A/N As every other thing in this story, which grew in the telling, the epilogue turned out to be an extra chapter! We have finally reached the end of our tale. Many thanks to those who read, and extra hugs to those who reviewed. I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading this story at least as much as I enjoyed writing it.

12. Epilogue: New Beginnings.

In which Finarfin practices the noble art of gaping and Celeborn experiences his king’s unique way of ruling.  

Valinor, Second Age of the Sun. Year 32.  

“You sent for me, my brother?”  

Queen Indis entered the high terrace in Ingwë’s palace quietly. She was a tall, blond lady with deep, blue-grey eyes and a charming, mysterious smile.  

“I need to see your son immediately!”  

High King Ingwë paced restlessly the white terraces that looked towards the sacred slopes of Taniquetil, yet the sight did nothing to appease his temper.  The folds of his deep blue robe danced in unusual disarray at his impatient, graceless movements.  

“As you command, my lord!” She who had once been the Queen of the Noldor bowed deeply before her brother and left as silently as she had entered, leaving the Vanyarin King to ponder her faintly amused smile.  

“You called me, my lord?”  

High King Ingwë almost jumped at the sound of Indis’ youngest son’s voice, and turned around wildly to look at his visitor in astonishment.  

“How… when?” The High King was gaping in a very unkingly manner. He even cast a brief glance upwards and around, as if expecting to see Thorondor leaving his private garden at any moment. “What are you doing here?” he finally blurted.  

Finarfin arched his brow slightly at this unexpected lack of control.  

“My mother said that you wanted...”  

“Yes of course, but...how! I mean, it was a moment ago!”  

Finarfin was even more puzzled now. “I arrived this morning, of course,“ he explained cautiously, “I’m on my way to attend Lord Námo’s summons...”  

“It doesn’t matter.” The High King waved away his nephew’s explanations, not even bothering to wonder why the Lord of Mandos would be summoning the High King of the Noldor. He had more pressing matters in his mind.  

“I want to know,“ the Vanyarin King began in a serious, almost threatening voice. “No, I demand to know what you did to my son!”  

It was Finarfin’s turn, and he gaped masterfully.  

“My… my lord, I don’t…”  

The King resumed his restless pacing and cast a filthy look towards his nephew.  

“I expected that you would take care of him, Arafinwë. He’d never before left Valinor, had never before seen evil, or mortal creatures, and tell me, what did you do to him?” he accused.  

Finarfin fought the urge to turn around and walk away.  

He bit back the impulse to remind the High King that his only son had long been an adult when Finarfin had been born.  

He refrained from pointing out that neither he had ever left Valinor or seen mortal creatures before the War of Wrath; although he wasn’t now sure whether to count his own father as a mortal...  

He sighed instead, and followed his caring, empathic nature.  

“I don’t understand, my lord,“ he said in his soft voice. “What’s wrong with Ingil?”  

“What’s wrong?” The High King turned to face him and raised his arms in despair. “Everything is wrong,” he claimed dramatically, resting his long hands upon Finarfin’s shoulders and shaking them in his urgency. “I followed Lord Manwë’s advice and sent him to Irmo,“ he said, lowering his voice in secrecy. “It worked wonders for Eonwë, you know?” he added confidentially, “since the Herald was a bit overexcited when he returned from Middle-earth...Want to know what happened?”    

Finarfin produced the blank expression he had mastered after long yéni pretending to follow Olwë and Olvárin’s endless conversations about ships, and nodded in polite interest to his uncle.  

“He was expelled from Lórien! My son! Lord Irmo complained that he was disturbing his peace! And that he pretended to rearrange the layout of his gardens and that he had complained about such waste of space and had begun drawing plans for new arrangements!” The High King seemed now close to tears. Rage, worry and humiliation showed clearly on his fair face. “He’s been banned from Lórien, Arafinwë, can you believe that?”  

Finarfin was fighting hard to bit back his amusement. He had hardly seen Ingil in those last years, busy as he had been in Tirion trying to come to terms with the fact that all his family was lost to him forever, and now he was wondering how his irrepressible cousin had adjusted to the calm pace of life in Valmar.  

