Chapter 9: The Evenstar

But Elrond saw many things and read many hearts. One day, therefore, before the fall of the year he called Aragorn to his chamber, and he said: "Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Lord of the Dúnedain, listen to me! A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. Many years of trial lie before you. You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it."

And Arwen said: "Dark is the Shadow, and yet my heart rejoices; for you, Estel, shall be among the great whose valour will destroy it."

But Aragorn answered: "Alas! I cannot foresee it, and how it may come to pass is hidden from me. Yet with your hope I will hope.”

The Tale of Arwen and Aragorn, Appendix A, Return of the King

Anor’s light had just appeared, shining upwards from below the mountains and illuminating their peaks with a golden glow, when Elrond heard Erestor enter his chambers. He could smell the fragrance of the hot tea.  His mouth watered in anticipation, and he gladly accepted the cup Erestor handed him.

“Ah, you are recovered,” said Erestor with approval.

“I am,” agreed Elrond. “Somehow I think you know before I do.”

“I do,” answered Erestor.  “When your nose twitches in response to this particular tea, you are well.” He smiled at Elrond, then added, “Celebrían told me that.”

At the mention of his wife’s name, Elrond felt a slight shiver of anticipation run through him, as often happened now that he considered their reunion imminent.  Thoughts of Celebrían pushed thoughts of present failures and future separations from his mind.

“I expect Frodo will awaken at mid-morning,” said Elrond as he sipped his tea. “I do not want him stressed or stimulated today; therefore none but Samwise and Mithrandir are to be admitted to his room.  Mithrandir will assess his well-being. If he is well, then we will proceed with the feast tonight.  Make it early, however, as Frodo may wish to enjoy some time in the Great Hall - Bilbo is working on his latest verse, as you know – and I do not want him up too late on this first night.”

“Have you heard Bilbo’s latest verse?” asked Erestor, his eyes twinkling.

“I have,” replied Elrond dryly.  “Lindir has been so amused he has created the Ballad of Bilbo’s Verse. I have had to remind him to take some care where he sings it, as our dear hobbit understands considerable Quenya as well as Sindarin.” He paused, turning to face his advisor. “I understand you have been quite helpful in providing Bilbo with the information he needed.”

Erestor grinned. “His work is all his own. Despite knowing that there are those alive who could tell him the story directly, he has preferred to unearth his own evidence by exploring numerous tomes in the library. A useful pastime for an aged hobbit.”

“Indeed,” laughed Elrond, but continued more seriously, “An active and curious mind well cultivated is a blessing to a mortal in the fall of life.”

Erestor nodded his agreement. “I will finish the arrangements for this evening.”

Elrond entered his study to find his desk neatly arranged with information on each of Imladris’ visitors.  Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain, Elves from Thranduil’s realm in Mirkwood, and Galdor from Mithlond.  A tug on his mind and the thrum of Vilya led him to the balcony again, where he stood gazing southward.  The protections he had set about Imladris’ borders kept them hidden from outsiders. He knew when shadow threatened to overwhelm those protections, but with some work he also knew when those seeking aid approached.  Intent on the presence to the south, he did not hear Glorfindel enter the room and started at the touch on  his arm.

“I have a message from Elladan,” Glorfindel said, then smiled when Elrond brightened at the mention of his son’s name.  “They have come upon a man from Gondor, seeking Imladris.”

“For what reason?” asked Elrond curiously.  It had been long since he had had contact with any men of the southern realm, and Aragorn in the guise of Thorongil had not revealed his true identity or home during his sojourn there, though men had come into the north seeking news of him.

“To solve a riddle,” answered Glorfindel.  “I sent word back that they should allow him to find the way.”

Elrond nodded his agreement as he considered the southern Númenorian realm.  It was in the libraries of Minas Tirith that Gandalf had found Isildur’s account of the One Ring; it was in Minas Tirith that Aragorn would one day rule, should Sauron be defeated and the line of the kings restored.   One who came from that realm was surely seeking information that would involve both Aragorn and the One.  In the past, when men had come with questions about Thorongil, Elrond had not allowed them to find Imladris for Aragorn’s time had not come.  Yet he had foreseen that Gondor had a role to play in the events unfolding around them.  It was time for Isildur’s heir to be revealed.

“Do you wish me to arrange any meetings between you and our visitors?” asked Glorfindel after several minutes had passed.

