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History Lessons: The Third Age  by Nilmandra

Thanks to daw the minstrel for beta reading this chapter.

Chapter 13: Seven Stars and Seven Stones and One White Tree

Gandalf said: ‘This is your realm, and the heart of the greater realm that shall be. The Third Age of the world is ended, and the new age is begun; and it is your task to order its beginning and to preserve what may be preserved. For though much has been saved, much must now pass away; and the power of the Three Rings also is ended. And all the lands that you see, and those that lie round about them, shall be dwellings of Men. For the time comes of the Dominion of Men, and the Elder Kindred shall fade or depart.’

The Steward and the King, Return of the King

March 25, 3019

The skies to the south were dark, the mountains fading into blackness. Still he stared, as he had done for many days now, waiting.  Waiting for a sign, waiting for a message. He twisted Vilya, but did not attune himself to it, for he knew what he would see: the Eye, mocking him and trying to draw him to it.  Yet he also could not remove it, as Erestor had suggested.  With it he still protected Imladris, as Galadriel still protected Lothlorien.  Three times the enemy had come upon the Golden Wood and three times they had repelled the attack.  What strength he had been able to lend her through Vilya he had given. Still his power was like grains of sand passing through an hour glass: all the strength he possessed he had given, yet Galadriel had only been able to draw from it in tiny increments that bolstered her power with Nenya.

Gwaihir had brought news of the victories at Helm’s Deep and the Pelennor Fields. All of Imladris had rejoiced. Arwen had opened the Hall of Fire, quiet and dark since the Company had departed, and the elves had danced and sung in honor of Rohan and Gondor.

“The kingdoms of Men may have grown weak, but strength does remain,” Arwen had said with pride. “They will prevail.”

Her hope had inspired many, and the elves had looked up in hope, rather than south in worry or west in longing.

Elrond leaned against the carved pillar and covered Vilya with his right hand.  Frodo was close to his goal. He had been able to perceive the hobbit since he left Lothlórien.  The One Ring had come more alive as Frodo had come nearer to the fires which forged it. Elrond could only imagine the burden on the hobbit’s mind, for he had not the power or strength of his own to direct what the One showed him. The very qualities of Frodo’s character that allowed him to bear the One to its demise - his humility, his simplicity - were being destroyed.

Elrond closed his eyes and turned his face upward.  Should Frodo survive, he had to trust that healing could be found for the damage done to his soul. Should Frodo survive . . .  Elrond smiled.  For several days, when all hope had fled, his thoughts had not been of recovery, but of how they might end well – even if none were left to sing of it.

And now his sons stood before the Morannon.  Would they live to see Sauron destroyed, if Frodo succeeded?

He felt Vilya stirring. Turning his attention to it, he sensed Galadriel, for Nenya was also aroused.  He turned his mind to Narya and found Mithrandir in a state of watchfulness.  The Three were stirring, then, in response to the One.

Suddenly the One sprang to life, wielded, and Elrond let forth an involuntary gasp.  He grasped Vilya, ready to strip it from his hand, as he heard the ring claimed. Frodo? Frodo!

“Hold strong, Frodo!”

Elrond felt an iron grip on his shoulders, then hands shook him.  He felt fingers clawing at his hand, pulling at Vilya, but the ring now gripped his finger.  Vilya’s grip loosened slightly as the One wavered. Fear filled Elrond.  Frodo now battled more than his own will.  The One was taken from him, claimed again. Had the servants of the enemy found him?  Did Sauron himself now have the ring?  Elrond shook off the hands restraining him and tried to twist Vilya from his finger, but its hold was relentless.

Visions of fire filled his mind.  The Eye was red and wide and glowing, and Sauron roared in his rage.  The fleeting thought filled his mind that he was about to reap the eternal fate that he had long feared; his mind laid bare and enslaved, his old life burnt away and forgotten.

Then a lick of fire as sharp as a knife pierced him and all went dark.

* * *

“Adar, please . . .”

“Elrond, can you hear . . .”

Elrond struggled toward the light and warmth and sound of voices he loved calling him.  He felt old and weary, tired as if he had fought a great battle.  Finally forcing his eyes open, he looked up into the tear-stained face of his daughter.  She cried out in relief and leaned down to embrace him, but someone gripped her arms, holding her back.

“Elrond, speak to us,” commanded Glorfindel.

Elrond turned his head slightly in obedience to a tone he had long before learned to heed.  He met Glorfindel’s gaze as solidly as he was able. “The One is destroyed,” he said, and though in his mind he sounded strong and convincing, the voice he heard was weak.

Glorfindel’s stern look melted into relief, and he released Arwen. She sank down next to him, tears streaming down her face.  Elrond accepted the hand Glorfindel held out to him and allowed himself to be pulled into a sitting position.

“Enough,” he gasped, when Glorfindel would have pulled him to his feet.

The sound of the door being flung open distracted them. “I heard Arwen,” said Erestor as he rushed around the desk. He glanced at Elrond, but something out the window caught his attention. He stepped out on to the balcony. They all heard his sharp intake of breath.

Elrond rose with aid from Glorfindel and Arwen, and the three of them joined Erestor on the balcony.  To their far southeast, smoke and ash filled the sky. A sudden wind came from the west.  They watched in amazement as the rising plume was slowly and gradually pushed eastward.

“What happened, Adar?” asked Arwen after a few moments. “What of Frodo?”

Elrond shook his head. “I do not know his fate.”

He turned inward, seeking for his bond with his sons.   Despite his diminished and bewildered state, he thought the bond was intact.  Arwen squeezed his arm. “I think Estel is well,” she said. “And my brothers?”