“Look at him!” Ingwë’s pained sigh stirred again his compassionate nature, but as Finarfin turned to follow his uncle’s indication, he could not hold back a smile at the sight of his tall cousin walking towards them, crossing the tended garden in a carefree, elastic pace. He had forsaken the Vanyarin elaborate style and held his long, blond hair in a simple, thick braid after the wood elves’ practical fashion. He was clad in grey, loose trousers and a white linen shirt, the kind Círdan’s mariners used. He jumped nimbly over a fence and waved to them with his open, knowing smile.  

“And now he says he intends to depart again,“ Ingwë’s voice was now a whisper. “Do something, Arafinwë, I beg of you,“ the High King pleaded softly. “It is your fault, after all,” he added as a parting shot, shaking his head and entering his palace hurriedly.  

“It is not… my lord, I did not…”  

“Finarfin!” Ingil’s silvery voice called from the garden. “Good to see you, Cousin!”  

Finarfin gave up trying to convince his worried uncle that whatever happened to Ingil was not his fault, and turned his attention to his cousin instead. Now that he was getting closer, Finarfin could see that he was wearing wristbands and ankle bands with singing stones in the manner of lost Brithombar, and the King of the Noldor rolled his eyes in disbelief.  

“I apologize for not visiting you in Tirion,“ Ingil said, jumping over the last fence and climbing the stairs to where his cousin had taken seat, “but I’ve been quite busy,” he added, clasping Finarfin’s arms in greeting and sitting by his side.  

“Yes, rearranging Irmo’s gardens, I’ve heard,” Finarfin prodded.  

“Oh, he told you!” Ingil let escape an amused chuckle, looking perfectly unconcerned by the fact that a Vala had banished him from his gardens. “He’s fretting,” he added, nodding towards the palace.  

“He is worried that...“ Finarfin corrected him softly, but the rest of his sentence was cut by a strange, sharp, happy shriek that pierced his ears as a blur of grey flew past him and landed abruptly upon Ingil’s shoulder.  

“So, she’s still around, I see,“ Finarfin observed calmly, as the stubborn, faithful, smitten seabird that had followed the prince of the Vanyar from the shores of Middle-earth nibbled affectionately at her lord’s ear.  

“Yavanna granted her the life of the creatures of Valinor,“ Ingil smiled affectionately, caressing her glistening feathers. “She mated in the North and she made friends with Elwing, but she never fails to come to visit,“ he added fondly, “although now she rather brings news,“ he added with a mischievous grin.  

“No more sardines, then? Finarfin smiled in turn, remembering the dedicated courting Ingil had been subjected to by the stricken bird.  

“She has her own fledglings to feed now, Finarfin,“ Ingil informed him seriously.  

“I see. And what news does she bring now from the North?” Finarfin asked, only half-jokingly.  

“She says that Eärendil shall be guiding the Edain to their appointed land in this season...“  

Finarfin cast a worried look towards his cousin, remembering Ingwë’s last words.  

“Lord Ulmo has placed an island in the middle of the Belegaer,“ Ingil continued, completely unawares of the intent look upon his cousin’s face. “And has filled it with all kind of wonders, it seems. Elros, on his part, has finally managed to complete his fleet, so they are ready to depart…”  

”You don’t intend to travel there, do you?” Finarfin interrupted him bluntly, and almost sighed in relief at the astonished, mildly outraged look upon his cousin’s face.  

“Why do you say such a thing? Oh, I see, my father told you...”  

“Ingil, your father worries for you...”  

“Well, he should not; I am old enough to make my own decisions. I just don’t want my daughters to grow up ignoring that there are many things out there; Elves who never spoke to a Vala, evil things and dangers, and suffering and hope, apart from the peace and happiness we have known in Valmar…that’s why I’ve decided to settle down in Eressëa for a time,” he explained to his puzzled cousin.  

“In Eressëa?” Finarfin did not remember gaping so frequently since returning from Middle-earth.  

“Well yes, of course, you didn’t think I intended to travel back to Middle-earth, did you?”  

“I…” the image of Ingil announcing that he would have his halls erected upon the tallest cliff of Lindon suddenly hit Finarfin, and he shrugged. ”Well, you almost convinced me that you intended to remain there,” he hit back defensively.  