Elrond had been considering how he wished to speak to each group.  Tensions existed at times between the races, and he would need to use care to ensure that his actions, intentional or unintentional, did nothing to heighten them. More importantly, he needed all of the races to set aside their own interests and look to the future of Middle-earth.   The best way to do that was to hold a council and let everyone hear the tale of the One Ring from its start to the present, each adding their own tales to the whole.  “No,” he answered.  “I will invite representatives from each group to a Council tomorrow. There the fate of the One will be determined and all of the races will be witness. ”

* * *

Elrond entered the dining hall with Arwen at his side.  She was serene and beautiful, and all eyes were drawn to her.   He sensed contentment in her, despite the fact that Aragorn had been lured from the feast by the news his brothers had returned.

My place this eve is with you, she answered, following his thoughts easily, though it is my choice as well. We have many guests, and I would honor Frodo and celebrate his recovery.  She was silent as he led her to her chair, midway down the table.  She would not sit in her mother’s place this night, but in her own.  He held her chair as she was seated, then walked to join Glorfindel and Mithrandir at the head of the table.

Elrond looked over the length of the table, then to the tables placed nearby.  Erestor and Arwen had seen to the seating arrangements, and he was pleased to see the delegations mingled together, so that the tables held a mix of elves, dwarves, hobbits and men.  The meal was in progress when he sensed mirth in Glorfindel and turned to look at him.  Following Glorfindel’s gaze upward, he felt warmth spread through him as he saw figures on the balcony above them. Elladan waved and Elrohir blew him a kiss as they jostled Aragorn between them affectionately, causing the grim ranger to smile, a sight they seldom saw now.  In the moment he watched them, Aragorn shrank from lean ranger into an eager and innocent child, content playing between the twins he considered his brothers as he watched a feast in honor of a wizard, thirteen dwarves and a hobbit. Elrond turned back to the feast with a renewed spirit.  His sons had been gone long, and he rejoiced in their return.

* * *

Elrond watched with amusement as Frodo and Sam sat near Bilbo, who was still glowing after reciting his verse before all present.  Lindir had teased him as expected, but Bilbo had dealt with the minstrel on enough occasions not to be lured into a discussion with the merry elf who would try to stump the elderly hobbit with tongue-twisting rhymes and words of many meanings.   Elrond had been pleased to be the one to present Frodo to his uncle as they entered the Great Hall after dinner, for the look of joy and contentment in Frodo’s eyes had warmed his heart. The hobbit’s long struggle against the shard of the morgul blade appeared mostly forgotten, and indeed, Frodo remembered none of his days in Imladris.  He appeared to be recovered, and though Elrond did not know his normal personality, the others seemed to believe that Frodo was restored to them.  The ring seemed to have little hold on him, which amazed Elrond, as the least softening of his own guard allowed him to hear It calling him.

A movement behind him caught his attention and from the corner of his eye he saw a strong hand come to rest on his daughter’s shoulder.  She raised her hand to cover it, the ring of Barahir on her finger this night.  Dressed simply but finely, she and Aragorn were a handsome couple and his sight drifted effortlessly into a vision of them so posed: Arwen radiant and great with child, and Aragorn with the winged crown of Gondor upon his head and a look of tenderness in his eyes as he beheld his wife. Pride filled Elrond even as sorrow pierced his heart, and he quickly blinked both away.

“Another guest will arrive in Imladris by morning,” said Aragorn softly. “Boromir son of Denethor, steward of Gondor, has been seeking Imladris for many days.”

“Have you learned more of his purpose?” asked Elrond. His memory had been drawn throughout the day to the last men who came from the south seeking word of a man from the north, a man called Thorongil. It had been many years in the reckoning of men, yet seemed as if only yesterday.  Those men had never found Imladris, nor the answers to their questions, at least not from Elrond’s people.

“He speaks of a riddle that involves Narsil and a Halfling bearing Isildur’s bane,” replied Aragorn quietly, his face grave.

Aragorn would have continued, but the doors had opened again and Lindir had begun a new song in honor of the latest arrivals.  Dressed identically in robes of midnight blue trimmed in silver, with thin Mithril circlets upon their brows and damp hair drawn back in braids similar to Elrond’s, his sons walked to him and bowed.   He nodded in acknowledgement, but was already reaching for Elrohir’s hand for in a simple touch he would assure himself that they were well.

“Greetings, Adar,” said Elladan. He reached for Arwen’s hand, but before he could take it in his own, she rose and embraced him.

