's eyes widen as he looks between his sons and his foster fathers, and he opens his mouth–
"Emotionally repressed fools with bleeding hearts!" the twins exclaim in unison, and collapse into paroxysms again.
Elrond flushes as his foster fathers turn incredulously to him. "It was a healer's term!" he protests.
"Indeed," Maedhros says drily, but he is smiling.
Maglor looks like he is torn between looking indignant and fond, but Elladan and Elrohir pick themselves up to greet their grandfathers properly, and the uncertainty in Maglor's gaze soon turns to exasperated fondness. Maedhros follows a moment later, the stony wariness of his expression melting into warmth.
The sun rises properly on the little harbor of Avallónë, and the motely bunch of family and old friends make their way like flocking starlings up the cliffside to the house, where they are welcomed home at last.
(:~:)
"Great-grandchildren," Fëanor enthuses for the fourth time that evening within Elrond's earshot.
Beside Elrond, Maglor nearly chokes on a sip of wine; Neldoriel bites her lip against her laughter as she gamely pats him on the back. On Elrond's other side, Maedhros hides a smile by turning to speak to Elrohir.
The King's gardens are silver in the evening starlight, and the low hum of laughter and song filters over the house of Finwë, gathered informally on many iridescent bolts of cloth laid out on the summer grass.
"Yes, dear," Nerdanel says, patting her husband's elbow and moving his twelfth cup of wine away from him. "I am as happy as you are."
"Great-grandchildren," Fëanor repeats, straightening the golden circlet of his crown as it slips. He turns to Fingolfin beside him. "Nolo, I have great-grandchildren."
Fingolfin raises his glass in acknowledgement. Elrond has counted; Fingolfin is thirteen glasses of wine in compared to Fëanor's dozen, and is adamantly refusing to admit to anyone that this is because he is quietly attempting to out-drink his brother.
"So do I," Fingolfin says, as Finarfin frowns beside him and attempts to remove the goblet from his fingers. Fingolfin swats his younger brother away, blinking. "Strictly speaking, they are my–" he frowns. "Great-great-great grandsons. Goodness. I feel old."
Fëanor scowls competitively, and turns behind him to stare severely at Celebrimbor.
Celebrimbor lowers his plate and looks dubiously at his grandfather. "Please tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking, Grandfather," he says exasperatedly. "I will not."
Behind him, Curufin snorts a laugh into his glass of wine.
Both Fëanor and Fingolfin lapse into contemplative silence. Finarfin looks almost relieved.
Elrond takes the opportunity to refill his sons' plates. Elladan and Elrohir have long stopped partaking of the delectable dishes spread around them in favour of gaping openly.
"Adar," Elrohir whispers. "Is this…?" He waves a hand vaguely to encompass the garden and its current inhabitants.
"Oh yes," Celebrían says, cheerfully tearing up a piece of chicken and placing them on her sons' plates. "Your father and I have long given up expecting anything different."
Elrond hides a smile. Small wonder his sons find their extended family strange; it is one thing to learn of their cousins' heroic or horrifying exploits in the War of Wrath as children, but it is entirely another to realise that those aforementioned cousins have nothing of the grave solemnity the histories paint them with.
A little ways away, Argon has fallen asleep in the grass, head pillowed sideways on Turgon's stomach. Fingon has gently placed his cloak over his younger brother, and he, Turgon, and Elenwë are currently taking it in turn to draw daisies on Argon's face with cranberry sauce, to the amusement of Idril, Tuor, and Eärendil some distance away.
Finrod and Angrod converse quietly with Orodreth and Gil-Galad on Elrond's other side; the conversation has leapt from the Belerian influence on Noldorin opera to an argument about whose wife makes better apple pies.
From what Elrond can hear, Finrod is currently winning the argument, mostly because Amarië is good enough friends with Nienna that occasionally she is able to procure apples from Yavanna's gardens. Beside Gil-Galad, Celeborn looks on in amusement as Galadriel cuts into the conversation to make a case for Angrod's wife. Celeborn, at least, seems to be handling the close proximity of Fëanor's sons with remarkable aplomb.
"Elladan, Elrohir," Fëanor says suddenly, smiling widely. "What are your crafts?"
Elrond's smile freezes in place.
Of course; it is the tradition of the Noldor to take a craft. Even Elrond had been encouraged to choose one as a child; in the end, he had chosen the craft of healing. But his sons had never– The orcs had always–
"Our craft, Great-grandfather?" Elladan says, brow furrowing.
