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Chapter 1.  Letter-bearer

Just ahead of him, Celebrían rode relaxed in the saddle.  Elrond watched her closely, delighting in the way her lithe body gimbaled with Morgarab’s every plodding step down the wide center of the rutted road over the already trampled and wilting grass.  With each subtle adjustment of her head to her mount’s motion, the balmy sunshine scintillated over her wide-brimmed, beribboned hat.  Her bright hair was accommodatingly pinned up and the open collar of her flattering dress was laid down, facilitating an alluring display of her shapely neck.  He closed his eyes for a moment to refresh his sight of her – which brought forth a heavenly sigh when he opened them again.  Barely seven years had passed since his arrival in Aman and it was still hard to believe that he was actually with his beloved again, her restored joy restoring his.

They had had to separate a ways back and ride single file to let a train of haywains trundle by; the drowsing drivers unconcerned with any inconvenience they might cause what few other people they encountered on this rural route.  Elrond might have raised a complaint, but that would have awakened them to his and his lady’s presence when he would rather not have strangers catch him watching his wife so closely. 

If not for the weather, he would consider this slow excursion across Eldamar an idyllic respite from the pressures of court and celebrity.  However, despite being removed from Arda, Aman kept the southern clime in which it had rested when part of the unbended world.  To him, this summer sun felt brighter and hotter than that of Gondor.  He much preferred the cooler hills and valleys of Eriador.  He closed and opened his eyes again; enjoying the same excellent result as before and wondering why he had not thought of this enjoyable activity sooner. 

Celebrían was really quite appealing in her glossy straw hat, a flattering style worn by the farmwives of this region especially when they tended their front gardens.  Use to wearing a hood, it had taken some patience on his part, but he had come to appreciate the airy shade provided by the broad drover’s hat his lady had given him to wear.  He was however even more grateful that she also considered a loose shirt without a tunic acceptable attire for someone of his station.  While on the road anyway, he thought grinning.  He glanced up at the dazzling azure sky.  A good breeze would be most welcome.  Besides cooling the skin, it would set the delicate tendrils of hair caressing Celebrían’s neck in tantalizing motion.

At that pleasant thought, his wife turned and looked back at him with an inviting smile that suggested he come ride beside her once more.  He smiled back; amazingly happy.  She turned forward again; coquettishly confident he would be joining her.  First though, he checked behind on their small luggage cart with its two passengers, just catching up after also yielding to the larger wagons.

Sencyllon and Hacylleth had been playing some sort of guessing game all morning and it appeared Hacylleth had stumped her father again for they were arguing – again.  But, that was simply the way it was with them, Elrond had learned.  It seemed these two did not know how to be at peace with one another, merely silent.  Facing ahead once more, he urged the huffing Lagorbad forward.  When they came abreast with Morgarab and his lady, the two horses fell into the same dreary pace making it easy for their riders to hold hands.

“Look, a milestone,” observed Celebrían.  Elrond grudgingly took his eyes off of his wife and read the ancient marker.

“Well, I figure we are less than an hour away,” he gladly informed her.  “Glorfindel said the village had a very nice inn.”

“That is good.  I would like to freshen up before going to the guesthouse.”  She knowingly smiled at him.  “And I am sure you would too.”

“Very much so!” was his emphatic reply.  An hour in a cool place, noisy taproom or otherwise, had become something he looked forward to.  “In fact, I should like to wait until after sundown to go out again.  Your grandmother recommended the evening as a good time to call since the rehoused would be retired for the night.  I am curious what the inside of such a place feels like.”

“I doubt we would be allowed into the actual guests’ quarters no matter what the hour,” she warned.  “Even if we had the Tári with us.”

Lagorbad shuffled over a large rock and Glorfindel’s letter jostled inside Elrond’s shirt.  The packet, even though now wrapped in soft cotton cloth, was growing more and more irritating as the day wore on – having to tuck stiff things next to one’s skin was a distinct disadvantage of not wearing a tunic.  Putting the letter under his pillow every time he lay down had been merely annoying compared to this.  More than once today, he had considered slipping it inside his saddlebag.  But, that would be breaking his sworn promise to keep it either in hand or in the lockbox.  He should have just brought the clunky thing along.  Finally handing the missive over would be a relief.  And relief was the reason he and Celebrían were on the road when they could be taking their ease in Tirion.  This was the last of the tasks he had undertaken on behalf of others before sailing from Mithlond.

After so many had carried messages for him, Elrond felt greatly obliged and had accepted a good many requests other than Glorfindel’s.  Delivering them himself rather than lingering in Lórien or Tirion had been the right decision – of that he was surer then ever.  Bringing word to those awaiting their loved ones had greatly aided his transition to a more serene life.  It had given him a way to gradually ease out from under his driving sense of responsibility, one simple favor at a time.  When this last and most important letter was passed on, he might finally be able to permit himself the leisure to recover at length, free of any but his own concerns.  Free... for more than just a few hours or days.