Elrond rose also, embracing each of his sons, immediately treasuring the rare moment of having all of his children around him.   The musicians continued to play and the twins waited appreciatively until the welcome song ended. They were quickly surrounded by talk and laughter, but Elladan excused them with promises to return later.

Elrond led them to his study, where Erestor and Glorfindel soon joined them.   He smiled as Elrohir attempted to maneuver to sit next to his sister as he always did, for she spoiled him, but when both he and Aragorn attempted to sit in the same spot, Elrohir gracefully ceded the position.

“Sit here, elfling,” said Glorfindel, and Elrond realized it had been long since he had heard that moniker used for his son. For more than twenty centuries, Elrohir had argued over that name, then a day came when he seemed to just accept it.  Glorfindel had used the name rarely, though, since Celebrían’s departure.  In the time after Celebrían’s attack, when Elrond had been most concerned for the outwardly self-destructive Elladan, Glorfindel had feared more for the quieter Elrohir.   While Elladan had returned to his normal self, Elrohir remained quieter and more introspective than he had been.   Glorfindel was one of the few people who could draw him out, and Elrond was grateful to his old friend when Elrohir grinned in response to the affectionate nickname.

Elrohir settled next to Glorfindel, who put his talented hands to use on muscles stiff and hard from many days on a horse. As was usual between the twins when relating a long tale, Elladan did the speaking, though Elrond could sense the unspoken thoughts that passed between them. Elrohir was more apt to speak when there was little to be said.

“His name is Boromir, and he is the son of the Steward Denethor,” began Elladan, when his audience was settled.  “We found him wandering in the Angle, searching for Imladris.   In Tharbad they send him north, and travelers confirmed stories of the elves living in a northern valley, but none could tell him how to find it. The Dúnedain were less than helpful, when he could find any to speak to him.” A slow smile crept over his face. “One woman recalled the last time men from the south came north seeking information and gave him directions that ran him in a circle.”

Aragorn looked gravely upon Elladan at those words, but Elladan smiled, eyes twinkling, and continued, “We watched him wander for several days, but though clearly a fierce warrior, his senses are somewhat lacking.  He may well believe that mischievous squirrels throw acorns down upon weary travelers who rest against their tree-homes.”

Elrohir squirmed slightly at his twin’s words and Glorfindel pressed down firmly upon his shoulders, while Elladan laughed aloud.  He winked at Arwen as she fought to keep a straight face. “Yes, dear sister, you will be glad to know our brother displayed some of his customary orneriness. He recalls too well the men sent by Denethor, seeking news of Thorongil.”

Aragorn turned his gaze to Elrohir, but Elrohir laughed and said, “You will find Boromir quite hard-headed.”

Elrond watched the flicker of emotions reflected in Aragorn’s eyes, then the grim ranger finally smiled. He had grown so serious; the moments of levity rare.  His smile faded as he met Elrond’s gaze.

“You time has come,” said Elrond seriously after a moment’s silence.  At his words, the room went still and all eyes came to rest on him.  Aragorn removed his hand from Arwen’s, leaned forward, and nodded his acknowledgement.

“Tomorrow we will hold Council and discuss the fate of the One Ring.  It rests now upon a chain on the hobbit Frodo’s neck.  Even in Imladris he is watched for his protection, and it is best that few know what he bears.  For that reason, the Council participants will be limited and the meeting secret. The tale of Sauron’s Ring will be told in its entirety, and all of our visitors will add their part.  It is not by chance that they have arrived here now.  I believe your time has come, Aragorn, the future you have long prepared for.”

Elrond watched as Arwen slipped her arm back around Aragorn’s elbow, taking his hand in her own and gently massaging it.   He could feel the support she was lending him, the love flowing from her and into him.  The troth-plight between them had begun the weaving of a new tapestry, and from each of their lives had the threads been drawn. The room faded from his sight as he followed the strands, remembering how he had wished nothing more than to capture the slender cords that bound his daughter to the Eldar - to her family, to him -  as he watched Arwen loosen the filaments and prepare to weave them into a story of the Secondborn . . .

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

For the first time in thirty years, Aragorn dismounted in the courtyard, handing the reins to a groom, and turned to face the house. Elrond saw much in those few moments as he walked forward to greet his son: Estel the young man was gone, replaced by a ranger full grown in body and mind.  He carried himself with a confidence that could only be earned through the hard life of a soldier, yet dignity flowed from him befitting his lineage. His eyes reflected wisdom, and a moment after meeting Elrond’s, sorrow.

