Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeframe: Winter, T.A. 1981.
Rating: PG.
Epilogue
Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar!
Nai elyë hiruva! Namárië!
Findur did not go often to the Hall of Fire, not anymore. In the old days, he would spend countless hours there, sitting alone in silence. In that warm place, emotions could be distilled into simpler desires and fears. Honestly was less alien. But years had passed and he had found himself visiting it less and less frequently, no longer dependent on the place itself to find such clarity.
He could not think why his father had asked him to come. They had already spoken for a long time the night before, a few hours after the news of Amroth's death had come. He was tired of words, of their inadequacy. That Amroth, one of his dearest friends, whose easy smile and dauntless courage had given him strength in dark times, could be utterly lost—mere language could not do such an impossibility justice.
Now he threw open the doors, and stepped inside. The room was dark save for the glow of the fire. Father was standing beside the flames, staring into their depths. He straightened up as Findur entered, turning towards him.
"You have slept badly, I see," he said after a moment of careful study. "I myself managed but a few hours. Please, come sit with me by the fire. There is something very important we must discuss."
"All right," said Findur. He was struck by the hoarseness of his own voice.
They both took seats by the fire. Father returned his attention to the flames, seeming to collect his thoughts. Findur felt a sudden apprehension come over him. Might this be more unfortunate news? So much disaster had befallen over the past year, with the unleashing of the Balrog. The last of the Dwarves had lately fled Khazad-dûm with the death of Durin's son. Lórinand had been thrown into chaos as well. Many of its people were abandoning their home, sailing West to escape the disturbances that surrounded them. Amroth, bound by a promise to his beloved, had been among them. That, too, had ended in grief. What more could there be?
Father seemed to sense his apprehension. "Indeed," he began, "I must apologize for sharing this with you now. I know that Amroth's death was a grievous blow. But the poor timing is inescapable. It is a matter connected. For a second message came from Lórinand, Findur—one that concerns you and me."
"What is it?" exclaimed Findur. "Has something gone wrong? Has there been word of Nimrodel? What—"
"Hush. Nothing like that. Nothing too terrible. It is—" He paused. "You know the importance of Lórinand. If the evil in Dol Guldur does not abate, that land will be instrumental in the defense of Middle-earth."
Findur nodded. Of course he understood Lórinand's importance—how many times had he traveled thence in past centuries? As trouble grew in the East, he had journeyed abroad, advising and investigating, acting as liaison between Eriador and Rhovanion: in short, assuming his parents' old role in that land.
"Now Lórinand is without ruler," continued Father. "Dark times are ahead of us. It should not be without leadership."
"But Amroth had no heir. Has someone been appointed?"
"Not exactly," said Father. "For Amroth did appoint an heir, before his departure. It seems he met with our friend Mithrandir in Edhellond, and they spoke long. They agreed that the bearer of Nenya should take up rule in Lórinand, in order that Sauron's strongholds in the East be defied."
"You're going, then?" This was unexpected. In the years of Greenwood's decline, merely returning to Lórinand had been difficult for his father. He had managed well despite the weight of his memories, but his unhappiness had been constantly palpable. It was thus that Findur had begun going in his stead—to spare him those unhappy visits.
Seeing his disbelief, Father hastened to explain. "Yes—I am going. But not to Lórinand, Findur."
He stopped and took his son's hand in his own.
"For many years now—and forgive me my silence, but I did not see the need to trouble you—I have—" He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "You know that I love you, and that you have brought much joy into my life. Both you and Celebrían have. But I am tired, Findur. I might, in need, have mustered the will to remain here. But I have not the strength. So I confided to Mithrandir when we last spoke, and so he conveyed to King Amroth. I have made up my mind. Soon I will depart for the West."
Findur stared at his father. Could this be true? Celeborn's face was too familiar to his son to be fully deciphered. Long had it been clouded with sorrow and weariness, the horrors of the past year leaving these etchings indelible. Yet to translate these signs like the characters of an alphabet—it had never occurred to him.
Only now did he see, and understand, that his father was tired.
"Not soon," Father continued quickly. "I would not dream of leaving you in the hour of your grief. A few years, perhaps. I am sorry to have told you now, but it was necessary, for you see—there is the matter of my successor."
And without another word, he released Findur's hand and removed something from his finger.
Nenya.
