Forgiveness
Valinor
Fourth Age

Elrond wandered the halls of his parents' house. It was a modest residence compared to the grandeur of his own halls, nestled deep within the heart of Tirion. The house was rarely occupied, due to Eärendil's unquenchable passion for the sea and Elwing's preference for abiding with her kin. This was the first time Elrond had the opportunity to explore it.

When upon learning of their private refuge some years past, Elrond found himself curious to see it. His curiosity grew stronger upon learning that few had ever set foot within its walls. Once in jest, his uncles, Eluréd and Elurín, referred to it as the half-elven keep and Dior, in passing, had said the same. They made is sound as if a secret dwelt there, not merely an empty house.

Curious to learn more, Elrond asked Anira if she had ever visited his parents there. A strange expression graced her face for a moment before it faded and she said, "I once visited at your mother's behest, to aid her in some effort, but that was long ago."

How long, she did not say. Time is a thing few measured in Valinor, but in Elrond's experience, the phrase 'long ago' most often meant a time one preferred not to discuss.

Perhaps it was for this reason that Elrond never pressed for an invitation, preferring to reintroduce himself to his parents within the safety of his own home and hearth. The gulf of time that existed between them was wide and slow to fill in. It seemed all three half-elves were content to learn one another at a cautious pace.

Then one ordinary day, an invitation came. The letter from Elwing was delivered directly to her son, inviting him to a private lunch. The letter's phrasing was specific enough for Elrond to know that neither Celebrían nor Eärendil were party to the invitation. This would be a private gathering of mother and son. For Elrond, the idea of spending the afternoon alone with Elwing was unnerving, a feeling followed swiftly by guilt and shame. He did not wish to feel this way about the elleth who bore him but could not shake his unease. That discomfort was a part of him, born of questions left unanswered for many ages.

Elrond arrived early on the day of the invitation and was ushered into the house's courtyard to await his mother. He admired the meticulous artistry of the flower garden, following a well-worn path into its midst. When Elrond arrived at a cove in the garden's center, his heart was struck still in awe. Elrond beheld a child at play. His mischievous eyes crinkled with laughter as he clutched some sacred thing to his chest. The child was running, running fast away from another who bore the same face graced with an expression of stubborn determination. The children were frozen in time but appeared lifelike with their hair and clothing caught up in an imagined breeze. Elrond's gaze was fixed on the first. He came close enough to reach out a hand to him. Beneath his fingers the child's face was stone – cold and smooth – but the memory burned painful in Elrond's heart.

Elrond remained there, rooted to the spot, until he heard his mother's footsteps approaching. He did not turn to greet her until he had wiped the tears from his eyes. His pain was his own. He had no wish to burden her with it, and their relationship was yet a cautious one. She reached his side, and when she did, she set her own hand on the statue's head.

"You captured his likeness perfectly," said Elrond. "How did you manage it?"

"The expenditure of much marble," Elwing replied, "and the patience of many artisans. I am no artist, as you know, but those who understood my heart granted me grace as we recreated you both in stone."

Elwing's gaze shifted to Elrond. The shimmer in her eyes marked a mix of emotions, both joy and pain. "For a time, I wondered if this memory was all I would ever know of you. Elros' choice of mortality did not surprise me, but I was less certain of yours. When word came to us of your marriage to an elleth, I was made more confident of our eventual reunion."

"I wish he had chosen us," Elrond muttered bitterly, before he could think better of his words.

Elwing shook her head solemnly. "He had the spirit of a Man. It was so from his earliest days." Elwing reached out to her only remaining son and laid a tender hand upon his arm. She led him to a bench set nearby and they took a seat overlooking the marble children at play. "I would be glad to learn your memories of him some day," said Elwing, "when you find them less painful to recall."

"My memories are not always so clear," Elrond admitted. "Of those early days, much is shrouded."

Elwing laid a hand atop Elrond's and gave it a gentle squeeze. "It is no wonder. You were so young."

"It was not my youth alone. Elros remembered things, things I could not, or would not. Maglor offered me his memories of our earliest days with him. They have helped to awaken some my own."

"I would do so as well," said Elwing. "You may ask me what you wish. I will tell you what I recall."

Elrond met his mother's gaze. He saw no hint of hesitation in her eyes, and yet he wavered, unsure if she was truly prepared to answer the question that troubled his heart for so long. "Are you certain?"