“Welcome home, my son,” he greeted him, embracing the man while ignoring the pain in his heart and the way Aragorn guarded his own heart against him.

“Thank you,” replied Aragorn. “I am glad to be home.”

Elrond watched as Aragorn drew in a deep breath, steeling himself to speak. For a moment he considered allowing Aragorn to put words to his thoughts and tell him of Arwen, but Aragorn had grown much in his time away and Elrond would not give him the upper hand in the conversation they needed to have.

“I wish to hear of your travels and we must speak of Arwen, but first you must refresh yourself,” said Elrond, speaking just as Aragorn opened his mouth.

Aragorn’s mouth snapped shut and he went still, Elrond’s words clearly catching him off-guard. Elrond felt a moment’s regret, but he brushed the thought away as quickly as it had come.

“Arwen?” ventured Aragorn.

Elrond masked his emotions, ruthlessly caging first his pain and then his anger. He is your son, he reminded himself, and you love him too.  He did not speak until he had mastered control of himself. “She has pledged herself to you, and forsaken the Twilight. You come home because it was your intent upon leaving the south, but now you come also to tell me that you have bound yourself in troth, though your time has not yet come.”

Aragorn bowed his head. “What you say is true,” he replied softly. “How did you know?”

Elrond smiled grimly, but dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. He would not tell of the pain that had come upon him unaware or the vision that had broken his heart, nor how he could now sense in Aragorn the thinnest thread linking him to Arwen, confirmation that his vision had indeed come to pass.

“I cannot fully comprehend what it is that I have asked of you, but I have more understanding now than I did in my youth,” he offered.

Elrond felt a strange mixture of anger and compassion for his son. He did not yet know what had led Aragorn and Arwen to take this step in Lothlorien, away from him, but he did respect the man for coming to speak to him immediately. He took Aragorn’s arm and guided him to the house. “Your room has been prepared.  Refresh yourself, and we will speak later in my study.”

 * * *

Elrond went to his chambers after escorting Aragorn to his rooms, turmoil broiling within him.  The nearly thirty years of preparation had not made this day easier; instead he felt as a kettle long left simmering that had now had its fire stoked, ready to erupt and boil over.  He took off his robe and flung it in the direction of his wardrobe, then paced unrestricted in tunic and trousers.

A carved wooden stand sat near his balcony; on it, a vase hand painted by Arwen. He picked it up, cradling it in the palm of one hand, while he traced the delicate vein of a leaf that appeared to grow out of the glass, reaching for the light.   The leaf began to grow and from it blossomed a flower that stretched toward the sun.  It was glorious in its color and beauty, and its scent filled the air. He drank it in, but then the flower began to droop and the edges of the leaf curled.   They grew brown and brittle, crumbling in his hand.

“I can think of a more suitable outlet for your frustration,” interrupted Glorfindel.

Elrond started, looking up into the face of his friend, then down to the broken glass in his hands.   He stared at them stupidly as shards fell between his fingers, shattering as they hit the floor. Glorfindel took the pieces that remained and set them aside, then patiently removed the slivers that had lodged in his skin. Elrond watched as drops of blood oozed from each one, the wounds healing before his eyes.

“Come,” said Glorfindel.  When Elrond did not immediately follow, Glorfindel grasped his elbow and led him out of the house to the armory. He did not resist, but then, the strength of Glorfindel’s hold left no question as to the futility of such an action.

A sword was placed in his hand; his sword, he realized.  Glorfindel led him to a practice field and led him through a patient warm up.  Elrond felt his heart speed up as blood rushed to his limbs, and he was the one who swung the sword in the first real blow.  Glorfindel was prepared, however, and parried him easily.  Elrond jabbed again, and again, and again, the exertion more than he had expended in many a century.  Glorfindel did not speak or show any emotion, but after a time he switched from a defensive role to an offensive one, and Elrond had to use all of his strength to defend against the rain of blows that descended about him. 

They battled for nearly an hour and Elrond was breathing hard, but he was pleased to see that Glorfindel looked less pristine than he had.   Glorfindel backed off, but Elrond did not take the offered olive branch.  Instead he took advantage of the lull and struck the warrior with the flat of his sword. Glorfindel’s eyes opened in surprise, then narrowed, and Elrond knew what was to come.  In a flurry of motion so fast that he could hardly catalogue the motions, he was knocked off balance, spun in a half circle, had his feet kicked out from beneath him and found himself looking up at a face framed in gold holding the tip of his sword to Elrond’s shoulder.