“Oh, but I meant it!“ the golden prince of the Vanyar laughed out loud remembering. “I was so confused by then that I honestly believed that the only way to overcome the lure of those lands was to remain there and embrace it wholly…” he offered thoughtfully.  

They sat in silence for a while, each lost in memories of that time.  

“And…what happened, Ingil?” Finarfin finally asked cautiously. “What made you change your mind?”  

“I just came to understand the song of Arda,” the prince said simply. “My father feared to travel back and be stricken by the memories of the time before the light…” he explained to his baffled cousin. “He warned me before departing, told me not to pay heed to he voices of Middle-earth… and… I was too afraid of what we would find there…” He toyed distractedly with the bird’s beak. “Only when I managed to overcome my fear and listen intently to what the rocks and trees and waters had to say was I able to understand that it is the same song that runs trough the veins of Arda, Finarfin, and we, “elves of the light” as we proudly call ourselves, know but one of its many chords…”  

Finarfin looked into the blue eyes of his cousin and almost drowned into the deep, ancient wisdom that had already been there when he was but a child who climbed eagerly his tall cousin’s knees and listened in awe to his tales.  

“We were wrong, then?” he asked in a faint whisper, dreading the answer as if it were a long awaited sentence.  

“I don’t think so, Cousin,“ the Vanyarin prince said kindly. “Our fathers did as they saw fit, and who would have denied the light of Aman who beheld it in its full glory? But they weren’t wrong, either, those who remained behind then, or those who forsook the Blessed Realm later, or those who chose to stay here despite the loss ofthe Light,” he added softly, reading deeply into his cousin’s troubled heart.  

“You comfort me with your wisdom, Ingil,“ Finarfin managed in a choked gasp, sighing heavily as if a burden had been lifted from his chest.  

“I’m glad to hear that, cousin, for yours hasn’t been the easiest lot, of that I’m well aware… Yet I won’t keep you any longer, “he added, standing nimbly and pulling Finarfin up along with him. ”I must try to convince my father that I have not been beguiled by Melko, and it is not wise that you keep Lord Námo waiting,” he added with a friendly wink.  

“How long will you remain in Eressëa?”  

“Oh, I don’t know. But you’re welcome to visit there, although I’m sure you’re going to be far too busy to even consider it,“ he added mysteriously, and then, at Finarfin’s quizzical glance, he pulled him into a tight embrace and then urged him towards the stables.  

“Go, Cousin. Our paths are different, yet Eru looks kindly upon each of his children, no matter how twisted and darkened the road seems to them…” And with that, he turned his back upon his puzzled cousin and entered the palace with purposeful strides, the seabird clinging to his long braid.  

Finarfin mulled over his cousin’s wise words on the long ride to Mandos, and for the first time in more than five hundred years of the sun he allowed himself to dwell upon memories of the fateful days that had followed the death of the Trees, and to reflect upon his own decisions and those of his family.  

He allowed himself to grieve openly for his brothers, and his nephews, and his own children, and to curse their stubbornness and pride, and to cleanse the guilt that had since then ate at him, as he finally granted himself a long needed absolution, acknowledging, as Ingil had wisely reminded him, that each of them had followed their appointed path and that it was only Estel left for them to hold on to, the certainty that, in the end, Eru’s will would be made clear for them all.  

Deep in his healing thoughts, he did not notice that he had arrived at the threshold of Námo’s impressive halls, nor did he register the blond, tall, shiny figure that stood beside the Lord of Mandos, looking at him with barely hidden anticipation.  

Abruptly brought out of his musings by the kind greeting of the Vala, Finarfin lifted a tear-streaked face and looked into the expectant, anxious, eager, well-known and long-missed smile of his eldest son, and for the third time in that day, he gaped gloriously.  

Forlindon, Second Age of the Sun. Year 32.  

“We now forsake the lands of our birth and hard toil, with our hopes high and our hearts warmed by the love and light we have known in Middle-earth. We leave behind our blood and our dead, kin and friends, in the certainty that this parting shall not last forever. Such is the way of my kin, to wither and pass away in but just a whisper to the eyes of the elder race. Yet our memory is not lesser than that of the Elves, and from father to son the tale of our debt shall pass on, and the mutual friendship and alliance shall be honoured for as long as my kingdom lasts.”  