Elwing nodded and smiled gently in assurance. "I owe you answers. They are a long time coming."

Elrond breathed deeply and exhaled the same. His gaze moved to the boy in marble with the serious, determined mien. The sculpture reflected his likeness both then, and now. It was proof that his mother knew him, despite the many years they had spent apart. But Elrond had been a child then, and so did not know his mother well. If he did, he might have had no need to ask this question.

"Maedhros told us you jumped from the tower window. Anira said you fell. Both had the tenor of a lie when spoken. I wish to know what occurred in that moment, as you remember it."

Elwing closed her eyes, and when she opened them, her gaze, too, shifted to the stone likeness of Elrond. "What do you remember?" she asked him.

"I remember fear," said Elrond, "and Anira holding me close. Nothing more."

Elwing was silent for some time and Elrond granted her the quiet to collect her thoughts. He glanced at her briefly to assess her expression, to ensure he had not overstepped. Her gaze was unfocused, and there was a sadness in her eyes, but she remained composed. Elrond assumed this was not the first time her thoughts had dwelled on that day, but it was the first time her children had held her to account.

"I remember fear as well," Elwing whispered. "When word rang out of the army's approach, I felt as a child again. And though I had not witnessed with my own eyes the death of my parents or brothers, I saw them often in my dreams. In my dreams, I would gaze upon their corpses, and as the Fëanorions drew closer to our door, I saw you and Elros the same."

Elwing turned then to her son to meet his gaze. "I know the question you truly wish to ask me. Did I knowingly abandon you there in the hands of those who had slain our kin? And while I cannot tell you what Maedhros or Maglor or Anira witnessed on that day, I know my fall from the window was no accident. I saw you and your brother dead by their hands, and the fall was all I had left to punish them, by taking their silmaril with me into the depths of the sea. I did not imagine surviving the fall, or the river's currents. It was vengeance against them for taking you from me. I believed it to be so for many years, until I learned you still lived. And I dared not believe it, not until Anira stood before me to share the tale."

Elrond listened quietly to his mother's account of that day, as she filled in the gaps left by Maglor and Anira. It had not been enough for both witnesses to name Elwing blameless, though Elrond had held fast to their apologies for a long time. He needed to hear of this event from his mother's lips, her own memory of it. Her words did not immediately erase the pain of abandonment he carried for so long, but it blunted the sharpest edges. In time, it might do more. Elrond closed his eyes and exhaled deeply in an effort to maintain his composure. In the midst of his struggle, his mother's grip tightened on his hand.

"Please know, I did not choose to save a silmaril over my sons. I would have defied the lords of Sirion and returned the jewel at Maedhros' request, if I had known what would come to pass. I failed to protect you, and I am sorry for that. It is a shame I will carry with me, always."

Elrond lifted his gaze to meet his mother's, the pain in his own eyes reflected back at him. She wiped away a stray tear trailing down his cheek. "I know I must earn your love, but know you have never lost mine. I loved the child that you were, and the youth who grew strong in Lindon, and the Lord who protected our people through long years of struggle in Imladris. Though I could not be with you through your joys and hardships, I followed every one, by the tales brought to us from across the sea."

Elrond nodded slowly for it was all he could do to show his mother that he understood. He could not now find the words to express ages of pent-up emotion, and blessedly, his mother did not press. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, she leaned close to kiss his forehead and gave his hand one final squeeze. "I will go check on our luncheon. Please join me, if you can."

Elrond watched his mother depart the garden cove, leaving him alone with the marble memory of he and Elros at play. His gaze fell once more upon his brother's smiling face. Elrond wondered what his brother would have thought of their mother's recounting.

Would he have forgiven her?

Elrond was not so sure. He would have to give the matter more thought, but he did not have the steadiness of mind at present to do. There was much he was unsure of, but one certainty held firm. He forgave Elwing. He had, in point of fact, forgiven her long ago. Only now, with the fullness of knowledge, he could begin to forgive others as well – himself for forgetting, Elros for his anger, Eärendil for his absence, and perhaps, in time, even Maglor and Maedhros for the actions that led them all to that day.

As Eruanna was fond of reminding him, in Valinor, they had plenty of time. There was no urgency here, and forgiveness was a winding path with no ending.

A/N: I've been wanting to write this scene since I wrote the Sirion chapter of Echoes. It's been a long time coming. There's a lot of trauma in Tolkien's world, and our own. Here's to hoping healing is possible.