Elrond could only nod at her.   Her face grew concerned. “Adar? Perhaps you should sit down.”

Elrond looked again at the plume rising in the distance, then tried to cast his thought out to the borders of Imladris. The land seemed to contract and the light grew dim, and he at first thought that evil was spreading.  From a corner of his mind came the reminder of the good news that the One was destroyed, and with it, Sauron.   He tried to reconcile that fact with the shrinking borders and darkness. Confused, he concentrated his thought on that which was nearer to him. The land began to shift and sway, then roll in waves. He reached out with both hands to grasp the balustrade on the balcony, but the beam was gone.  He gasped as he fell forward into the darkness.

* * *

Elrond awakened in darkness, but at least the ground was no longer moving. He was covered by a warm blanket.  He shifted under the weight atop of him and realized it was several blankets.  He should be too warm, but found he was quite comfortable.

He heard the scrape of flint on steel and then a small flame appeared. He tensed, but it did not grow or consume him. It danced and flickered, casting a warm glow on the face behind it. Glorfindel set the candle down on the bedside table, then removed the stopper from a small flask and held it out to him.

Elrond freed a hand from the blankets, surprised at how cool the air felt, and took the flask. Grasping the silver flask helped to still his hand, and the Miruvor helped to strengthen the rest of him.  Glorfindel took it back, then sat down on the edge of the bed.  Elrond looked into the eyes of his old friend, and saw concern and pity, but also relief.

“How long?”

“Eärendil has sailed and the morning star has not yet appeared,” replied Glorfindel.

“The weather has grown cold.”

Glorfindel gave him a bemused smile. “It is a little colder.  You were shivering.”

Elrond fell silent. He could not recall all that had occurred, no matter how much effort he expended trying to piece together events.  He tried to extend his thought out over the valley, but felt himself sinking into a dark chasm. He had nearly forgotten Glorfindel was with him until the elf picked up his hand and clasped it firmly. “Elrond, come back to me,” he commanded.

Glorfindel’s tone brooked no disobedience, and Elrond felt a spark of memory.  Glorfindel had spoken that way to him recently.

“And you had better listen again,” said Glorfindel, his voice both amused and worried.

Elrond smiled as his thoughts cleared, and he focused on his friend and keeper.  “I am listening.”

“The One is destroyed. Vilya is likely shorn of its power. I have considered removing it from your hand, but I did not know if that would harm you more.  It is visible now, Elrond.”

Elrond pulled his left hand from under the blankets. The flicker of candlelight reflected off the gold band, and stars glinted in the face of the sapphire. He often forgot how beautiful the ring was.

“Twice now you have slipped away. Where were you when I called you back?” asked Glorfindel.

Elrond was momentarily confused. What had he been doing? Without thought he did what he always did to assess the well being of Imladris: he cast his thought out over the valley.

“No, Elrond, stop,” commanded Glorfindel.

Elrond blinked and shook his head.

“That power is gone,” reminded Glorfindel gently. “I can read your thoughts as easily as I would a guileless child. That which protected your mind as well as extended the range of it is gone. When you reach out to assess the valley, something I am sure you did unconsciously and often, you drift from us into . . . into what, Elrond?”

“Darkness,” answered Elrond after a moment. “When I try, I spiral down into the depths  . . . the depths of my own weakness.”

“You must now train your mind not to do that,” coached Glorfindel. “And we must build up some defenses for your thoughts, although that can wait.” He suddenly smiled, and the room lit around him. “First though, we will rejoice and you will rest some more.  The reign of Sauron has ended.”

Elrond returned the smile, but he could force it to last only a moment. There were no words to describe the emptiness and loss in his heart.  He had wielded Vilya for so long, it was so entwined with his own innate power – indeed, had exceeded it – that he felt as if his heart were shredded, flayed, and the wounds that had been left behind could not be stitched closed, nor were the gaps small enough or few enough to simply be rewoven.  Healing would take time. A very long time.

His mind drifted to Galadriel, Frodo and Mithrandir. What effects would there be on an elf of Valinor, a hobbit and a Maia? Had Frodo succeeded after all?  He thought of the plume of ash and smoke rising in the east. A sudden terrible thought settled on him: what had happened to Frodo at the end?  Had the ring been taken from him?  Had his life also been claimed? What if Frodo had cast himself into the fires of Mordor? He had claimed the ring, then the ring was destroyed. His thoughts raced, but he could not logically process his own questions.  Frustration filled him.

He heard his name spoken softly and then felt gentle hands on him, pushing him into sleep.  He did not resist; he had no strength to resist.  The cowardly thought occurred to him that perhaps when he next awoke, there would be answers.

* * *

“Adar.”

The voice was beloved. It was also insistent, calling him from the depths of sleep to the present. Excited, yet unhurried.  It took all of Elrond’s will to force himself to consciousness and open his eyes to see his daughter.  She smiled at him, her joy flowing like silver light down on him.

“Frodo lives, Adar,” she said. “The eagles saved them from the mountain’s doom. He and Sam are with Aragorn, in Ithilien.  Elladan and Elrohir are also there.”

Elrond felt tears well in his eyes. Unable to control them, he wept unashamed.  His fears that they had sent the hobbit to his death, even if he had been willing, had weighed deeply on his soul.  He had known Frodo was the one to take the burden, yet that had not lessened the regret of what they had sent him to.  Against the power of Mordor, he had succeeded. His sons were alive, Aragorn was alive.

He closed his eyes as a vision unfolded before his eyes.  Aragorn, crowed and seated upon the throne of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor.   The white tree blossomed in the courtyard, and beside it sat his daughter.  Her gown flowed loose about her, but when the wind blew it wrapped against her figure, accentuating her swollen belly. Joy and pain mingled in his heart.