"Me?" exclaimed Findur. "You want me to—"
"Amroth named you as his heir," said Father. "Mithrandir told him of my intentions to bequeath Nenya to you, and he agreed—"
"But I'm not fit to be a ruler! And certainly not worthy to bear a Ring of Power!"
His father managed a wry smile. "If you feel unworthy," he said, "then you will know how I have felt these two thousand years. I would be more concerned if you actually felt worthy. None of us can do perfect good. To pretend otherwise is nearly as fatal as outright will to evil. But, of course, you know that."
Findur looked at the ring. Its jewel was like a star clasped between two white hands. Yet there was a warmth to its light that was like the light of eyes. So Elbereth must have gazed upon the Earth as she fixed the constellations in preparation for the Elderborn.
"I couldn't," he said. "Not with what I've done."
"Ah. Yes. We must not be forgetting our history. Let us see, what have you done: journeying to Khazad-dûm in spite of all odds, in order to discover the Balrog—"
"But it didn't work! He had hidden it from me—it was silent—"
"The countless years you have spent beside Amroth, mediating between peoples, searching for explanations to the growing darkness around us—"
"But—"
But his father's voice would not be quelled. "Journeying," he continued, "through Rhovanion, even to Dol Guldur itself—confronting the very voice of Sauron, and coming away unscathed. Findur, that is what you have done."
He shook his head. "No. It's not the same. It doesn't undo the past."
"That is true," Father agreed. "Our ill choices are not debts, that might be canceled by good deeds. My annals are indeed incomplete. Findur, you also left your kin and homeland, threw one kingdom into chaos, then went on to form others with lies and false promises as their foundations. You would have led a blameless people in warfare against us. And in the end, you promised yourself to the worst evil of all.
"You and I both know that. The people whom you will be ruling know enough of it to understand that their new lord has a checkered past. But it is just that: past. You have forsaken that path. Look at what you have become."
"And what have I become?" asked Findur, half-knowing the answer, but afraid to believe it.
Father smiled. "I have watched you more carefully than you know. In all our dealings with the Enemy, you have never weakened, nor shirked your duty. And I have seen you with your wife, your daughters and son. That you could betray their trust for your own gain—no, I think we know you better than that. Let me remind you, you have the word of an Istar on that, not just the biased judgment of a devoted father."
Findur still stared at the ring, letting his eye move between its bright gleam and the fire that illuminated it. For a moment, he saw it: mithril inverted. A flooded valley. Beside it, an overripe vineyard, burgeoning with rotting fruit.
And he knew, then, that all his father had said was true—but it was more than that. He let his gaze fall on the ring alone. What this was—what it meant—could never be misused. Encapsulated in its rays were beauty, and purity, and love of all things dear. To use it for ill purpose would be to pervert the thing itself: destroying the tool in the wielding of it. It would no longer be Nenya. He would no longer be Findur.
Then he looked up, and saw his father's face—so familiar, with its weary, almost haunted countenance. How long has he worn that face? Since she left? Since the war began?
Perhaps since the Noldor landed their ships, and the moon first rose in the sky.
"You have lost so much," he said.
"And yet I have gained so much," said his father, and embraced him. Thus they remained, both weeping a little for the partings of the past, and those that were to come. Finally, they separated.
"Are you ready?" asked his father.
"Yes," said Findur.
Then Father kissed his brow, and put the ring on his finger. His mother's ring. It felt strange against his skin, an unexpected weight.
His mother's ring. In his mind's eye, he could see her smile.
"Over time, you will learn to wield it," said his father. "I will be here to teach you."
And now she was laughing, her golden hair catching the sun as she turned her head toward him. Her face was radiant with mirth, eyes alive as he had never seen them. Then her smile softened.
I will always love you, Findur.
Footsteps could be heard in the outside corridor, and with them came voices. Findur listened, and knew each one: Celebrían's silvery voice. Elrond's sonorous baritone. His wife's low murmuring, compelling as the tides. Intermingled with them all were Elwen's bright tones: the voice of his eldest daughter.
He met his father's eyes, and nodded. Together they rose, and went out of the hall. Celebrían and Elwen met him with embraces, and Liniel with a kiss. No words passed between them. Silent indeed would the day be, as all of Imladris mourned for Amroth, last king of Lórinand.
Opening quote: Another snippet from Galadriel's Lament:
Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar!
Maybe even thou shalt find it! Farewell!
On the last line: Yes, Amroth is the last king of Lórinand. Findur, like Galadriel and Celeborn in the canon timeline, will be lord, not king, of that land.
