Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, places, ideas or anything else from Lord of the Rings. I do however lay claim on Elrond's twin daughters as Tolkien never wrote about any twin elven girls anywhere in his books. Everything else though, as much as I wish it, is not mine and belongs to the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien (a wonderful, wonderful man). Except for a 2-year-old toddler by the name of Estel (forever called tithen min by his siblings) who needs looking after.
AN: Oh you're going to hate me. This is a very poor way to start off again, but I suppose it's better than nothing: at least you're going to get the rest of this story! Terribly sorry for the depressing part. Wait…all of it's depressing!
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In the year 1975 of the Third Age the Heirs of Isildur met in battle with the great Witch-king at the city of Fornost. The battle, long and bloody, ended in the drowning of King Arvedui, and the final defeat of the North Kingdom. Many lost their lives, both men and women, but those that escaped went into hiding. They became a wandering folk. The King's son Aranarth took the title of Chieftain of the Dúnedain and the land was divided among lesser leaders. Without a king or kingdom, the great heirlooms of the House of Arnor were brought to Rivendell and given into the keeping of Lord Elrond. The shards of Narsil were given a place of honor within the house, in front of the great mural that was painted after the Last Alliance, depicting Isildur's defeat of the Dark Lord.
She closed the book and raised her eyes to the same painting, tears coming unbidden as she beheld the scene. The work had always affected her emotionally, though she had grown up passing it almost every day. But in the recent years, as she witnessed the northern lands fall apart, such a remembrance had become something that caused her only pain.
Her father's library was littered with books on the history of Middle-earth, but since she was old enough to understand what happened in the world outside the sheltered valley in which she lived, she had set quill to paper and kept a journal of the events. She never wrote much; it was only an overview of the most important happenings. But it was important to her, to keep her own record of what happened.
Never before, however, had an entry caused her tears. In the last few years there had simply been so much going on without the borders of her land, and most of it had affected her in some way. Her brothers had been gone two years now; fighting up in the north. She knew them to be well, but that did not stop her constant worrying over their welfare.
A messenger had arrived that morning, bearing with him the shards of the sword. Elrond had set them upon a temporary pedestal before the fresco. The craftsmen of the valley would carve a proper statue to hold them, but for now, this would do. They were of a forgotten time, anyways; told of a history of weakness that few in Imladris cared to remember. Their presence brought only pain to her father; a reminder of how he had failed, even as Isildur had failed.
Soft footfalls alerted her to her father's presence. Elves walked in utter silence, but Elrond's mortal blood often betrayed him, though only an elf would was able to hear it.
"Ada," she whispered, setting her journal aside and making room for him on the bench.
He sat beside her and laid a hand upon her shoulder. The she-elf relaxed into his hold, burying her face in his velvet robes and she had not done for many years. He could not heal her of this pain, nor bring her much comfort; but he understood at least, what she felt.
"Iston. Do not dwell in the past tithen min. Do not grieve for them."
"I must, Ada; I do not think I can do anything else. This should not have happened. It would not have, had…" but she trailed off, staring at the painting instead.
Her father nodded in understanding. "No, it should not have happened. However, it has, and there is nothing that can now be done about it. Arnor is no more, but its people still remain, though they are greatly reduced. They will need our aid in the years to come. Can you do that, my daughter?"
She nodded against him, but could not find the voice to answer. He kissed her forehead gently and rose to leave.
"Hannon le, adar. I will offer any help I can. They are kin, however distant and remote. We will not abandon them."
"No, we will not. A goodnight to you, Arómenë. May your dreams be pleasant."
She paused in consideration before picking up the quill again. Dipping it into the ink she put it to the page once more.
But though the Dúnedain seemed to vanish into the lands of their home, they were not forgotten. Rivendell became a place of refuge for them, and often were their children sent there with their mothers to foster, so that the succeeding generation might be kept safe.
Setting the quill aside on a nearby table she retrieved her bookmark and lay it gently between the pages. Closed book clutched to her breast she retired to her room, and what she hoped would indeed be a pleasant night, though she knew otherwise.
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The South Kingdom has now fallen. King Eärnur was lost in 2050 of the Third Age after riding to Minus Morgul to the challenge the Nazgûl; he left no heir. A Stewardship was then established, with the first Steward Mardil of Gondor. They are to keep the kingdom until such a time as a king might return. But there are no kings now, though the royal line still lingers in the Northern realm. Gondor is a land besieged by the enemy, and ever are her borders attacked by the power of Mordor. Minus Ithil fell years ago, renamed to the dreaded Minus Morgul where Eärnur lost his life.