"Yes," Fëanor says eagerly, as others turn towards the conversation with interest. He looks far more sober now that speech has turned to craft. "My craft is the forge and the working of all materials, as you know. My son Curvo has chosen the same. Tyelko's craft is hunting, and your grandfather Káno's is song. What are yours?"
Elladan is still frowning, but Elrohir inhales sharply with understanding.
Elrond closes his eyes briefly. Elrohir had always been the quieter, more reserved twin, though neither of Elrond's sons could properly be called reserved. Since their youth, Elladan could always be trusted to offer help in the form of service and aid, and Elrohir in quiet words of counsel. Of course Elrohir would be the first to understand.
Elrond opens his mouth to speak for his children, but his son speaks before he can.
"We do not have a craft," Elrohir says quietly. "We did not have the opportunity."
Understanding dawns on Elladan's face, even as confusion flickers over the faces of Fëanor and those around him.
Elladan nods. "We are capable enough healers, I suppose," he says, glancing at his father. "We know our histories, our songs, and we can both play harp and flute well enough. But we have no craft."
Fëanor's looks to Elrond, and his gaze turns gently chiding. "Elrond," he says mildly, smiling. "This must be corrected! It is no fault of your children, of course, but they should have been given the opportunity to choose."
Elrond looks at his grandfather, and reminds himself that Fëanor does not mean to pain him; Fëanor could not know that this is something of an old wound.
And yet it pains him, all the same.
Elrond feels Celebrían's hand slip over his, and takes a slow breath against the ache.
Fëanor's smile slips. Beside Elrond, Maglor and Maedhros look to him sharply with concern.
The garden has fallen silent. All eyes are on Elrond.
"Kindly do not blame our father," Elrohir says into the silence, his voice like cool steel. "If you must blame anyone, blame Þauron."
The name lashes through the starlight like lightning. Perhaps it is Elrohir's scorning of sa-si, that proves after all that the twins have been raised Fëanorian, and perhaps because that name has not been uttered in the clean air of Tirion in a long, long while.
"Elrohir," Elrond says, placating, but Elladan speaks over him.
"I suppose we do have a craft," Elladan says, his voice simmering where Elrohir's had been ice. "We hunt."
Fëanor still appears troubled, but behind him, Celegorm brightens.
"You do?" Celegorm exclaims. "So do I. What do you hunt?"
Silence.
Elrond quietly turns over his palm to clasp his wife's hand more tightly. Celebrían is yet smiling in determination, but her hand trembles in his.
Fëanor and Celegorm stare at Elladan and Elrohir. Near everyone is staring, now; Fingon has risen half to his feet in concern.
Elrohir breathes a slow sigh, and knocks back the rest of his cup of wine in one long swallow.
"Orcs," he says, without any inflection at all. "We hunt orcs. We had little opportunity for much else, in the foothills of the Misty Mountains with Angmar to the north and later Dol Guldur to the east and Isengard to the south. And even early in the Age there were Easterlings coming into Gondor. Have some more wine, mother."
"Yes, thank you," Celebrían murmurs faintly, as Elrohir fills her goblet to the brim. She takes a long draw before placing her cup aside.
Elrond puts his arm around his wife and lowers his head to press a kiss to her temple. She turns her face into his shoulder.
Fëanor speaks slowly into the horrified silence that has descended over the garden.
"I see," he murmurs, and his face is grieved. "I apologise to you and your family, Elrond. I did not know."
"You had no way of knowing," Elrond says, though he acknowledges the apology with a nod. "And you are right; it is one of my deepest regrets that my children had no opportunity to choose a craft in the necessity of war."
"I suppose we'll have the opportunity now," Elladan says, sounding mollified.
"And do away with that guilt, father," Elrohir interjects. "You raised us well enough."
"You did," Maedhros says, and Elrond turns to his foster father, surprised.
"You forget we have experience raising elflings in times of war," Maglor says, smiling. "You have done well, Canyo."
The sound of his father-name brings a smile to Elrond's lips in return. "Thank you," he says.
"Well," Nerdanel says brightly. "You are welcome in my workshop any time you like, Elladan, Elrohir." Her voice lowers conspiratorially. "And if either of you choose my craft, I'd be able to hold it over my husband forever."
Laughter ripples across the garden, and conversation resumes, albeit slowly.