King Elros of the Edain stood upon the wooden pier before the ship he had built with his own hands and Círdan’s help. In front of him, High King Gil-galad stood with a kind, encouraging smile upon his stern face. Beside him, to this right, Lord Elrond Peredhil, the king’s herald and ambassador, clad in travelling clothes, nodded appreciatively at his brother’s words.  

To a casual observer it would seem that time had not touched either of the Peredhil’s features, as both looked youthful and strong as if they were in their prime years. The traces of last night revelries were equally clear in both faces, and the faintest threads of white were not yet visible upon the King’s brow.  

The Shipwright stood next to them, a strained expression upon his usual collected face, as his eyes travelled restlessly upon the waters and to the wide bay, where the bulk of the fleet of the Edain pitched in expectancy, awaiting the signal to finally depart to their appointed lands.  

“May the Valar shine upon you, and your people, till Arda lasts, King Gil-galad,“ Elros kept on, his voice slightly choked now, “and do not forsake my people, as they shall never desert you, should you ever call upon them in need, “ he added seriously, bowing deeply before the High King of the Elves.  

“May the star of your father lead you safely to your blessed lands, under the winds of Manwë, King Elros,” Ereinion answered evenly in his strong, pleasant voice. “We are kin and allies, Eldar and Edain, and that alliance shall be honoured for as long as a child of the house of Finwë walks the lands of Middle-earth. May your life be long and fruitful, and may your kingdom flourish under your wise rule.” And saying thus he embraced the King of the Edain tightly, as Eärendil cast his bright light upon them in the morning sun. 

“Take good care of my brother, my lord, I beg of you...” Elros whispered in the king’s embrace.  

“I’ll protect him with my life, you have my word,” the king answered soberly, stepping back and allowing Elrond to embrace his brother for the last time.  

It was a long goodbye, marked by the eagerness that the Edain did not manage to conceal, and the sadness hanging around those lingering and contemplating a parting that was to last beyond the circles of the world.  

At last, Elros smiled to his friends and kin and for a moment he was again the eager, impudent half-elven youngster who had brightened with his antics the first years of the mixed encampment that was still visible among the imposing walls of the growing city. He winked a last time to his brother, then bowed deeply and climbed to his ship without looking back.  

A deep horn blew from top of the westernmost cliff of Forlindon as the King’s ship set sail following the bright trail of Eärendil, and a myriad of horns answered its call, the numerous ships crowding the long firth of Mithlond eagerly announcing their departure.  

“By your leave, my lord…”  

Elros’ ship was still clearly visible in the horizon when Elrond took his leave.  

“Go, Lord Elrond, there must be other things that need your attention,“ the king nodded evenly. “We’ll meet in the sward at noon,” he added, addressing the rest of his friends and counsellors, who still followed the fleet with sad eyes.  

“It took us a bit longer than ten sun-rounds, yet you managed to make a great king out of Elros, Ereinion, I’m proud of you “Círdan joked softly.  

Ereinion knew that those last months had been particularly difficult for the Shipwright, as memories of the time when he had helped Tuor first, and Eärendil later, build up the ships that would take them away forever had been inevitably brought about by the works in the small shipyard that served the northern part of the city, when Elros had finally undertaken the task of building his own ship.  

“Well, it was not your fault that it took them so long to master the principles of shipbuilding, my lord,” he quipped provokingly, “and after all, you managed to make a good mariner out of Elros, so I am very proud of you!” he joked, and was rewarded when a clear laugh escaped the mariner’s throat.  

“I am glad to be of service, my King,“ Círdan smiled, passing an arm across his foster son’s shoulders and steering him to the steep stone stair leading to the upper side of the city. “Now, by your leave, I shall attend my duties as you go and get ready for yours…” he added softly, pushing the king towards the staircase. “I’ll be up there at noon,” he promised.  

With a deep sigh Ereinion began the long ascent. The years had passed swiftly as the works progressed in a satisfying manner. The city grew steadily, the camp marched smoothly and his people were thriving in their caring, generous manner.  

Watching Elros depart to his new land had not been easy, yet now Ereinion was faced with another difficult task.  