The great kingdoms of men are no more. The elves too, are fading, and it is not now safe to travel between the havens. The Misty Mountains have grown dark and Moria teems with orcs. Dol Guldur spreads its evil through Mirkwood and the city of the Wood Elves is under constant attack.
There is no power left to challenge the Dark Lord, as he well knows. He needs only to regain his power and the world shall fall.
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ROTK, Appendix B; the Tale of Years: in the year 2509, Celebrían, journeying to Lórien, is waylaid in the Redhorn Pass, and receives a poisonous wound. A year later, unable to be healed in Middle-earth, she departs over the Sea to Valinor.
She stared out across the endless expanse of grey water, searching in vain for a glimpse of the far shore. There was nothing there to see, of course, she knew that in her mind, but her heart bade her look nonetheless, frantic for some desperate connection with an anchor in the turmoil her life had suddenly become.
She felt her sister's presence beside her more than saw it. Felt also the despair in her heart, for it was in hers as well.
The white sail had disappeared nearly an hour before, out of sight now of even elvish eyes. The sun, too was almost gone down below the waters, seeming to follow the ship to the Blessed Lands.
But she would not leave this place. She could not bear to turn from the shore and look east across Middle-earth and know that her mother was truly gone. As long as she stayed here, looking out to sea, she could cling to hope that the ship would return as the sun did. But her mind told her it was all in vain.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and knew it belonged to her father. Her father that had failed them; had been unable to heal her and so she had left. Even as the thought passed her mind, as it had many times over the preceding months, she knew it was a lie. She knew he had done all he could and then some, and that there was none this side of the sea who could have healed her hidden wounds. But she was angry, and he seemed the easiest target at that moment. It hurt all the more, she realized, because she had know this day would come. She had foreseen long ago her mother's fate and the grief that would follow her family the rest of their days. But at the time she had not understood, fully, what she had seen, and had clung to her grandmother's words that not even the mirror showed all things or even definite things. In her heart, however, she had known, even if she had not accepted it, and she was suddenly angry with herself as well, for not believing or understanding…for not doing something to save her mother.
She shrugged the hand off and stepped closer to the cliff edge. She had no intention of jumping: the thought never even crossed her mind. But Elrond must have suddenly been struck with a memory of watching his mother stand there, looking out and trying in vain to see her husband's ship, and he pulled her forcefully back from the edge, for the first time in nearly three hours breaking her eye contact with the waves. She struck out at him, but it was a weak punch and he pulled her closer so that she was trapped in his arms. She struggled for a moment, only half heartedly, before her exhaustion made itself know and she collapsed against him, dragging him to the ground with her.
Elrond cradled her in his arm, offering the other to Andúnë who took it gladly. And there they sat; the twin girls sobbing in their father's arms, Elrond looking out to sea as they had been doing a moment before.
I fear they will follow you , my love. This parting is bitter indeed, especially for Rómë. I fear she will leave me as well. Sail West, or fade. And Dúnë will follow where she goes, as it has ever been. Why did you have to go? Why did you leave them here to spend the waning years of the elves brooding in grief until it is my time to leave? How could you have done this to us?
But even as he thought it, he knew it had not been Celebrían's fault, any more than being unable to heal her had been his. But he felt suddenly so alone, as he had not felt since he held his foster-father and King in his arms as the light faded from Gil-galad's eyes. Galadriel had once told him his life would be full of grief and death. And when he was younger he had thought that strange, for he was Elven, and elves rarely died. But then his brother, dear Elros, had chosen mortality, and he had known her words to be true. He had lost so many since then; to death or to the sea. And now he feared to loose two more, if not three.
He tore his eyes from the rolling ocean before him and found his oldest daughter's eyes. She stood near to them, a hand clasped to each of her brother's, tears tracing silver tracks down her face. Ever had she been the closest to her mother, even more so than Arómenë. He was terrified she would not survive this harsh parting.
For although Elrond had the foresight that was granted to all elves, indeed in power such as to rival that of his mother-in-law's, he did not see everything, and his children's future was the most clouded of all.
He would soon learn his worrying had been for naught. For his daughters knew their own futures, and death from this grief at least, was not among them. For their Fate, at least to a certain extent, was akin to his, and Arwen's most of all. To walk beneath the trees of Middle-earth until all they had gained was lost, and finally, to pass into the West. Such was the end for the Half-Elven.
He clutched his daughters tighter, his own tears mingling with theirs as the last of the Peredhil lamented the bitterness of his choice.