"All these Noldor are far too hasty!" Neldoriel says blithely. "I only chose healing in my fourth millennium. Ignore them, Elladan, Elrohir." She draws Celebrían aside, and Celebrían's smile turns genuine again.
Fëanor and Fingolfin have abandoned their goblets of wine, and are deep in conversation with Finarfin; Elrond catches a few words, and realises with horrified amusement that the three greatest living lords of the Noldor are planning apprenticeships for his children.
Elrond leans forward to interject, but a rustle of silver tunics crosses his vision; Elladan has moved to sit beside Fëanor.
"Actually, Great-grandfather," Elladan says, "I thought I might start at the forge. I've always wanted to create things – useful things, beautiful as well as practical."
Elrond is afforded the rare opportunity of seeing Fëanor almost moved to tears. Perhaps it is the dozen glasses of wine Fëanor consumed, but more likely it is the thought of a smith in the fourth generation of his family.
"Oh dear," Maedhros murmurs drily. "That will set father off."
"It already has," Maglor laughs. "Perhaps– oh, Elrohir. Yes, what is it?"
Elrohir sits back. "My father always told me you led the cavalry on Lothlann."
Elrond raises an eyebrow at the nervousness in Elrohir's voice.
"I did," Maglor says, smiling. "What of it?"
"I would like to work with horses," Elrohir says, cheeks reddening. "As a start, at least."
"Hm," Maedhros says, sipping sedately at his wine. "You have a gift for naming your children, Elrond."
Elrond elbows Maedhros in the side, and is rewarded when Maedhros chokes on a mouthful of wine.
"Ignore him," Elrond tells Elrohir. "His craft is diplomacy. It abandons him at inopportune moments."
Elrohir has reddened further at Maedhros's comment, but Maglor looks contemplative.
"We'll have to introduce you to Aerlind," Maglor says. "I think you'll like her – she was my second up until the Dagor Bragollach, and quite the terrifying horsewoman. Oh, there's no need to be intimidated by her. She's actually closer to your age, given her time in the Halls."
"Very well," Elrohir says, sounding relieved.
There is more wine, and genuine laughter, and the house of Finwë rejoices that mellow summer evening in the King's gardens in Tirion, under the starry sky.
(:~:)
A few short months after Elladan and Elrohir's arrival, Elrond is reading to a dozing Bilbo in the solarium when Bilbo suddenly shakes himself awake, blinking.
"Bilbo?" Elrond says, closing the book in his lap.
"Goodness," Bilbo says, his voice thin but clear, leaning back against the cushions of the divan. "I've just had the most wonderful dream."
"What about?" Elrond smiles, placing the book aside.
"Oh, I don't think I could describe it if I tried," Bilbo says. "It felt a little bit like what Finrod said he felt when he saw - well. Only that it was beautiful, and full of joy. There wasn't a smidge of darkness to be seen."
Elrond takes a slow breath.
Bilbo looks contemplatively at the sunlight on the glassy roof, at Celebrian's roses glistening about them in the solarium.
"You've been very kind to me, Master Elrond," he says earnestly. "I confess I never thought I'd come so far d – not when I once wished never to go farther than the borders of the Shire! But I've had such wonderful adventures, and adventures are always made better knowing that you have a warm home with family and friends to get back to. For a while that was Bag End, but you've given me a home twice over - Rivendell, then here. I really ought to thank you."
An old ache rises in Elrond's chest – the ache of watching his brother sail West to Númenor, and when he bid Arwen, then Estel farewell. But he smiles nonetheless, and kneels at Bilbo's side to take his hand.
"There is no need to thank me, old friend," Elrond says. "I would have welcomed you into my house even if you were not an honoured ringbearer; your worth is in your wit and your joy, and in you understanding of the comforts of home. I will be grieved to see you go, Bilbo, but I wish you joy."
"There!" Bilbo laughs. "You have such a way with words, both you and your father Maglor. I wish you every happiness under the sun. I'm sure will see you again, you know, at the second singing. What an adventure that will be!"
Elrond laughs, despite the tears that threaten to escape the corners of his eyes.
"I think it would be best to send Frodo in," Bilbo says. "Frodo first, then Sam. I'd like to say farewell to Celebrían and everyone else as well. I suppose you can reach out and touch Gandalf's mind, as well. But before you go, is there anything you'd like me to say to your brother?"
The breath catches in Elrond's chest.
