The final chapter, which no-one was expecting.

Chapter 4. Necessity.

Imladris. Spring, 2510, Third Age.

“It is time...”

“Wait...”  The voice was barely a sigh. A pale, bony hand appeared from under the blanket and searched for his bessichingly.

Gildor nodded and clasped it tightly against his chest, meeting briefly sunken, grey eyes in a pallid, translucent face. He tried to smile encouragingly as he took seat beside the lying figure and listened to the sweet, steady voce that carried towards them.

“She will be fine,” he whispered, and the fragile-looking elf woman that had once been the light of the house nodded gratefully, blinking away tears that coursed well-drawn paths on her thinned, scarred face. Pierced by a grief that stung anew, Gildor carefully took her in his arms and pushed her into a careful embrace, mindful of the wounds that would not heal and of the terrors that still plagued her. “And I will take care of all of them, Celebrían, I swear,” he promised in a strangled voice, kissing her matted, lifeless silvery head and swallowing tears that had not burnt so badly since a time long past, when he had narrowly survived the battle of Tumhalad only to learn that Nargothrond had been devastatated and that his wife and his daughter had been dragged away as part of Finduilas’ retinue and had, most assuredly, joined her in her sad fate as well.

At the other side of the airy porch, Arwen was reaching the end of her tale.

“And so it came to pass that the Guardian continued to dwell in the Towers, but from time to time he would also travel the land and serve as a guide to the Wandering Companies as they tarried leisurely on their way to the Grey Havens –as you, my friends, are about to do.” She looked up to Gildor and Celebrian and nodded sadly. “May Elbereth shine on your path and may the Lord of Waters take you home swiftly!” she added in a voice that caught so slightly as she assumed her naneth’s role for the first time in the ritual retelling of the Tale of the Guardian. The unusually grown-up audience –Celebrian’s escort- stood up at Arwen’s blessing, and Gildor did the same.

“Come, child,” he whispered, bending to lift the diminished, trembling, brittle looking body with extreme tenderness. “It is time to go.” Hurt in body and soul, her joy in life brutally taken away from her after such a cruel ordeal, Celebrian even lacked the strength to cast a last glance to the place that had been her home. Protecting her against his strong chest, Gildor carried her to the waiting wagon and the grieving, desperate arms of her distraught husband.

“Will you lead the way, Gildor?” Glorfindel asked, checking that everyone was ready. Arwen had mounted her chestnut mare and Celebrían’s escort had taken their places. The twins waited silently well apart of everyone and Erestor had appointed himself to guiding the wagon, with Mithrandir by his side. Celeborn and Galadriel had returned to the Golden Wood a few days before, too saddened to be able to escort their child to the Havens. With a sad sigh, Gildor lifted his hand and signalled for the company to start moving. A chorus of silvery voices rose in song, escorting in sad, mournful goodbye the most subdued company that Gildor had ever guided to the Grey Havens.

Mithlond, a few weeks later.

“Spit it out!”

“What?” Gildor was taken aback by the unexpected harshness in Elrond’s voice. Beside him, Wolf growled in a soft, warning manner. All the way to Mithlond the lord of Imladris had sat inside the wagon holding Celebrían, apart from the rest, unattainable in his grief and his despair. Only when Círdan greeted them gravely before the broken doors of Mithlond had he allowed his composure to slip and had accepted the comforting embrace of the Shipwright. And since thaw had begun, there was no reason for it to stop, Gildor told himself philosophically as he cautiously met his lord’s glare.

“You well know what I mean, you are dying to remind me that you had already warned us!” Elrond claimed, nervously twisting the ring in his finger.

“You do not believe that I would gloat about this,” Gildor stated flatly, and then dragged the distraught peredhel to take seat on a stone bench by one of the abandoned workshops that lined the quay. It was the grey hour before dawn, when things doubted their true shapes and colours and the sea sang differently. They sat in silence for a brief while and then Gildor turned a wary look at his friend. “I would never gloat about being right, Elrond, you know that,” he insisted quietly. With a heavy sigh the half elf passed a trembling hand over his brow and closed his eyes briefly.

“Forgive me, my friend, I am not myself,” he whispered brokenly, shaking his head in despair and lifting tired eyes to the sky, perhaps hoping to get a glimpse of Eärendil in that time of great need. “Had I followed your wise counsel long ago, Eru knows how much suffering could have been avoided...These Rings are worth nothing,” he added with contempt, twisting the golden band obssesively. “What good would they do, if not even their combined powers could restore her light?” he wondered, as a solitary tear trickled down his proud face. He had taken Vilya off his finger and for a moment it seemed as if he intended to cast it into the restless waters. After a brief hestiation he shook his head and placed it back on his finger, a pained expression on his face.

