CHAPTER 3
Arwen fell back to draw level with her father, her mount snorting greeting to its stable mate. Elrond smiled at his daughter but could not hold from her discerning eye the growing loss in his heart.
Ahead, the newly rebuilt gates of the White City were swinging ponderously open and Elrond knew, more surely than he had ever known before, that they were about to swallow his child. Mortality was devouring her and all too soon he would be destined never to hear her laughter again.
Sensing the path of his thoughts, Arwen reached across to lay a gloved hand upon his arm. "I am happy, Adar. I want this more than immortality. I want Aragorn. Please, rejoice with me."
Elrond pushed down his dark thoughts and from centuries of practice came the skill to bring light to his features, contentment to his gaze. But within his breast his heart threatened to burst the constraints he now drew tightly about it. It had been broken too many times before and to let go the bonds now would shatter him completely.
He had not told her yet, but he intended to take ship to the West shortly. He was stretched too thin, his fea too bruised and battered to stay even long enough to see her first child conceived. If he waited any longer he may well become bound to Middle earth forever and, while that may be the choice of his daughter, it was not his. Elrond was weary of the never-ending cycle of war and death. Early evening stars kindled a glow of deep blue upon his finger. He was weary of the burden of leadership, the strain of wielding power in silence and secret.
They were nearly at the gates now. His sons had gone before, followed by Galadriel and Celeborn and others of their kin and now Elrond and the future Queen of Gondor were last to ride through the broad, newly gilded doors.
He glanced aside as they crossed the threshold. Arwen was smiling as she rode beneath the shadow of the heavy lintel.
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In a broad courtyard within the gate squires in the sable and argent livery of the White Tower came forward to lead away the mounts, and crowds cheered as their king strode forward. As one, the assemblage of fair folk bowed gracefully to the new High King . . . he who would now hold responsibility for the governance of Arda. Then Aragorn stood before his foster father and future wife. His regal expression softened as his gaze met that of Arwen and Elrond found that he was very much aware of two swift beating hearts, the rising symphony of their conjoined fea.
Out of long habit, Elrond bowed to the king and took refuge in protocol, placing the hand of his daughter in that of her betrothed.
It was as they climbed the winding road to the Citadel that Elrond saw him. The ringbearer.
He was barely recognisable. Not because of his rich clothing, nor because of any great change in his features, unless perhaps that he was a little thinner. Nor was it the weary and slightly distant expression in his bright blue eyes that struck the elven lord.
Amongst so many other songs, yet still he should have recognised this melody. When he narrowed his concentration, however, Elrond could easily hear why he had at first overlooked it. Frodo's soul song, once gay and dancing with light, had changed. There was light still, but it was different. Where once had flickered the warm golden sunbeams of a spring morning, now shone the steady but pearl-silver light of a cool autumn afternoon. The Ring wrought darkness that had been twined about his soul was gone, but nothing had filled its place. The gentle melody of Frodo's fea faltered, large portions of it ripped away by and destroyed with the Ring.
For a moment their eyes met, then Frodo's flicked away, a smile touching his lips but not lighting his features, as he was gathered in by his companions and joined the wedding procession.
Elrond found himself haunted by that broken, almost-melody. What had they . . . No . . . what had he done to this child of light? Was the time now here to make what offer they could for reparation?