He opened his eyes again at the touch of Arwen’s hand upon his cheek.  She was radiant. He took a deep breath, then smiled and sat up.  “We have much to prepare,” he said.

* * *

May 1, 3019

Elrond watched as Arwen walked slowly down the hall toward him.  They had not slept. Their journey prepared for, they had spent some of the eve in the Hall of Fire, where the household had sung in honor of the Evenstar.  She had then gone from room to room, touching the familiar things of her home.  She had spent particularly long in Elrond’s chambers.  Overcome, he had left her to her memories of her mother.

He knew she had taken portraits of their family and home.  She had the perfect recall of the Elves, and thus no need of such things for herself.  He had wondered if these were for Aragorn, or for her future children, but he did not ask.  She had packed and prepared as one who had no intention of ever returning.  Sadness filled him at the idea of his grandchildren never seeing the home of their mother and childhood home of their father.

She looked at him gravely. “I am ready, Adar.”

She took his arm and they walked out the door of the Last Homely House.  On the front porch, Bilbo sat wrapped in a warm blanket, dozing.   He had wavered on accompanying them to Gondor. He clearly wished to go, but it was obvious to all that he was no longer able to make such a long journey.

“I would see you wed Aragorn,” he had told Arwen. “But I am too old, fair lady.  You will tell my nephew to write up the occasion for me, so I can include it in my book, won’t you?”

Arwen had regarded him lovingly. “Indeed, Master Bilbo.  Before you know it, Frodo will cross over the bridge and tell you all about it.”

Bilbo jerked awake at Arwen’s touch on his shoulder.  He got slowly to his feet and bowed carefully, then kissed her hand.  “Farewell, my lady.”

“Farewell, dear Bilbo.”

She kissed the forehead of the ancient hobbit, eliciting a faint blush across his cheeks.  Elrond knew she did not expect to see the old Halfling again, for even now he was advanced in age.  A remnant of Elrond’s house would stay behind with him, to maintain the house and guard the borders from the threat that still existed in the mountains.

Elrond looked around at the grounds.  It was unlikely that even Elvish eyes noticed a change in the weeks since Vilya had lost its power, but Elrond knew. Glorfindel had prepared Athranen for the change, informed him that the protections that had long kept Imladris safe were gone.  They would need to increase their vigilance, for Sauron’s demise had left the goblins leaderless, and they roamed in small bands, seeking food and the means to their own survival.

Glorfindel led them from Imladris as the first light of the sun appeared behind the mountains. They walked their horses out of the courtyard and across the narrow bridge.  The rest of their traveling party awaited them with wagons laden with supplies and items Arwen wished to bring to her new home.  Elrond’s memory was drawn back to the founding of Imladris, for not since then had he seen so large a company of elves, males and females, laden with goods. Only now they were heading south.  They would pass the Redhorn Gate and go first to Lothlórien, where Celeborn and Galadriel awaited them.  The wagons would continue south through the Gap of Rohan, for the road was easier.  They would meet in Rohan and continue on to Gondor.

The mood of the company was joyous. The minstrels carried their instruments. Some had already left their mounts and walked or danced alongside the horses, who seemed to delight in those sharing the footpath. Arwen had been quickly surrounded and drawn into the heart of the party, where they sang of her future.

Elrond watched her for a long time. She had stopped and looked back at Imladris only once, at the point where it could last be seen before disappearing into the valley that hid it so well. She had paused for only a moment, then resolutely turned and continued forward.

When they stopped to camp that night, Elrond dismounted quietly and allowed a young elf to lead his horse off to care for it.  He had planned on caring for Alagos himself, but the insistent young elf had tugged gently on the reins until Elrond had released them.  Many years had passed since last he had came this way, so he took advantage of the time to walk along the river flowing from the mountains with spring snowmelt to join the Bruinen.

He had expected a guard to trail after him, but was unsurprised when Glorfindel fell into step next to him.  From Frodo’s arrival in Imladris to the destruction of the One, Glorfindel had not been far from his side.   In the last few weeks, Glorfindel had allowed him time and space to become accustomed to the loss of Vilya. In addition to acclimating to that loss, he had exercised control of his mind, learning anew to guard his thoughts. He girded his thoughts now as he turned to acknowledge his friend.

Glorfindel studied him thoughtfully, then said gently, “Your weariness extends beyond the physical.”

Elrond grimaced. “If I am that obvious, then my attempts have been for naught.”

Glorfindel took his arm, and Elrond felt the tingle of power course through him. It grieved him to need it, but he knew he would not make it through this time without aid. With Glorfindel’s power undergirding him, he could return to his people with the strength they expected from their lord.

The days passed. Arwen stayed near him some of the time, but they spoke little. The laughing, singing elves would draw her back to them, and he encouraged her to go, for it brought joy to his heart to see her so joyful.

They crossed through the Redhorn Gate, and traveled into the Golden Wood, where they found Celeborn and Galadriel waiting for them.  Arwen dismounted and ran to them, and they embraced and held her long.  Elrond followed more slowly. Galadriel released Arwen and came to meet him.

None stood near them as they met. She wore Nenya openly, as he did Vilya.  But Elrond barely noticed Nenya; indeed it was Nenya’s keeper that caught his attention. Elrond was stunned to see that already she had diminished.

“Why are you surprised?” she asked, laughing lightly at him.

He could not read her thoughts, yet it seemed her own abilities had not lessened, as she seemed to see right into and through him.

She sobered. “I am diminished, Elrond, and the sea longing rages in my heart with renewed strength. I cannot stay long now,” she said bluntly.