Reconciling himself to his children’s absence had not been nearly as easy.  In a very real way, by crossing the sea to the Uttermost West, he had become sundered from them.  A constant ache was not new to him.  For most of his life long, he had suffered from his elder brother’s decision to become mortal.  But, he had learned to handle his pain and carry on.  Celebrían’s absence had added greatly to what had already existed, but still he had carried on.  However, with Arwen, there would be only memories and never a reunion.  No more greetings, no more embraces, no more kisses.  He would never see her and Estel’s children.  That might yet be the unwanted outcome with his sons.

And then, there was Vilya – the other hidden fosterling he had harbored.  Over the age, the sapphire ring had become a integral part of him.  At the last, weakly lingering and agonizingly slow to expire, it had finally succumbed and been interred in the waters of the Belegaer along with its siblings.  The sore hollow it had left in him would never be filled.  Arwen’s choice and the end of Vilya had compounded his pain beyond endurance.  These accumulated sorrows had weighed heavier and heavier upon his heart the nearer the ship had come to Aman’s shore.  The ring-bearers – even Mithrandir – were so debilitated by the end of the voyage that they had to be quickly helped to Lórien.

There, Lady Estë had eased his bitterest wounds with a deep healing such as had never been possible in Ennor, not for Celebrían and not for him.  After the Vala’s challenging treatment – ironic for he had said it so often to his own suffering patients – he could at least live normally with what lingered.  He certainly had had enough practice.  However, there was also an increasing difference in his faer as to the person he had been, even before taking on the burden of his ring.  These days, he was feeling incredibly whole.  He might almost say young, despite having lived ages.

Maybe he had hastened his leaving Lórien a bit, but he was much happier for having taken control of the rest of his recovery.  Galadriel, on the other hand, would not leave the gardens of Irmo for a long time to come.  Her reconciliation lay in assessing the past, not the future.  Wisely, she had taken her daughter’s stern advice and surrendered herself completely into the care of the higher Powers that dwelt there.  After all, Celebrían had undergone a complicated healing only to face a long wait before her husband would be with her again.  Elrond knew how very much Galadriel wanted to welcome Celeborn with the same joy she had witnessed Celebrían welcome him.

Again, he closed his eyes and opened them to the vision of his wife, glowing and beautiful and riding beside him, and he smiled.  Life was wonderful – except he was sweating and the letter chafed.  She looked at him, deceptively composed, and chuckled at his imperfect contentment.

“And why must we wait for sundown to visit?” she asked, feigning petulance.  “I am so tired of waiting for everything that I can no longer tolerate delay over trivial matters.  What little patience I have left must be conserved for greater concerns.”

Elrond continued to smile, but shook his head.  It would be of great satisfaction to both of them – though not ever likely to be had – to know what was in the letter he carried and why it was so important that Glorfindel insisted Elrond hand it over in person.  However, Celebrían was beyond curiosity; she was determined.  How she could possibly find out what Glorfindel had written, and still be a good friend, remained to be seen.

“Is it a trivial matter that we have traipsed over half of Elvenhome to see my pledge completed?” he asked, putting on a serious face and quirking an eyebrow.  “And in this heat?”

The desired effect was achieved; she laughed in carefree, silvered notes that delighted his spirit.  He joined in, but when they quieted back into plain happy smiles, her glittering eyes narrowed and she once more reminded him – as she had almost everyday for the last week – that he had no cause to gripe.

“You campaigned under worse conditions in Mordor, my lord.”

“But this is Eldamar!  It is supposed to be perfect,” he playfully protested; it had become his personal jest.  “However,” he added, “I suppose, as it always turns out, anything real can only be nearly perfect.”

“ Aha!” Celebrían replied, triumphant.  Chagrined, he realized he had unwarily conceded a philosophical point they had discussed the very day he had landed, needy and depressed.

Her hauteur made him recall the other times she had won in debate with him.  Of how her victorious delight would fly through the Hall of Fire and heads would turn to amusedly smile at them.  Many times, she had celebrated her wins by showering him with affectionate rewards for his honesty and for having the confidence to concede at all.  Imladris... the hidden realm they had so cheerfully shared.  He wanted to live in that nearly perfect place again.  Celebrían had stayed with Finarfin and Earwen while waiting, but he knew that she also was more than ready to have her own home again.  The white peaks of the Pelóri hung in the air along the western horizon.  Perhaps, they could settle somewhere in the foothills where there were actual seasons, he hoped, and not Wet Weather, Warm Weather, Wet Again Weather, and Hot Weather.  At the moment, he would be thrilled to play in the snow, even if it was only nearly perfect snow.