Only when Elrond released his grip on his sword and Glorfindel had kicked it away did his friend lower his own sword.  Elrond lay still for a few moments while he caught his breath, but when Glorfindel offered his hand, he took it and was pulled to his feet. He went where Glorfindel led him, but despite his acquiescence the grip on his arm was bruising.   He actually sighed in relief when they entered the baths.  No others were present, but Elrond felt Glorfindel might have had a hand in that as well.  He shook Glorfindel’s hand free, stripped and sank into the hot water.

“Good,” grunted Glorfindel.  “Whatever has not been beaten out of you can be steamed away.”

Elrond felt a flash of fury rise in him momentarily, but a raised brow on the warrior’s face dissipated his anger, and he managed a wry smile instead.  “Thank you,” he said.

“Now that you have Aragorn knocked off balance by telling him you know about Arwen’s choice, and increased his anxiety by making him wait until evening to speak of it, what are your plans for the actual conversation?” asked Glorfindel calmly.

Elrond felt a flush unrelated to the heat of the water creep up his face, and he tilted his head back against the edge of the bath and sighed.  When he finally looked at Glorfindel, he found that intense gaze still focused on him, the question clearly not rhetorical.

“I admit I want him off-guard,” he finally answered. “He has grown in body and mind. He will make a great king one day.  But I cannot let him have control in this conversation, or this situation.”

“For your own purpose, or other reasons?” probed Glorfindel.

Elrond reviewed his motivations, reviewed in his mind the visions he had seen.  “Both, perhaps, though the legitimate reasons make it impossible for me to change what I must say, and thus impossible to separate. They must not marry now; that much is clear to me.”

“If he fails and does not become king . . .” began Glorfindel.

“Do not dwell on such a thing,” interrupted Elrond. “There is no certainty that such an event would not include all of our deaths, or that any of us would escape these shores. That motivation alone is not enough for me to withhold my daughter’s hand.” He was quiet for a moment, then added, “And were it, she would show the spirit of her foremothers and do as she wished without my consent.”

Glorfindel smiled. “Galadriel and Celebrían would insist such characteristics came equally from her forefathers, I think.”

Elrond did not answer. Arwen was more like him in temperament than her naneth, but her stubbornness was definitely a female trait from both lines of her heritage .

Clean clothing was brought for them, and Elrond dressed slowly, not relishing the conversation he was about to have with Aragorn.  Glorfindel walked with him back to the house, and took his usual chair in Elrond’s study.  Elrond was surprised, but decided he was glad for the company.

“A piece of advice, if I may,” said Glorfindel.  “As long as I have known you, you have listened and tried to understand before passing judgment. Thirty years have passed since last you saw your son. Look past your anger and pain and extend that same courtesy to Aragorn.  What is done is done, unless you intend to ask them to break their troth.”

When the knock came at the door, Glorfindel answered it and greeted Aragorn.  He did what Elrond could not, and offered the traditional elven words of hope for the future marriage, then embraced the man he had helped raise.

Aragorn walked to him and bowed formally, and Elrond waved him to the same bench where they had sat when he told Estel of his heritage.

“Master Elrond, I . ..” began Aragorn, but Elrond held up his hand to stop him. He was determined to lead this discussion where he wanted it to go.

“Tell me of your travels first,” said Elrond. “You were traveling under the name Thorongil, I believe.  Men came from the south seeking knowledge of him.”

Aragorn’s head snapped up in surprise, but he quickly schooled his reaction. “Sent by Denethor, son of the steward Ecthelion, most likely.  He had his suspicions as to my true identity.”

With that, Aragorn launched into the tale of his service to the King of Rohan and the Steward of Gondor, his battles on sea and land and the victory over the Corsairs at Umbar.  He spoke of traveling deep into Harad, and what he had learned of the reach of Sauron’s hand there. He had seen much and learned much, and Elrond found himself enthralled by the stories even as he carefully stored away the information to consider in light of his long experiences in Middle-earth.  Only when Aragorn spoke of his admittance to Lothlorien did Elrond remember his anger.

