Chapter Thirty-One: A Light From the Shadows Shall Spring…
That night, Mélanyë was woken by the sounds of hammering. She stealthily crept from her room, following the sounds, until she found its source. For the first time in many years, the kiln was lit and the smiths were working. She saw far off, Elrond watching as the elves worked the metal. His expression was unreadable to her, as if he could be upset, but at the same time he was happy.
Her attention was again drawn by the smiths as they hammered the burning metal. As she looked closer she saw the hilt of the sword that one held as the other struck the blade. She knew that blade very well, having spent many long hours studying it and marveling at the beauty of it, even broken. Narsil, the sword of kings- it was finally being re-made. Inside her excitement sprang as the eruption of a volcano. The sword being re-forged could only mean that the King has returned! The King of the West- the only one who could unite Men as one people. She only wished that he would get the sword in time to save them from Sauron.
Even as she thought this, the blade was thrust into a pool of water, causing a thick cloud of steam to rise from it. Then at once it was lifted out again and the cooled steel glimmered in the moonlight.
"No longer Narsil shall you be called," said one, "But Anduril, Flame of the West. No one shall stand against you while in the hands of the King of Gondor." Then they held aloft the sword, marveling at their work before handing it to Elrond.
"Bear this swiftly to Rohan," the other said to him, "He will have need of it very soon." Elrond took Anduril and sheathed it before turning with haste to the stables. Mélanyë followed.
She came just as Elrond mounted his horse and was about to depart. She caught his eyes with hers and held them, seeing that the unreadable expression was, in fact, pride.
"You are happy," she said, almost surprised at her own words. He nodded to her, and a very small smile appeared on his face.
"For now. The Sword of Kings has been re-made, all depends now on how it is wielded." With that he was off, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. She watched him go until he had left the gates of Rivendell, before turning back to the horses. Then she went to make a long overdue greeting.
"Shani," she called softly. She heard her pony answer her excitedly as she approached. Mélanyë caressed her friend's muzzle as she came near, whispering soft words in her ear. The pony nuzzled her hand and nickered happily at her return. "Oh, Shani," said Mélanyë, "I'm sorry for leaving you for so long, but I would never bring you into danger. I could never ask that of you." Shani neighed her protest, as if to say that she would have gone anywhere with her, but the elf shook her head. "No, my friend, it was better that you stayed here." She hugged her neck and then whispered softly, "In the morning we'll ride together again." She then gave her an apple, one Shani's favorite treats, before going back to bed.
The next morning Mélanyë took Shani out just as she'd promised, riding free in the lands about Imladris. She wasn't alone, however, as Arwen went with her, eager to be away from the confines of home. They took food with them, enough to last them and their horses all day, for they'd decided not to come back until after nightfall. At times Arwen would ride ahead, enjoying the feeling of the wind in her hair and the sun on her face, but then Mélanyë would catch up and they would race each other. Mélanyë knew, of course, that Shani was no match in speed to Asfaloth, but the horses, having as much fun as the elves, knew it was a game and so Asfaloth made sure to set a speed that Shani could keep up with.
They stopped by a pond for a break at midday, enjoying the first blossoms of spring and the cool breeze. The horses grazed in the field while the elves talked; mostly happy talk of times and places away from the evils of the world. That night, however, when they stopped on the way back home, their conversation turned to more unhappy matters.
"What do you think living in Aman would be like?" Mélanyë asked as she lay back on the grass to look up at the stars above her. Arwen smiled softly as a far-away look came into her eyes.
"I will never know that," she said softly, poking the campfire with the stick in her hand. Mélanyë sat up on one arm and looked at her friend as she listened. Arwen caught her eyes and smiled - a real, happy smile. "My fate is to stay here in Middle-Earth. I am promised to marry Aragorn, and though I would not trade that for anything, even if I were to change my mind now I still could not make that journey. My course has been set and I cannot alter it. Not for anyone." She looked down at the grass and sighed.
"Your father?" Mélanyë said softly. Arwen nodded.
"He has accepted that he cannot change my fate, but," she paused and looked towards home. "I would have liked to have his blessing. I often wonder what Ammë would say if she knew of my choice. Would she be proud of me or upset and disappointed like Atar?"
"How would you feel if your child made this choice?" asked Mélanyë. "If you knew for certain that he would meet death because of something he chose?"
"But isn't that true for anyone?" Arwen responded. A look of sudden inspiration and wisdom passed over her face as she continued. "Anyone who dies had, at some time in their life, made a choice that led to their fate."
"But Elves do not have to die," Mélanyë pointed out.
"That was true before Fëanor made his choice." Arwen said quietly. They sat in silence for a long time after that, thinking about what was said and listening to the crackling campfire.
"What if Aragorn dies?" Mélanyë said suddenly. Arwen looked up sharply and held her eyes with the most intense stare she had ever seen.
"He won't," she said firmly. Mélanyë couldn't decide if it was great faith or sheer will that prompted those words, but the way Arwen had said them, she believed it too.
Late that night they rod back to Imladris. After making Shani comfortable in her stable, she decided to go for a walk around Rivendell. She went slowly, touching and looking at everything as she passed, almost as if it were the last time she would see these things. As she did she noticed that the leaves on the trees, rather than their rich vibrant hues of gold and copper, were now dull browns and yellows. She stopped and picked up one of the fallen leaves, and watched as it crumbled in her hand.
Then she stood, almost in alarm, and looked around her. She saw the grand house before her, but somehow it didn't look right to her. It looked like it was aging, even dying- an empty shell of what it once was. She saw that the white and grey wood was growing dull, and the tall, graceful arches seemed almost to sag under the weight of years in which they had stood.
Only then did she fully realize the gravity of Arwen's choice. What was happening to Imladris will happen to her. She will age, wither and eventually die, just as their realm has begun to show signs of decay. Her grace will ultimately fade and perish from the world, becoming only a memory for those who will live on.
With a heavy heart, Mélanyë opened her hand to the wind, watching the broken pieces of the leaf fly away into the night.