For a moment he cannot breathe; then he exhales, and smiles in gratitude.
"Tell Elros our parents and I love him very much," he says. "All five of us. And that we will see him again."
"Very well," Bilbo says, with a determined smile. "I have remembered your words exactly – my mind is still quite intact, I assure you!"
"Thank you," Elrond says, tightening his fingers on Bilbo's hand briefly before he releases him. "I shall fetch Frodo."
"Thank you, old friend," Bilbo says, smiling brilliantly in the afternoon light.
All of Elrond's house and many friends gather in the Solarium that long afternoon; there is talk and laughter, and good food and company.
Then, when the sun slips towards the horizon, Bilbo falls asleep, his hand in Frodo's; and when night falls at last, he slips away, smiling as the golden light of the sun fades to the silver of starlight, as the waning of Laurelin gave to the flowering of Telperion long Ages ago when Aman was young.
(:~:)
Elrond's house is not unchanged with Bilbo's passing. Frodo is especially grieved for the first few months, but to the relief of many the shadow passes over him with the turning of spring to summer. Much of his recovery is due to Sam's determined efforts, and it is enough that come October the sixth by the Shire reckoning, Frodo is little affected by his memories of Weathertop.
Much to Elrond's joy, Elladan and Elrohir excel in their apprenticeships in Tirion. Not a week passes in which Fëanor does not enthuse over Elladan's achievements in the forge, and Elrond notes with amusement that Elrohir's letters home to the house north of Avallónë speak far more of Aerlind as they do his work with horses.
A score of years, and then another; time passes both languidly and quickly, on the cliff-top house north of Avallónë, the white streets of Tirion, and the evergreen forests of Aman.
Then comes one bright spring morning nearly sixty years after Círdan's arrival, where the sea wind comes from the east, heavy with the scent of memory, and the single grey ship is sighted from the old watchtower of Avallonë.
Elrond opens his door to a messenger from the watchtower. There is solemn duty and sorrow in the messenger's gaze, but Elrond knows well her message before she opens her mouth to deliver it; there small grey ship in the bay has sails of green, sewn with the sigil of the House of Oropher.
Legolas.
Aragorn. Estel.
Elrond had not sensed–
Elrond thanks the messenger politely and gravely, closes the door, and goes to find his wife, and Frodo and Sam. His surviving sons waylay him in the corridor, and he is grateful that they are both at home rather than in Tirion; he is glad for the reminder that he is still a father.
"I am well," he says, at Celebrían's gentle enquiry. It is not wholly the truth; he is numb.
The ride down to the quay is quiet. Elladan and Elrohir are plainly grieving, the murmur of ósanwe between them recalling the bright-faced child that grew to become their brother in the fair halls of Rivendell. Celebrían's thoughts, when Elrond reaches out to touch her mind, are on both Arwen and Aragorn. She has learned enough of Aragorn through his letters over the years that she considers him her son as well as Elrond's.
Frodo and Sam seem to be handling the news the best out of all of them; perhaps it is the knowledge of their own mortality, and the fact nearly everyone they knew from the Shire save the Elves have likely already passed.
The little ship comes alongside the dock in a whisper of foaming waves. Down comes the gangplank, and Legolas appears, dressed in the rich greens and browns of his people, his hair simply braided, stooping to help an aged dwarf down the steep length of oaken boards to the dock proper.
Beside Elrond, Frodo gasps. "Gimli!" he says delightedly. "How have you managed to come west? Not that I'm not glad to see you, of course. And you, Legolas."
"It is good to see you as well, laddie," Gimli says, his eyes bright and keen despite the white cloud of his beard. "I see you're as white-haired as I am, now!"
Legolas and Gimli greet Frodo and Sam with equal delight, and there is something of youth in Legolas's fair face, still, when Elladan and Elrohir leap to embrace him, as they did long years ago when he was a visiting elfling in Rivendell.
"The lady Galadriel has kindly spoken to the Valar on Gimli's behalf," Legolas says. He inclines his head to Galadriel and Celeborn, who stand a little ways behind Elrond.
Elrond takes a step closer, and meets Legolas's gaze. Legolas bows once in acknowledgment, passes a hand under his cloak, and brings out a thick stack of letters.
"He passed as his forefathers once did in Númenor," Legolas says, gentle but direct. "In his sleep, willingly. These are but the first of the letters he wrote for you these three score years; there are two more cases on the ship, and another three from Queen Arwen. There are letters from your grandchildren and great-grandchildren, also."