“I did not know Arwen was there, nor did I realize why Lady Galadriel was preparing me as she did. I looked like a king,” he admitted, “and I felt like a king. I felt worthy of Arwen’s love. When she offered it to me, I took it, though I reminded her of what it entailed. I am not of the Eldar, and her choice meant forsaking the Twilight.”

Aragorn leaned forward, as if willing Elrond to understand. “I am sorry, my father, for I knowingly broke your command to me.”

Elrond again raised his hand, stopping Aragorn. His anger had dissipated more than he would have thought possible.  Neither Arwen nor Galadriel were aware of his words to Aragorn regarding his doom, and few of elven kind could resist Galadriel’s manipulations, much less a mortal.  Yet, Aragorn had known and understood his words, and done this anyway.

“What is done is done, and I would not ask you to break your troth and bring dishonor upon yourself and this house. Yet I appeal to you in this, Aragorn: you are a man in full strength of body and mind. You allowed your heart to rule that mind and body, and be led in a way that I as your father asked you not to go.  If you felt my judgment incorrect, you could have returned to Rivendell and spoken to me first.  You will meet others with less pure motives than Galadriel who will wish to convince you of what is right. They will use voices of honey that will attempt to lull you into complacency or turn you to their ways.  You say you renounce the Shadow? Then you must hold fast to your promises and commitments and not be swayed from your path.  If you change your path, you must seek good counsel and know that the new way is indeed right.  Do you understand?”

Aragorn appeared chagrined, and a light flush rose in his cheeks.  “In my happiness, I do not regret the result of what I have done, but I am ashamed of my actions. Will you forgive me?”

Elrond considered the request carefully. Aragorn did not yet have what he wished, only a commitment to that future.  He fully intended to hold him to the first part of that command he had given him thirty years ago. “I forgive you for disobeying the command I set before you as my son to not bind yourself in troth to any woman.”

Aragorn looked at him thoughtfully, his eyes reflecting his understanding when it dawned on him what Elrond had not said. “We may remain troth plighted only.”

"My son, years come when hope will fade, and beyond them little is clear to me. And now a shadow lies between us. Maybe, it has been appointed so, that by my loss the kingship of Men may be restored. Therefore, though I love you, I say to you: Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life's grace for less cause. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. To me then even our victory can bring only sorrow and parting – but to you hope of joy for a while. Alas, my son! I fear that to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending."*

Aragorn had looked Elrond in the eye as he spoke but bowed his head at the end.  Elrond could see the effort it cost him to think and not speak as he considered Elrond’s words.

“I know that your judgment is sound and we will wait for that end,” replied Aragorn finally.

Elrond could read in his heart the words unspoken, the desires to marry and the benefits of having Arwen at his side, the strength she offered, and the hope she provided. He waited until Aragorn looked up and met his eyes before responding. “Little is clear to me, but I do know that as shadow deepens, you will need no hindrances as you set forth into great toil and danger.  It must be as I have foretold: you must not marry until your time has come and you have been found worthy of it.  Your time has not yet come.”

Aragorn’s shoulders slumped slightly at his words, and Elrond took his hands in his own, automatically imparting his own strength to his son. Patience beyond what could normally be required of mortal men was being asked of Aragorn: to take no wife, to provide no heir, to allow the line of Kings to die with him if he could not reunite the kingdoms and take the throne.  The doom laid upon this man was great, and yet Elrond had never been more sure of his ability to succeed.  They had named him Estel as a hope based on trust that he would become the king who would change the world; he had grown into Amdir, a hope based on reason, for they could see him becoming that king.

“You are home, and tomorrow we will feast in your honor. Go now and sleep,” said Elrond kindly.

Aragorn had stayed only a week, desiring to find Gandalf and see to his people, and he had taken his leave of Elrond. Yet despite the love between them as a father and son and the forgiveness asked and given, a shadow had remained between them, for in their love for Arwen, one of them was destined to lose her.  

* * *

Aragorn had been gone only a few weeks when word arrived that Arwen’s escort approached Imladris.  Elrond had both desired and dreaded this moment for days, and he found himself grateful when the escort entered with Elladan at its head and Elrohir at Arwen’s side. That his sons were home lessened the despair he would have felt had Arwen come alone; yet as he greeted Elladan he felt his son’s sorrow too.

Arwen slid from her horse with Elrohir’s aid, and as she walked to him it seemed to Elrond that all other sights and sounds faded and he saw only his beloved daughter. With each step she took she diminished, and as she reached for him she faded into mist.

“Adar?”