He looked away, for she had spoken in the first minutes of their meeting the truth which weighed heavily on his own heart.

“You cannot stay either.”

Her words cut him like a knife, even though she spoke a truth he already knew.  He just did not wish to admit it to himself. She stepped to him and he felt the touch of her hand on his cheek, turning his face to her.  He gritted his teeth as he met her eyes.

He saw sadness.

His anger fled. He took her hand and dropped the barriers that were not sufficient to guard his thoughts from her under normal circumstances, much less now.  “I have grown weary,” he admitted. “It is a new feeling, and not one I enjoy. I would see my daughter’s children.”

Galadriel turned and they looked to where Arwen stood with Celeborn and Glorfindel.  “They are discussing us, of course,” said Galadriel as the three lowered their gazes. She took his arm, and dropped her guard with him at the same time. “Let us dispel their concerns.”

As they walked forward Elrond could sense the turmoil within Galadriel. While he struggled with a world-weariness that weighed upon his soul, she battled to withstand the call of the sea. She was stronger than him, though, and he thought there was less outward sign of change.

I am stronger than you. My innate power is greater and the loss of Nenya’s power has less effect.  You have less innate power and wielded the most powerful ring. The effect on you is as I expected.

Elrond would have pulled away, but Galadriel held tightly to his arm.  Your thoughts are easily read, Elrond.   He felt comfort and peace flow over him, and his anger, which had just flared again, dissipated. I have been humbled by Celeborn’s care. Let go of your pride and let those who love you protect and comfort you.

Celeborn looked appraisingly at him, then exchanged a significant glance with Glorfindel.  Elrond clenched his jaw again, but Galadriel squeezed his arm and he felt his annoyance melt away.  His fall from being a person of strength to one in need of aid was a blow he found devastating, and it took all of his wisdom and humility to accept this change.

They had entered the Golden Wood through burnt and deforested lands. Haldir led them along the edge of the wood, showing them where each attack had occurred. The Imladris elves mourned the death of so many of the trees, but already new growth was evident.  They reached Caras Galadhon that evening, and the celebration began immediately.  Never had so many elves of Imladris and Lorien been together in an age.  Wine flowed freely and music played the night through.

They stayed a week, refreshing their mounts and supplies. Elrond crossed the Anduin with Celeborn and Galadriel and stood on Amon Lanc. Already new grass was sprouting where Dol Guldur had once stood.

“The trees already begin to recover,” said Celeborn joyfully as he led them among the twisted darkened branches.  The most damaged trees had been destroyed when Dol Guldur had been cast down, but Celeborn showed them on others where withered bark had renewed, and how he could again hear the song of trees long silent.

Elves appeared from the trees as they passed, as quiet and unobtrusive as all wood elves, and Celeborn called many by name.  “Many of these are from the Golden Wood, but some are from Thranduil’s realm in the North.  The battle came right to the stronghold, but they prevailed and are greeting spring knowing that the forest will no longer be shadowed.”

The shadow over Mirkwood was gone; Greenwood the Great it would be one day, Elrond knew, and Thranduil’s people would be there to see the transformation.  As they crossed back over the river, he turned to look back at the healing forest. Hope filled him, yet he felt distant from it.  Such hope no longer belonged to him, he realized.

They left the Golden Wood with their numbers swelled.  Their travel was slow, with patrols scouting far ahead of them. Several times they returned having been involved in small skirmishes with roaming orcs.   As they skirted Fangorn they saw the scarred and damaged land near the forest edge, and many felt the murmurings of trees recently awakened.

Crossing the Entwash, they entered the realm of Men.  The rolling plains of the Riddermark were a welcome sight after the brown lands, and they passed small farms and villages. Some were burnt and empty of life, and they could only wonder if those who had lived there had escaped those who had come to destroy them.  Occasionally they would see smoke rising from a chimney, and when they passed by, men, women and children with hair the color of straw would come out to watch them.  The people remained well armed, and cautious, but small children with wide eyes gaped at them in wonder.  The elves brought music and song with them that drew even the most haunted visages near and caused them to relax and smile.

Resilient.  That was the best word to describe these hardy people, Elrond decided.  The effects of war grew more vivid the further south they traveled.  They learned that the army of Rohan had just recently returned home.  They had gathered their families from Dunharrow and Edoras and Helm’s Deep, and were moving back to their homes.  Elrond saw men with limbs missing or crippled, but the women and children that pressed near to them did not seem to notice.  Indeed, the women and children far outnumbered the men, and it appeared that many a barely grown boy was managing the family farm. Those who still had husbands and fathers were among the fortunate.

They had broken camp one morning, intending to turn southeast and make for the Great West Road, when Elrond heard a shout from the head of their party.  Cheers and song filled the air. Then Arwen flew past him, riding fast to the front of the column.  He followed her, hearing her joyful call before he caught up to her.

She was pulled from her horse by Elladan before she had a chance to dismount and swung around before being set down so that Elrohir could greet her. Elrond had stopped his horse to watch the greeting, Celeborn and Galadriel stopping slightly behind him. Though he knew his sons lived, seeing them left him speechless.

Elladan walked to him, covering the short distance in just a few long strides. He bowed low before him, and Elrond finally broke from his stupor.  He slid from Alagos and stepped into his son’s arms.

“Ai, Elladan!” he cried out, embracing his son.  He could not restrain hands trained to first check his progeny for injuries, but he found Elladan well.  Well and strong. His son radiated strength.

“Adar, we feared for you,” admitted Elladan quietly. He stepped back and held Elrond at arm’s length, studying him. Before he could speak, Arwen slipped under Elladan’s arm and Elrohir embraced him gently, as if he were a fragile artifact that might break.