“Why not return to Tirion through the hills?” Celebrían suggested, naturally in tune with him.  “Since there is no rush.  We could get a packhorse and send our squabbling blue-jays home.”

“That does sound tempting,” he said, seriously considering the prospect.

“We will go back when we can no longer stand camping out and prefer the comforts of a palace,” she airily went on.  “And who knows, perhaps without even trying, we shall find a new home just for ourselves.”  The rest of the hour was spent scheming about how they would simply disappear after discovering another hidden valley and reminiscing about their cherished homely house.

Almost unexpectedly, Elrond saw a cluster of buildings ahead.  He reluctantly released Celebrían’s hand and rode forward to ask for directions.  A plainly-clothed villager, lazily slouched down in a worn-out basket chair with broken reeds popping up like thorns and his long legs stretched out before him, sat under the shady loggia of what Elrond supposed was a gatehouse, though there was no gate to speak of.

“Alassë' aurë, heru,” greeted the elda without rising to his feet.  “Come to fetch friend or kin?”

“Neither, though the seronopéle is our destination,” Elrond amiably replied.  “I carry a letter for a friend to his friend.  Is the inn close by?”

“Well, depends on which one you seek.”  The fellow was expertly eyeing Lagorbad, who shifted nervously under the close examination and warily stared back.  Elrond reached forward and stroked his neck to soothe him.

“The oldest, I think.”  He looked to Celebrían for confirmation as she pulled up along side; never one to stay back as Amanyar propriety proscribed for a lady, noble or otherwise.

“Alassë' aurë, heri,” said the villager.  For her, he rose to his feet; the chair swaging and creaking in distress as he pushed himself out of it.  “That would be the stone inn straight down this avenue, sir.”

“Does this hostel have a name?” asked Elrond.

“No, sir.  Everyone just calls it the stone inn because t’other is built of wood.”

“Would you prefer that instead, Herves?” he asked Celebrían, switching to speaking Sindarin.

“I have no preference except that Glorfindel probably stayed at the... “ a smile for such charming simplicity tugged at her lips “... stone inn.”

He held back his smile too, and preferred that place for the same reason.

“Elrond Hir-nin,” called Sencyllon from the cart, parked in the middle of the road.  “Which has the better stable?”

“Please you, sir!” cried the villager with a sudden realization that obviously came only from the name spoken and not from knowing Sindarin.  “But, did you arrive aboard the Ring-bearer’s ship?”

“Yes,” he hesitantly replied.  He had thought themselves far enough into the countryside not to be known.

“Then you should not tarry at the inn if you hope to rest.  Word will spread quickly and you will be overwhelmed by the curious.  I would go directly to the seronopéle if I were you.”  A broad smile took over the elda’s face.  “The Aramillë will gladly host you if you are willing to tell the story to her.”

“Her?” repeated Celebrían, looking at her husband with cloaked smugness.  Elrond was genuinely surprised for he had assumed the letter was going to a brother, not a sister, servant of Nienna.  Celebrían had joked that he was assuming wrong because there were far more sisters than brothers, even if only a very few ever presided over their hospice.  If they were to make a wager, she would bet according to the overall odds and Glorfindel’s proclivities.

“Has the guesthouse always been kept by the Aramillë?” Elrond asked.  There could have been a change since their friend had last been here.

“Oh yes, she built it,” was the proud reply.  Celebrían flashed a self-satisfied smile when Elrond glanced over at her.

“We have servants,” he said to the elda, indicating the cart.

“Their staying along with you should be no problem.  But, they will not be allowed to attend you, I think.”  The fellow lightly cleared his throat.  “And the lady will be given a separate room.”

Elrond had to set his jaw and sniff to disguise an involuntary snicker.  The helpful elda could not know that they usually followed the decadent custom of separate bedchambers.  Or that they did not follow the slightly more discrete Amanyar custom of restricting love-making to the indoors.

He looked again to his lady wife, who with an amused twinkle in her eyes, nodded; agreeable to his thinking.

“It cannot be that much further, Herven,” she reasoned.  “And it does not sound as if we would be turned away – if we promise to behave ourselves.”

“Then,” he decided, fighting back an inappropriate grin.  “I think we shall go straight there”.  He turned back to the friendly villager.  “Which road do we take, málo-nya?” 

TBC

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

faer – soul or spirit (fëa - Quenya)

Alassë' aurë – ‘good day’ Quenya

seronopéle – guesthouse seron friend(peaceful person) opéle house(walled house/compound) Quenya

tári – queen Quenya

herven/herves – husband/wife

heru/heri – lord or sir/lady or madam Quenya

hir/hiril – lord or sir/lady or madam

Aramillë – mother superior high mother Quenya

málo-nya – my friend Quenya

Ulbanís and Rostaro are OCs from another fanfic: Beech Leaves.