He forced the vision from his mind and took her hands in his own and kissed them. A tear ran down her cheek as she looked upon him, but he found himself strangely unmoved.

“Welcome home, my daughter,” he murmured, his voice distant even to his own ears. “You must be tired; your chambers have been prepared.”

Arwen clung to his hands when he tried to release her to turn and guide her to the house.  He looked upon her, seeing Celebrían for a moment, then it was Arwen, and he was not sure which had the tear running down her cheek, and wondered if they both did.  

Suddenly his sons and Glorfindel came into his line of sight, and from behind him he heard Erestor’s voice, greeting his children and ushering them inside.  Elrohir hugged him, squeezing him so tightly that he was nearly knocked off balance, and then they were gone.

“Elrond, I think you need to lie down,” said Glorfindel quietly, and Elrond found himself in an iron grip yet again. Annoyed at the interference, he shrugged the hand off and turned to walk toward the river, but found himself pointed back at the house moments later, though he did not know how. 

“Drink this,” ordered Glorfindel.

Elrond took the offered flask and looked at it and then around him, unable to recall walking to his chambers.   He felt hands over his own, guiding the flask to his lips, but he looked up instead into the concerned eyes of his friend. “Drink, Elrond,” instructed Glorfindel again, and Elrond obeyed.

He felt immediately refreshed as the liquid spread through him, and the fog and cloud about him slowly dissipated.  Yet even as his mind cleared, the pain in his heart grew. Elrond closed his eyes, unconsciously rubbing his hand on his chest, as if that would somehow alleviate the pain deep in his soul. Instead, he breathed through it, letting the pain spread through him, though it did not leave him and he did not think it ever would.

“Where is Arwen?” he asked.

“Erestor escorted her to her rooms,” replied Glorfindel.  “Elladan came, but I asked him to give you a few minutes alone.”

Glorfindel had been hovering above him, but he now sat and waited for Elrond to speak.

“I did not think to ever experience that feeling again,” he finally said.  At Glorfindel’s questioning glance, he hesitantly explained, “When Elros made his . . . choice, the break between us was . . . great.  I was with the Valar and recall little beyond the pain, but it was some hours before I could . .. go on.” He paused, willing strength to his voice, which sounded hollow and thin to him.

“You felt that with Arwen?” asked Glorfindel, the concern in his face growing.

“Not the same, not as bad,” answered Elrond. “Her choice is made and her doom appointed, but it is not yet so.”

“Elrond, did you know when she made her choice?” pressed Glorfindel.

Elrond felt tears cloud his vision and he closed his eyes as he willed them away. He tried to answer and could not. How could he explain the strange sensation that had struck him on mid-summer’s eve, a sense that something was changed within Arwen? He had not known what that change was at first, but it had gradually dawned on him. She had made a choice that she had no other reason to make while Elrond still dwelled in Middle-earth, and he had quickly concluded what must have occurred. Visions that night of Aragorn and Arwen in the twilight, plighting their troth, had disturbed his rest, and seeing them both had confirmed the actions he had seen .

Strong arms surrounded him, and Elrond could feel Glorfindel’s sorrow through that touch. The sorrow was for him, for the loss and grief he had borne these weeks as he waited for his daughter to come home. “I did not know that your pain had begun not with the knowledge of what would happen in the future, but with the troth-plight itself,” he said raggedly. “For this reason they should have waited.”

“This is not why,” replied Elrond hoarsely.  Glorfindel sat back, anger now flashing in his eyes. “I do not know why, only that it was part of the vision of Aragorn’s destiny.  He was to take no wife and be bound in troth to none, long before I was aware that Arwen was the one he would desire. He must remain unfettered, free to risk all to see his destiny fulfilled.”

“And now?” asked Glorfindel.

Elrond pressed at his temples, which now throbbed in time with his heart. “Her hope strengthens and encourages him, and he believes because she believes.  He will toil long years in hope not only of his future, but because his eyes are fixed on her. She has become his beacon and a symbol of all he desires.”

“And if her heart should turn from him?”

Elrond laughed bitterly. “Until they are bound or I sail, she lives as one of the Eldar. Her heart will not turn from him.”

Glorfindel fell silent, but he did not immediately leave. Instead, he massaged Elrond’s neck and shoulders, offering his own strength and taking from Elrond some of the pain as well. Elrond had never allowed any other so close to his heart except Celebrían, but he was grateful for the support.