The twins greeted their grandfather heartily, but Elrond noticed that their grandmother received the same cautious treatment that he had.  She accepted this deference gracefully, though she exchanged a knowing smile with him. Patience, she reminded him, though he thought she was reminding herself as well.

“Éomer, King of Rohan, invites you to the golden halls of Meduseld to rest and refresh yourselves before continuing on to Minas Tirith.   Edoras is straight south. We will arrive by evening meal, which will be in your honor.  In the meanwhile, we will tell you all that has happened since we left Imladris,” announced Elladan.  He grinned at Arwen. “Aragorn sent messages, and I have sketches for you.  He awaits you with barely contained excitement.”

Arwen’s eyes shone at her brother’s words, and Elrond had to look away.

They mounted and Elladan fell in between Elrond and Galadriel.  He told them of all that had happened, from their meeting Aragorn at Helm’s Deep, riding the Paths of the Dead, traveling up the Anduin in the Corsair’s ships and the battle of the Pelennor Fields.  He told them of the demise of Denethor, and how Aragorn had called Faramir, Eowyn and Merry back from the Black Breath.  Elrond was amazed to hear Glorfindel’s prophecy fulfilled, with the Witch King falling to the sword of a woman and a hobbit.

“Aragorn is a ranger no more,” said Elladan, and Elrond noted that ahead of them, Arwen fell silent and fell back slightly to listen.  “He is Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor. All of the peoples of Gondor accept the return of the king to their lands. His command of the dead and his authority before the Black Gates are examples of the truth of his claim, though many now recall the saying of old that the hands of the King are healing hands.  Faramir called him king when he awakened from the Black Breath, and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Theoden King of Rohan swore their allegiance to him.  Eomer calls him brother.  His claim has been accepted as far north as Dale and Laketown, and the Men of Harad and the Easterlings have come to him to sue for peace.”

Elrond watched Elladan speak, his pride in Aragorn clear.  “You can be assured, Adar, that he is now worthy of Arwen.”

Though most elves could hide their surprise, Elrond heard the sharp intake of breath around him. Arwen had turned in the saddle to look at her brother; Celeborn reaching out one hand to steady her.  Elrohir remained facing forward, his shoulders rigid.  Elrond drew in a deep breath before turning to face his son; he felt Galadriel’s cool presence upon his mind, yet she spoke no words.

“The weight of destiny has burdened Aragorn’s shoulders from birth. Should he have wished to wed a woman of the Dúnedain, I would have placed the same restraint upon him,” he answered calmly.  He noted with an unbecoming satisfaction that Elladan colored slightly at his words.  He met Arwen’s eyes then, noting the stiff shoulders and guarded look. He held her gaze as he spoke. “Aragorn is worthy. He is a fine man, and I have no doubt he will be a fine king and leader, as Arwen will make a worthy queen.”

A hint of a smile crossed Arwen’s face, relief perhaps, and she turned to face forward again.  Elrond could feel Elladan’s gaze on him, but he remained silent. They rode along that way for some minutes before Elladan spoke again. “My apologies, Adar.  My words were not intended to create discord.”

“What was your intention, then?”

“Merely to express my pride and admiration for the man Aragorn has become, and to add my blessing to the upcoming marriage between him and my sister,” answered Elladan boldly.

“Then there is no discord,” answered Elrond coolly.

He lied though, for the discord was now deep within him, and he found it nigh impossible to shake the growing melancholy from his heart.  The joy of seeing his sons had fled, and the impending knowledge of having to hand his daughter over to the realm of Men forever cleaved him like a knife separating bone from marrow.

“Elrond, I am sorry to bother you with trivial matters,” came a voice from behind him. “Will you spare me a few minutes to address some issues which have arisen?”

Elrond guided his horse from the column, joining Erestor at the side of the path. Erestor dismounted and motioned for Elrond to do the same.   Elrond was deeply grateful to his advisor, but also wary of what problems had arisen that this most competent of elves could not manage.  Erestor began walking forward at a leisurely pace, his horse trailing along behind him, and Elrond fell into step beside him.

“What is the problem?” he asked guardedly.

“I am undecided as to whether you should wear your formal blue robes to greet the Rohan King, or the green.  The green would match their colors more closely, which may seem presumptuous.”

Elrond stopped in surprise and was rewarded with a firm thump on his shoulder as Alagos butted him from behind.

Erestor arched a brow at him. “Etiquette is important, even after days of long travel.” He smiled.  “A break from Elladan also seemed warranted. He would do well to remember that you are still lord of your people.”

Elrond resumed walking, regaining his composure before speaking. “You are a worthy advisor, Erestor.”

Erestor laughed.  “Of course I am!  I do not know Elladan’s intent, Elrond, though I do not think he intended to insult.  Nonetheless, his words came across that way.”

“And I did not respond well,” finished Elrond.

“Your words were appropriate,” corrected Erestor. “It is your emotions you can no longer restrain. Your normal reserve would have smoothed that over before with nary an eyelash blinked. Elladan and others will need to learn to take more responsibility for their choice of words, that is all.” Erestor paused, then cautiously added, “It is not just you; Galadriel is not as inscrutable as she once was.”

Elrond laughed. He was at least, in good company.  “The time of the Ring-bearers is over. Our power is gone and our strength diminished. All we can do now is end well.”

“I will remind you, if I must, that you end victorious, not in defeat.   You have ended well. Now you will turn over the sceptre with grace to new leaders in a new age.”

By the time they escort rested at midday, Elrond was restored to good humor.  Erestor returned him to his family, thanking him for his assistance. Elladan stood as he walked to join them, his face pinched and pale.

“Is all well, Adar?” he asked.