Moving half in dream, Elrond takes the stack of letters.
He looks down at them, at the parchment kept smooth and uncreased with care, at the familiar handwriting across the front of the first letter, that reads Adar.
He inhales carefully past the ache, and inclines his head in thanks.
Legolas and Gimli are welcomed into Elrond and Celebrían's house with great honour, and there is feasting and laughter that evening in the clear spring air, but late into the night Elrond sits in the starlit solarium with his wife, opened letters scattered like hundreds of white flowers about them, weeping and laughing in equal measure as they bid farewell to their daughter and youngest son.
(:~:)
For a few short years Elrond's house is often full again, when Gimli and Legolas come to visit their old companions of the fellowship, and with Elrond's eldest sons and foster fathers coming and going as they always do.
But there is only so much the peace and the light of Aman can do to delay the gift Illúvatar has given to all mortals; Sam and Frodo slip away together one quiet summer evening after saying their farewells, and Gimli follows a year later.
With Gimli's passing, Legolas goes to the forests of Oromé, where his grandfather Oropher dwells beside the lands of the Doriathrim, along with most of Thranduil's people who have sailed, and those of the Silvans who have been rebodied. Legolas comes to Avallónë and Tirion to visit often, and despite his grief at his friend's passing, soon can be seen smiling brightly again as he rides out with Elladan and Elrohir.
One early evening in Tuilë, a few days after the yearly Harvest Festival, Elrond finds his foster fathers sitting amongst the wildflowers of the cliff-top as stars begin to bud above.
"Elrond," Maedhros says, holding out a corner of his cloak in invitation. Elrond leans against his side without hesitation, the warm cloth of Maedhros's cloak settling over his shoulders.
Maglor pouts.
"You should have offered first, Atar!" Elrond laughs.
"That I should have," Maglor says with a chagrined smile, humming a few notes. A harp of white wood shimmers into being in his hands, and he shifts closer, so Elrond has his foster fathers at both his shoulders.
For a long while, all is quiet save for the soft cascade of silver notes from Maglor's harp, as the stars wheel overhead. Elrond looks up to Gil-Estel, his birth father's star. Fëanor has lent the Silmaril to Eärendil for long years now.
"Do you know what day it is, Canyo?" Maglor says quietly, as Maedhros's arm tightens around Elrond's shoulders.
Elrond frowns at his foster fathers. Try as he might, he cannot recall anything particular about this day.
"A yen," Maedhros murmurs, leaning his temple against Elrond's hair and turning to press a kiss to his brow. "It has been a yen, my Mírëfinwë."
The breath catches in Elrond's chest.
For a yen the Door of Night shall be closed to you.
If Illúvatar had not come for him, his fathers would have opened the door of Night on this day, and seen nothing but the Silmaril lonely and forgotten there in the Void, and Elrond long gone.
Maglor's harpsong stutters, and Elrond reaches out to take Maglor's hand in his own; he grasps Maedhros's free hand with his other.
"I am here," Elrond says, and sudden joy overhwelms him at the words; the knowledge that he can be here with his fathers, untroubled, forevermore. "I am here, and so are you, Atar, Atarinya."
There is no war and no pain here; there is only starlight, and the scent of wildflowers and the sea on the wind.
Maedhros smiles into Elrond's hair, and Maglor's gaze is warm.
"Yes, you are here, Elrond," Maglor says. "And so Maedhros and I will be, until Arda is remade, and then we will see Elros again."
The three of them rest, content, among the heady scent of wildflowers, the stars wheeling above, until they are called in to supper.
Metta
The End
A/N: Thank you all so much for reading!
I already have at least four other fics planned for this series, all of which I've summarised on my tumblr eirianerisdar tumblr com (replace spaces with dots). The next fic will be set roughly a year or two after the Fëanorians' return from the Void, and will cover Fëanor, Maedhros, and Elrond visiting the ruins of Formenos and becoming trapped in a collapsed workshop. Angst ensues.
Follow me on tumblr for writing updates, and follow me here or follow the series on AO3 if you want to keep up to date with new fics in the series! I have been slowly getting to replying to all the comments I haven't replied to yet (my work schedule has been getting busier after I've rotated back to the hospital).
Thank you, my friends.
Edit 25/7/2021: The next fic in this series, A Song in Stone, has been posted! Find it on my profile!