“And who knows whether those rings actually prevented her from succumbing to her wounds and the unbearable grief?” Gildor found himself retorting. “She had the courage to survive where many others would have succumbed, but perhaps the rings kept her alive after that, Elrond, she was almost spent when your sons brought her home...”

“We felt secure in our safe haven, Gildor, disregarding the darkness that encroaches the world, selfishly closing ourselves to the grief and fading outside our valley...and we became careless, too proud and sure of our power...”

“Do you mean that Celebrian’s guards were careless?”

The sharp tone seemed to shake Elrond from the shocked contemplation of his failures. He tilted his head and looked at his friend almost uncomprehendingly. “Of course not! But was it not you who accused us of living in false security and blissful ignorance? Well, it seems that you were right after all!”

“Darkness and evil things have spread lately, Elrond, and mainly around Elven safehavens.” Sure that he had his friend’s attention, he met Elrond’s worried gaze and shook his head. “Thranduil has been pushed north almost to the Mountains by the Shadow in Dol Guldur, and Círdan maintains the Havens because this is such an insignificant outpost that no enemy would think of charging against it..not until the rest is conquered....”

“I do not need you to remind me of those things! I may have isolated myself from what’s going on in Middle-earth but, believe, me, I do know that orcs are multiplying in the Misty Mountains!” Elrond spat viciously, impotence fuelling his anger. Gildor sighed and looked at the white, elegant ship that pitched merrily in the morning tide, eager to set sail towards the Blessed Realm at sundown.

“How many Elven strongholds would remain were it not for those rings?” he began softly. “Were it not for your safehaven, and that of Lórien, most of our kin would have sailed west long ago, tired of this marred world...”

“You already told me that at the beginning of this age, and I was fool enough not to heed your warning,” was the miserable answer. Gildor shook his head and searched his friend’s troubled face.

“Perhaps you should have done so, I do not know, but then, who would be left to fight the Shadow? Men are disunited and fighting among themselves, and many have bowed to this new Shadow...”

“We are too few to fight it, Gildor, we were barely strong enough the last time...”

“But we will find a way, perhaps not in the strength of arms but in the gathering of all races, as Ereinion once did....I am saying that perhaps, after all, you were right in remaining, because many of our kin remained with you, and many of us are still left to keep darkness at bay!  So maybe those rings did serve their purpose after all, or perhaps a good thing is supposed to come out of your mistake as it often happened in the past by the grace of Iluvatar!”

“While Celebrían pays the price of my folly....”

“Celebrían is paying the price of this marred Arda, Elrond, as many others before her,” Gildor retorted sternly. “Do not burden yourself with guilt that belongs elsewhere. You do not need that, nor do your sons,” he added in soft warning. Following Gildor’s gaze, Elrond let escape a deep sigh. Mounting guard before the light, airy pavillion that housed their naneth, Elladan and Elrohir resembled the stern, expressionless statues of carved stone that had once adorned the stairs down to the quay in the now abandoned haven.

“They will succumb to grief and hatred, and there is nothing that I can do,” he admitted with mounting despair. “I will lose everything again, Gildor, because of my folly and my thoughtlessness...and I call myself wise!”

“Not even the wise know all ends, my friend,” Gildor sighed. It broke his heart to be reminded of the many losses that the brave peredhel had endured along his life. “And you need not lose all. Give me the Ring, if it must remain here, and sail away with her,” he offered in a low voice, aware of the burden that he was volunteering to carry. “I will take care of your sons and do what I can in your stead to fight the Shadow...” Elrond cast him a long, considering look, and then shook his head slowly.

“I cannot,” he said, placing one long hand protectively over the ring that he had been twsting in nervous displeasure before. Gildor frowned.

“A moment ago you were ready to deliver it into Osse’s care,” he observed evenly. “And now you cannot? Or will you not?” he asked softly, understanding and compassion dawning on him.

Elrond frowned and then gave a little, guilty smile. “Both, I think,” he admitted tiredly. “But it is my duty as well, Gildor. If keeping it was a mistake, then it is my duty to redress it, or abide by it till the bitter end,” Elrond sighed proudly. “And if something good must turn out of it...well, I must then help it come through...”

“And I will remain by your side to help you either way, peredhel,” Gildor smiled, conceding defeat. “Go to your wife now,” he added, seeing that Elladan and Elrohir had left their posts and were peeking inside the tent. “It seems that you and I will have a lot of time to talk things at length, after all,” he added, patting his friend’s back in a fatherly manner that none except for Cirdan had dared to use for more than an age. 