Elrond smiled, but decided to keep Eresor’s secret. “The issue is resolved.” He took a seat next to Elladan. “You were telling me of Aragorn entering the city. Please continue,” he encouraged.

Elladan relaxed and smiled in relief.   Elrohir and Arwen settled in next to them as Elladan continued the story.

* * *

The setting sun lit the hall of Meduseld brilliant gold.  They had been able to see the Golden Hall from far off, so bright was its façade in the fading light.  The minstrels had taken up a song, and their fair voices rose in the clear air.  As they came near, the gates of the city opened and a man and woman rode forth.  Behind them rode an honor guard bearing the banners of Rohan.

Elrond, Celeborn and Galadriel rode forward to meet them, flanked by Elladan and Elrohir.  The King of Rohan wore no helm, and his hair flowed in golden waves down his back.  He was broad and strong, and very young.  Pride shone in his eyes. He dismounted, then took the woman’s hand as she gracefully slid from her horse.

They were Éomer and Éowyn, Elrond knew, nephew and niece of Theoden, who had died upon the Pelennor Fields.  His gaze rested upon Éowyn. Slim and tall, golden hair flowed to her waist. There was pride in her bearing as well, but it was tempered by sorrow. The faintest hint of shadow still clung to her. Glorfindel would wish to meet this shieldmaiden who had felled the Witch-King of Angmar.

Elrond was amused to notice that the siblings, while meeting their gazes with all politeness, were trying to see beyond them. Looking for Arwen, looking for the one Aragorn, whom they knew, would marry.  He motioned behind him with an insignificant wave of his hand, but Erestor knew exactly what he meant.   They dismounted and their horses stepped aside, and a moment later Arwen rode forward. Elrond held her hand as she slid from her horse.

Elladan and Elrohir had clearly coached the young king and his sister, for they stepped forward and greeted their guests in the manner of the elves.  Then Éomer left some of his men to aid the elves in setting up their camp on the open field, while he led them to Meduseld.

Celeborn immediately took to Éomer, and with his grandsons he walked with the young king, asking him about the Riddermark and how they fared after the war.   It was clear to Elrond’s eyes that his sons had been aiding Éomer in a number of ways.  They had returned to the Riddermark with Éomer and Éowyn and been with them for a month.  The people of Rohan looked upon them in awe, but they were also comfortable with them.  Elrond saw guards report in to Éomer, and noted that Elladan also listened to the reports and added his opinions.

Behind him, he could hear Arwen and Éowyn speaking. 

“You are beautiful,” said Éowyn quietly.

“Thank you,” answered Arwen. “You also are beautiful, as well as renowned.”

“Oh,” answered Éowyn, momentarily speechless.

“My brothers tell me that you and the hobbit, Meriadoc, fulfilled the prophecy regarding the Witch-king.  Glorfindel will wish to meet you.”

“Which one is Glorfindel?”

“There,” answered Arwen, and Elrond turned to see her pointing the golden haired elf out to the mortal woman.

At that moment, Glorfindel turned and met their eyes, and a warm smile crossed his face and he shone as he always did when happy.  He nodded at them.

“I think I may faint,” murmured Éowyn.

Arwen laughed.  “He has that effect on many, including elves!  But do not fear him. I have known him since before I took my first steps.”

“You have known Lord Aragorn long also?” asked Eowyn shyly.

Arwen nodded. “Aragorn was called Estel, Hope, and raised by my father. I was not there, but in Lorien with my grandparents.  I met him the day he learned he was Elendil’s heir.”

“Oh!” cried Eowyn.  She seemed dumbfounded for a moment, and Elrond was struck again by how so very young she was, even by mortal reckoning.  She was blushing, looking from Elrond to Arwen. Elrond purposefully averted his gaze to appear as if he was focused on something else as they rode up the hill.  “But then you are older than he?”

“Much,” replied Arwen gently.  She reached out and took Éowyn’s hand. “I was born when the third age of this world was still young, and Elladan and Elrohir before me.”

“But then, why Aragorn?” Éowyn finally managed.

“I loved him the moment I laid eyes upon him.  He was young and proud and full of life.  Full of vigor and purpose. When next I saw him, he was grown into full strength of a Man, and my heart chose him. Age is of no consequence when there is such love.”

Elrond felt tears prickle at his eyes and was glad he was looking purposefully off into the distance.

“Éomer said your betrothal has been long.”

“It has,” agreed Arwen. “Such were the conditions set by my father, who has the gift of foresight. He knew that Aragorn must rise above all of his ancestors before him, since Elendil, and have no hindrances.  Thus we have waited.”

She spoke without any hint of accusation or anger, and Elrond could feel her loving gaze boring into his back even as he felt the incredulity of the woman Éowyn.

“Will Aragorn live so long then?  Will he be blessed with the life of the Elves?”

“No, the men of Númenor are mortal. I have chosen to bind my fate to that of Aragorn. Such is the choice of my kind, for I am half-elven. Both Aragorn and I are of the children of Lúthien.”

“Oi,” came Éowyn’s half cry, as her quick mind connected the points of what Arwen had just told her.

A moment later Elrond felt a touch on his sleeve as Eowyn prodded her horse forward to ride next to him. He turned to look upon her and saw the pity and sorrow mingled in her gaze.  He found himself inordinately touched by her compassion, but when he would have spoken to comfort her, he found himself unable to articulate any such words.  He squeezed her hand instead, thanking her in that small gesture.

It was later that night that he learned why Arwen had told Éowyn so much.  Elrohir had told her of Éowyn’s love for Aragorn, of the gilded cage she had fought and how she had begged to ride the Paths of the Dead with them.  That he did not love her had crushed her.  Though she had found her own love in Faramir, meeting Arwen and finding her so open and honest had helped establish a relationship between the two, as Elrohir had known it would. Already the foundations of friendship had been built.