Elrond’s missions had been more than successful, and he had displayed an unusual talent for diplomacy, as well as for exploring and chartering the new lands. He had established a solid alliance with the elves in Nenuial, with Oropher’s unexpected cooperation, and had managed to complete a detailed range of maps of the lands around Nenuial and to the east.  

The king had made sure that his herald’s travels were frequent enough to keep him busy, yet not as prolonged as to keep him away from Lindon and his brother for long periods. He had been stationed in the city for the last couple of years, polishing an completing his maps while enjoying his brother’s company, but now he was to depart for his longest trip, a trip that would finally take him and his company to the dwarven city and the forests beyond the mountains, and that would most likely last several sun-rounds.  

Ereinion sighed as he reached the top of the cliff and looked around at the maze of stonewalls that were supposed to be turned, somehow, into his home, his palace, as Celebrimbor remarked pompously.  

He had been a child when he had departed Eithel Sirion, and his memories of his grandfather’s stronghold were distorted by his young age and his small size at that time. Since then, Ereinion had only known Círdan’s comfortable house in Eglarest, their humble abode as refugees in Balar and the austere comfort of his tent, so now he was a bit overwhelmed by the impressive dimensions of what was supposed to become his permanent residence.  

He sat down upon a discarded stone facing the sward, mulling on the memories of a conversation he had overhead in the first Midyear’s festival in those new lands.  

“I would look for Maglor…and maybe I would settle down among those elves who forsook the march, and forget who I am and whence I came, and marry a beautiful elleth and form a family that would not be swept away by time or chance...”  

With Elros definitely gone, there was nothing to tie the remaining Peredhil to his kin, the king acknowledged sadly, and could not help the feeling that he had failed miserably in his task.  

Arien was tall in the horizon when the company led by Elrond and Erestor arrived at the sward and bowed to the king.  

“Have a safe trip, and may Elbereth guard you, my lords,” the king clasped each and every of his warriors and wished them a successful mission and a peaceful and safe return. He embraced Erestor, and then the Peredhel, and stepped back to watch them mount.  

“We’re ready to depart, my lord, we only await your leave,” Elrond announced sternly after checking his company. Ereinion stepped forth and put a hand upon his kinsman’s leg. “Come back, Elrond,” he pleaded softly, “Will you?”  

“Of course I will, my lord,“ the Peredhel answered softly, clasping briefly the hand resting upon his leg. "My home and my family are here," he added with a tiny smile that comforted he king’s heart.  

“Go then with our blessings!”  

Following Elrond’s raised hand, the company began its slow march in an ordered column, followed by the king and his counsellors’ gaze.  

“Letting go of those we love is no minor feat, child.” Círdan pressed a comforting hand upon the king’s shoulder, and Ereinion gave him a small, grateful smile. Círdan had always held that Fingon’s most valiant deed had been sending his young son to the Havens, and it was a strangely comforting thought at that moment.  

“My lord?”  

Dragging his eyes from the mounted company, Ereinion turned to see one of the chief masons standing before him.  

“Yes?”  

“Lord Celebrimbor sends word that we are running out of those huge blocks for the foundations of the haven in the southern city…”  

Ereinion fought his first impulse to run and find a solution, and he searched his tunic instead. “I’d swear I had carried a couple of those with me this morning…” he quipped among the chuckles of his counsellors. He looked around and his face brightened up suddenly in a mischievous smile as he saw the chance to announce a decision he had come up with some time ago. “But I advise you to turn to Lord Celeborn for this matter. He has just become Lord of Harlindon, you see, and he can surely remind Lord Celebrimbor that there’s an established procedure for this type of requirements that does not involve the king going to the quarries to attend the architects’ needs… Lord Celeborn, if you please?”  

Enjoying the amused look upon Celeborn’s eyes at the sudden -and highly unconventional- appointment, Ereinion turned his back stubbornly on the sea, where Elros’ fleet was still clearly visible, and refused to look east to where Elrond’s company skirted the forest and headed for the dwarf-road of old. Both were now facing their own new beginnings, he told himself, and he was responsible for those who remained.  

“Lord Círdan, how are things progressing in Mithlond, I understand that the shipyards are taking longer than scheduled?”  

He had a city to build and a kingdom to rule in a land that was now free of evil, and with the Valar’s help, he would see his people grow and thrive in peace for long ages. 

THE END.