“I am glad that you are remaining, Gildor,” Elrond sighed gratefuly, and with a brave half-smile he walked towards the pavilion that sheltered his broken wife. Gildor watched as he tried to share the comfort that he had just received with his grieving sons, and shook his head as the twins jerked away from their father’s embrace. 

“You know how they feel, and how to help them,” a friendly voice whispered with undisguised amusement. Gildor needed not look back to know that Mithrandir stood behind him. The sweet smell of galenas betrayed the wizard’s presence from twenty paces. He shrugged sadly.

“It will not be an easy task, they are stubborn...”

“I never said it was easy...” the wizard chuckled quietly.

They sat in silence or took peaceful strolls by the sea for most of that day with Glorfindel and Erestor, while Cirdan was busy giving the finishing touches to the ship. Nothing else stirred in the deserted Haven. The few elves that still lingered by those shores were a quiet lot, and they wandered in solitude for most of their time. As Arien began to climb down towards the Doors of the Night, though, they started popping out of thin air, gathering in the long wooden tables down at the deserted quay. Gildor could not hold back a wistful smile as he was reminded of similar occasions during the past ages, when the Havens were bustling cities and every departing ship was greeted by a boisterous crowd that somehow managed to diminish the weight of melancholy.

“It is time,” Glorfindel said, pointing at the pavillion. They filed in quietly to see a pale Celebrian half sitting on a cot, supported by a distraught looking Elrond and surrounded by her children, all of whom had, at that point, given up all pretence of  self-control. Surprisingly enough, Celebrían’s voice came out stronger than it had in all those months, but still a harsh echo of her musical lilt.

“I entrust my family to your loyal and loving care, my friends,” she sighed, tears glistening in her eyes. “And I beg your forgiveness for so failing in my duty....” her voice broke then in harsh sobs as she clutched at her husband and was awkwardly comforted by her children. Gildor looked around in anguish, only to meet Glorfindel and Erestor’s equally pained eyes.

“Hush, hush, you did not fail, child,”  Mithrandir chimed in unexpectedly, his voice unusually gentle as he knelt down beside the grieving familiy. “I once told you that the great grandchildren of Finwë were as strong and stubborn as their forefathers and you are no exception...you will heal in Aman, Celebrían, and that will give hope to your family...that is your duty now...”

Gratefully accepting that comfort, Celebrían lifted hooded eyes to the wizard and smiled. Wan and pale as that smile was, a ghost of former beauty, for those watching it suddenly seemed as if the light of the Two Trees was shinning anew before them, in promise of hope and bliss yet to come.

“I will not fail, I swear,” she sighed, and lurking beneath grief and hopelessness Gildor heard the strength of will and stubborness of his own house and was comforted and reassured.

“We know you will not, child,” he offered with heartfelt hope, stepping forth to embrace her thinned, fragile frame. “And we will all be there with you,” he promised to her ears alone, meeting briefly her grateful glance before stepping aside to make room for others to say their goodbyes.

Perhaps Elrond would have preferred to see his wife off in solitude, but the elves of Lindon were not willing to leave the herald of their late king to mourn alone. There was a mighty gathering of friends there, singing soflty as the grieving family escorted the ailing lady and saw her comfortably settled in the ship that would carry her to healing, but away from them. The stones knew well the melancholy of partings, and echoed sadly the silvery voices of the assembled elves.

In the end, Elrond finally descended from the ship and accepted the Shipwright’s comforting embrace as two mariners removed the plank and set free the feisty ship. Slowly at first, and then picking up a merry pace, the white boat set forth after the Sun escorted by a huge, solitary seabird, while Eärendil watched from above.

“Go in peace, my friends, and with the blessings of those who remain behind upon the rocks of these strange shores.” Gil-galad’s ritual parting words seemed to echo in the night’s breeze, and after he made sure that Elrond and his children were safely guarded by their closest friends and counsellors, Gildor sat on a stone bench and rested his head on the still sun-warmed wall, drinking the voices and memories that oozed from those ancient stones. After a few frutiless attempts at shaking him from his despondency, Wolf dropped by his side and muzzled him comfortingly before curling up and falling into untroubled sleep, his big head resting on Gildor’s lap.