Elrond spoke little, yet took great pride and comfort in watching his children as they feasted with the Rohirrim that evening.  Elladan and Elrohir moved about the Hall as ones well accustomed to it, singing songs and drinking ale with the warriors they had fought with over the last months. Éomer had begun the evening tongue tied at speaking to Arwen, but it had taken her little time to win him over, much as she had his sister.  The humans flocked to the half-elven trio, their dark heads lost amidst the gold.

He turned in amusement to watch Glorfindel.  He sat next to Éowyn, whose nervousness had fled after a few minutes in the warrior’s presence.  Last Elrond heard, they were exchanging war stories of fighting the witch-king.  Now Éowyn was speaking more seriously, and Glorfindel listened intently.

The elves were enjoying this young and untamed people.  They were in many ways very different from the grimmer and more stoic men of the Northern Kingdom.  More passionate. When Éomer spoke, the walls shook. That his people loved him there was no doubt. When his sons had told him of the love Aragorn bore for the young king of Rohan, Elrond had no trouble believing it.  He was glad Gondor had such an ally as Rohan.

Most of the elves returned to their camp on the plains, but Arwen readily accepted rooms in Meduseld.  Elrond graciously accepted accommodations with his sons, suspecting the idea had come from them. Glorfindel and Erestor also would stay in the Hall, as would Celeborn and Galadriel.  Éomer and Éowyn seemed pleased, as did their advisors and staff, and Elrond was reminded that this was the first diplomatic visit for the new king.   Elrond watched Arwen led away by Éowyn, both of them laughing as they turned the hall and disappeared from sight.

Some personal items had been delivered, along with some of the wine they had brought with them, and Elladan poured three cups.  Elrond raised a brow in question as his son took a sip, but Elladan laughed.  “It covers up the taste of the ale.”

“We have told you all that has happened since we left you. Now we would hear of you,” said Elladan.

Elrond put down his cup and studied his sons before responding.  The change in him was ongoing, and he had not yet come to terms with the direction that change was heading.

“Let me begin by asking your forgiveness for my curt response to you earlier,” he began.

“No, Adar, my remark was poorly worded.  I should have used more care not to imply what I did,” interrupted Elladan, color rising in his cheeks.

“Yet I could not help but notice your reaction to the comment,” said Elrohir softly. “You have heard a millennium of tactless comments, but I have never seen you react with ire.”

Elrond felt the now too usual reaction to being questioned – a feeling of irritability so unlike him that he was still taken aback by it.  He felt Elrohir’s hand cover his own and focused his eyes on his tender hearted son.

“I am sorry, Elrohir,” he said. When Elrohir began to interrupt, surely to argue against the need for an apology, he waved him off. “Do not interrupt,” he pleaded.  Elrohir sat back, stunned, but quickly regained his composure.  He grasped Elrond’s hand with a firm and steady grip that actually did help him continue.

He told them of the destruction of the One, how he had known Frodo had claimed it and knew when it was no more.  He spoke of having to retrain his thoughts, for he had wielded Vilya for so long that it was a part of him.  Like a man who had lost a limb, there was a phantom pain where the appendage used to be, and he had to retrain himself to do things without its presence.

“Yet, it is more, as you suspect,” he finally admitted.  He rose and walked to the window, looking west, as he seemed to do often now.  He turned back to them, then sat down and sipped his wine.  “I am unsettled.  There is great hope in the land, yet I feel distant from it.” He took a deep breath. “A weariness grows upon me unlike anything in my experience.”

The wine in his glass shimmered and he set it down. Elrohir took his hands again and stilled their trembling.  His son’s face was troubled and sorrow was in his eyes.

“This is why Glorfindel and Erestor do not let you out of their sight,” murmured Elladan.  “I wondered what they feared.  Daernaneth, too.  Celeborn stays near her.  She grows distant and the sound of the wind and the birds draws her sight ever westward.”

“The sea-longing,” replied Elrond absently.   He sipped his wine.

“What happens next, then?” asked Elrohir finally.

“Next?” asked Elrond. “We go on to Minas Tirith.  Nothing is to mar the happiness of your sister and brother.”

Elrohir opened his mouth to speak, but a curt nod from his twin cut him off.  He instead took a drink from his cup.

Elrond noted them watching him and forced a smile and look of interest to his face. “Tell me how you have spent your time here, in Rohan. I note that young King Éomer looks to you with confidence and his Men also.”

Elladan settled back against the bed cushions and began to speak.  It took Elrohir a moment to relax as well. As usual, he spoke little.  Elrond drifted a bit, hearing Elladan and taking in the details of his story, but also talking advantage of what he felt was a respite from speaking about a future for which he had no answers.

* * *

They left Gondor the morning after next.  Their stay in Rohan was short, enough time for a brief rest and to learn of what they might expect on the road south.   

The journey was uneventful, taking them several weeks of easy travel.  The elves traveled lightly and quietly, bothering not even the wild men in their forest. The signs of summer grew with the passing of time as well as the passage south.  Then one morning the sun rose and his sons prepared their banner, and the day they had long awaited with both joy and sorrow was upon them. They came that morning to Amon Din and Elladan rode out to meet the guards.  They would send word of the arrival of the elves to the city.  In the late morning they came to the North gate of the Rammas Echor.  Here they rested to prepare themselves for their entry.