As had happened so rarely he could count the occurrences on one hand, Elrond did not dine with his children on this evening of their return. He sat alone as darkness shrouded Imladris, much as his world now had a deep shadow that lingered over it.

* * *

He sensed her presence long before she made herself known.  He could tell she was troubled and hurt, though her concern for him ran deeper than her own hurt feelings. He did not rise or turn to greet her, instead allowing her to come to him. He would not admit to her that he feared looking upon her, feared seeing her aged and grey, dissolving into mist, though he knew she might interpret his actions as rejection.

He felt her behind him, then she bent near, wrapping her arms about him and resting her cheek on his head.  His fëa automatically sought hers, yet their fëar did not join as they once had. Their bond was damaged and he knew that, as with Elros, it would weaken and grow thin, then one day snap completely and leave him with a gap in his soul that could never be filled.

I love you, Adar

Elrond felt her love surround him, strong and sure, yet tinged with sorrow for the pain she had caused him.   He could not resist her, and his heart responded in kind.  I love you, my daughter, more than I can say.

She sat down beside him, drawing his arm around her, and he held her close. He could sense her struggle, wishing to ask his forgiveness, yet both knew that she had committed no offense for him to forgive.  Her choice had always been before her; hers to make as she saw fit.  That her choice caused them both pain was not evidence that it was the wrong choice.

“Adar, where is Aragorn?”

“He has gone to find Gandalf, and see to his people,” replied Elrond as he absently stroked her hair.

“He wished to speak to you first, but I had thought he would remain here until I came,” she said softly.

“Aragorn’s road is still before him, and the end remains beyond our sight.”

Arwen pondered his words for several moments. “You have counseled that he rest not from that path,” she finally said, question in her statement.

“Aragorn’s time has not come,” replied Elrond. “His road must be walked without bonds, his companions only those willing to stand with him in his destiny but be not tied to it.  He must finish the race to receive the crown, and thence be dressed to receive his bride.”

Arwen went still, then took a deep breath and taking his hand in hers, began tracing his fingernails with the tip of her finger. “The bride price is set high,” she said bitterly.

“The bride price is fitting, for she will be no common bride,” replied Elrond. “She is rather a beacon on a hill, keeping him ever focused on the goal yet not hindering him from walking the narrow path.”

“Yet is there not strength to be found in two fëar bound together?”

“Bonded fëar become one in new purpose that may lead the single fëa astray from the path it can only walk alone.”

Arwen fell silent, though Elrond could sense the turmoil in her. They sat together in the twilight as she struggled with his words.

“A race run over the course of mortal life may win the prize only in senescence , a bitter end if one is without heir,” she lamented, but Elrond could see she acquiesced.

Elrond leaned forward to kiss her head. “Who is to count the suns of a mortal life, but the One who created the music of the Children and numbered their kind?

Tears slipped down her face at his words, and he gently brushed them away. “Estel, Arwen, estel.”

She wept then, her own tears of bitterness that she must give up all for the one she loved, and his tears mingled with hers as he thought of how long time would continue in Arda without her.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

“What do you foresee, Adar?” asked Elladan, interrupting Elrond’s thoughts. The room came into focus, and he looked upon the faces of his sons and daughter.

“Much that is unclear, but what is clear to me is that the ring cannot stay here.  This may be our only opportunity to see its end, for if Sauron continues to grow in strength, he will eventually regain that which he lost.  To imagine such darkness over all of Middle-earth is beyond comprehension and not to be imagined.  The ring must be unmade or removed forever from his reach.  That is what we must consider tomorrow, that, and who must take the ring to its fate,” replied Elrond.

The hour was late when they retired, though Elrond knew he would find little rest that night. Instead he sat in the quiet darkness of his chambers, and reaching deep into his memories, he wove the tale in his mind of Sauron and Elves and Men and the Rings of Power, leaving gaps to be filled in by those who bore the missing pieces.

* * * * *

*Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, Appendix A, Return of the King

A/N: Also from Appendix A: “Therefore later, when all was made clear, many believed that Denethor, who was subtle in mind and looked further and deeper than other men of his day, had discovered who this stranger Thorongil in truth was, and suspected that he and Mithrandir designed to supplant him.”

How Denethor looked further and deeper to discover who Thorongil was is not said, but it’s a great plot bunny for someone.

Thank you to daw and karri for beta reading this chapter. Thank you to all who so patiently waited for this chapter... it was hard coming.