They had planted this garden together, he and Celebrian, and in three thousand years it had changed little. Plants faded with age, but even after her departure Elrond had continued to take cuttings and seeds to replace them. It was their favourite place to sit at any time of year, surrounded by high, protecting walls, their private place … their haven.
Now Elrond sat within the arbour alone, as he had done this past thousand years. At his side was a box, almost full of tender cuttings and little packets of seeds. This would be one of the few things to travel West with him . . . a gift for Celebrian to reaffirm his love.
Apples were ripening in the gnarled tree at the garden's heart, it's ancestor a favourite haunt of their children. It had provided all three with their first climbing frame and Elrond had hung a swing there for Arwen. He smiled, remembering the occasion when a very young Elladan and Elrohir had eaten themselves sick on too much ripe fruit.
The rest of the garden was planted with roses. Elrond had arranged for the construction of a broad terrace outside their private apartments on the floor above, so that they could enjoy the fragrance on warm summer evenings. Many of the flowers had been bred by the couple and others had been gifted to them by folk passing through Imladris, on their way to the havens. A small hothouse stood in the far corner and his eyes grew smoky, recalling that roses had not been the only things propagated within its humid interior.
A stray breeze set ivy leaves fluttering about the bower, carrying with it the sharp, clean fragrance of late blooming lavender from the borders. Elrond used to place a sprig upon his lady's pillow every evening. It was a tradition he continued after her departure even though he worked through the night more frequently now. He had collected cuttings but there was also a dried sprig of blossom, tied with a blue ribbon, in the box at his side.
Elrond inhaled deeply, easily sorting the many different perfumes of the roses to isolate the one he sought. The pale apricot rose was planted in a bed nearest the bower. It was Celebrian's favourite not for its colour, although it was the delicate hue of a blushing summer sunset, but for its spicy fragrance of cloves. On late summer afternoons they had sat here, drinking tea made from its dried petals. Elrond had been careful to pack three cuttings from this plant, just in case they were adversely affected by the salt sea air.
The wrought iron garden gate groaned, announcing the arrival of a visitor to his private domain. Elrond and Celebrian had always delayed oiling those hinges.
"Adar, the Lady Galadriel has arrived with her party."
Elrond smiled up at his son. "Thank you, Elladan. I shall go and greet her. Please return this box to my study." His eye roved the rainbow of colour. There would be time to harvest just a few more cuttings before they set out for the Shire and beyond . . . to his haven.