Crossing the vast field would take the rest of the day. The air bristled with excitement as the passed the great stone wall, and the city came into view.  It shone in the early evening sun, at times becoming nearly blinding.  They passed evidence of the great battle that had taken place, of mounds still blackened and of graves covered in new grass.  But of these losses and great sorrows none spoke, for this day was one of new beginnings and new hope.

Great banners were hung from the city walls, but most impressive was the one that flew high above the White Tower of Ecthelion: Arwen’s banner of black bearing the white tree of Gondor and the seven stars and crown of Elendil.  High and true it blew in the wind, a crown for the city, and as it came into view the elves began to sing. They alone remembered when Elendil’s devices had last been so displayed; they alone remembered when Men had been strong and of one kingdom.   They had succored Elendil’s people and sheltered his heirs for the best part of an age. Now they lived to see prophecy fulfilled and the Elessar, raised in their own house, rise to heights greater than any since Elendil.

As pride filled the hearts of all, pain pierced the heart of many.

Arwen rode quietly in their midst, surrounded this last day by father and brothers and grandfather and grandmother.  Her eyes never left the banner. Pride and determination flowed from her in waves.  

It was Glorfindel who first realized what it was she watched. 

“The Sickle of the Valar journeys even in sunlight,” he said suddenly as he rode up behind them.

Arwen’s face lit with delight.  “Perhaps not in pure mirror, but the symbolism remains: in both light and darkness, for so long as the reign of Aragorn and his House lasts, Men will remain allied with the Valar and those who follow the paths set by Morgoth should take warning.”

All were now watching the banner and they realized what it was she had done:  the gemstones she had shaped and set in the pattern of the seven stars of the Valacirca (1) were attached by their points to the fine black cloth made of Hithlain thread. In a mirror of how the sickle moved across the night sky, the sun reflected through them in daylight, casting the Sickle upon the walls of the city.  The great crown set above it crowned the city with mithril and gold, and the jewels that formed the fruits of the tree and embedded the crown were of great worth: some of the final remnant brought from Valinor with the Noldor exiles.

“Is that an elfstone set in the crown?” asked Galadriel.

Arwen smiled.  “It was shaped by the elves, as Estel was shaped by the elves.  It is the cornerstone of the gems encircling the crown, as Estel is the cornerstone of the new realm. It is not the Elessar, for he bears that himself, but only a representation thereof, as the banner is only a representation of those who rule under it.”

She paused, her face shining as she gazed into the dazzling light.

“If the Valar have indeed blessed Men, then a White Tree again grows in the Court of the Fountain. Descendent of Nimloth, from Celeborn, from Galathilion, fruit of Telperion.  Though far apart, so Gondor will be bound to Valinor through the seed of a tree given in friendship long ago upon the shores of Númenor. So also it is a sign of the promise given by Elrond to Aragorn, a promise soon to be fulfilled.”

As she spoke those words, she reached out for Elrond and he knew her thoughts.  She knew he could not stay to see the years of the king, and he felt her grief, her love and her acceptance.  As he blinked the tears from his eyes, he heard the clear call of silver trumpets announcing their approach.

He felt the strength of Glorfindel flow into him, and Celeborn and Galadriel as well.  Their party fell into form, with his sons leading with their banner unfurled between them.  They rode proudly and precisely, holding the banner high.  Then Glorfindel left Elrond and followed them, along with all of his House.  Behind the banner of Imladris, the banner of Lorien also flew tall. 

Elrond unfurled the cloth from the Sceptre of Annuminas, the last of the tokens of the Northern Kingdom.  With it the Northern Kingdom was reunited with the South, and the keeping of the memory and history of the North was transferred to the Reunited Realm, where it belonged.  No longer would the Elves succor Men in their youth and old age; no longer would they remember for Men their lore, lest it pass away.

They rode forward as the great throng of elves approached the gates and then stepped aside, until none stood between them and Aragorn.  Behind him stood Mithrandir, looking younger and more vibrant than he had when he had arrived in Middle-earth.  On his other side stood Faramir, steward of Gondor. 

But beside him, Arwen had eyes only for Aragorn.  Elrond looked upon this man and remembered his son, their Estel, whom he loved.  Gone was the ranger, and before them stood one in likeness to Elendil – tall and proud and strong.  In his eyes was a love for Arwen that comforted Elrond’s heart, even as it broke.

He dismounted and stepped forward, and Aragorn bowed before him.  Elrond kissed his brow and raised him, and placed the Sceptre in his hand. 

“Great deeds you have done, and the most difficult of tests you have passed, Aragorn, Arathorn’s son.  The Sceptre of Arnor you have earned, and today I surrender it to you.  You now hold all of the tokens of your heritage.”

He bowed before his son, and a great cheer arose from the crowd.  Turning to his daughter, he took her hand and turned as she walked forward. He placed her hand in Aragorn’s. Then words failed him, as had never happened before in the long years of his life.  Instead he smiled upon their joy, and clasped his hand over theirs.

The cheers and call of trumpets drowned out any sound around him as Aragorn knelt before Arwen and kissed her hand.  Then he rose, and took Arwen on his right and Elrond upon his left, and together they began the ascent to the Citadel.

* * * * *

(1)And high in the north as a challenge to Melkor she set the crown of seven mighty stars to swing, Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar and sign of doom.   The Silmarillion

And all eyes followed his gaze, and behold! upon the foremost ship a great standard broke, and the wind displayed it as she turned towards the Harlond. There flowered a White Tree, and that was for Gondor; but Seven Stars were about it, and a high crown above it, the signs of Elendil that no lord had borne for years beyond count. And the stars flamed in the sunlight, for they were wrought of gems by Arwen daughter of Elrond; and the crown was bright in the morning, for it was wrought of mithril and gold.

The Battle of the Pelennor Fields, RotK





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