“Would you come and tell a story?” Mithrandir’s voice brought Gildor back from the path of waking dreams. Stretching his long limbs as he stood and casting a surprised look around, he noticed that the stars were high in the night sky. “They are all gathered around a fire in silence, but I’d say that they would welcome a tale,” Mithrandir added with a knowing wink. Resignedly, Gildor and Wolf followed the wizard up the stairs and to a stone yard before what had once been the harbour master’ss office. Around a bonfire there sat Elrond and his children with Erestor, Glorfindel and Cirdan, all enveloped in glumy silence.

“You have pestered me for over a thousand sun-rounds now,” Gildor joked, slipping between Elladan and Elrohir and making room for himself on the tree trunk the twins were sharing. “And such persistence must be rewarded somehow, I think,” he added, meeting the curious glances cast his way from around the fire. “So let me tell you the true tale of the Guardian, the one only Mithrandir and your naneth know in full. It all began in the first ennin of this age, when I had an argument with your parents concerning certain decisions made by your adar after the war in Mordor, decisions that I did disapprove of....”

In a soft, singing voice he unwound the tale of his madness and his slow descent into the clutches of darkest despair, one of his hands threaded in Wolf’s soft fur for support. As understanding and compassion were kindled in the faces around him, he somehow felt that everything had a meaning and that even if he could not stop the twins from venting their anger and grief on mindless deeds of war for a time, perhaps the tale of his own plight and despair would serve them to keep track of themselves before it was too late. And he would keep an eye on them, as would Mithrandir and Galadriel, so that one day he would fulfill his promise to Celebrían and set foot in the blessed realm with all her familiy.

“The wolf-lord?” Elladan’s incredulous voice brought him back to the tale. “I told you,” the eldest twin was saying triumphantly to his brother. “Didn’t I?”

Edoras, August 14^th 3019, Third Age.

“How did it come to this? I know that this is how it had to be, but still I cannot help wondering how it came to pass... and why... And at times I wonder whether my hapiness is worth causing him such deep grief..”

Gildor followed her grey, steady gaze. They were standing on a terrace in the Golden Hall, watching over the windy grasslands of Rohan. Below them, in one of the courtyards, Elrond watched with polite interest as Eomer King fussed around a couple of well-proportioned stallions and argued in a friendly manner with the twins. And yet Gildor knew that he was crying inside at the thought that he had lost his beloved daughter to the same fate that his brother had chosen so long ago. He sighed and shrugged. Elrond had become a master in taming his own grief, and he knew that his friend would not want his daughter’s short-lived hapiness to be dampened by the knowledge of his suffering. He passed a comforting arm over Arwen’s shoulders and dragged her against him.

“Your happiness is worth this and more, child,” he told her reassuringly. “As for how it came to pass...well, it is all in the music, and somehow at one point you accepted to play a certain chord. Call it neccessity, my lady, and be comforted by the fact that you could have refused it. Since each of us followed a certain tune to the best of our abilities, it is here where we find ourselves today, and not elsewhere...”

“But it is hard, to be the cause of such pain...”

“You are the cause of inmense joy, Arwen,” he chided her gently. “We are pained by the way things are, and by our limited understanding of the Music, but most of the time we are capable to see how happy you are, and rejoice in it...”

They remained in silence for a while, and finally Gildor pushed her apart and watched her intently. “I gave you my word long ago, Arwen,” he sighed with a soft smile, remembering the composed, serious child that she had been. “And now I fulfill my promise. I inform you that I am taking my leave from Middle-earth and taking ship to the West. I wish you all the joy that he Music has in store for you, my child,” he added after a brief pause. “Do not let memories burden you, for even if you chose differently, still you are one of the Firstborn, and you know what memories are for our kin. Live your life in happiness and be sure that at one point we will all meet again...”

Too moved for words, Arwen pressed her face against his chest and embraced him tightly. “Tell my naneth...”

“I will send your love to her...and tell her that your life is blessed. She will be glad for you as we all are.” With a deep sigh, Arwen looked up and stretched to place a soft kiss on her kinsman’s face.

“Thank you for all your past and present kindness, Gildor,” she said simply. “You have been a great support to me and to my family and I will never forget you. Will you accept this small present, so that you remember me as well?” She proferred her closed hand and opened it slowly to reveal a very old coral bracelet there. With a tender smile, Gildor shook his head and closed her white hand over the bracelet.

“Your people need not trinkets to be reminded of their Evenstar, my child,” he said softly. “Your beauty and your valour and your gentleness will be the matter of song long after Arda is remade. You keep it, for your children’s children, so that *they* are reminded of their ancestry...”

“And that they will know of the dashing uncle who told incredible tales and brought wonderful presents form his trips...and ran with wolves in the forest. May Eru bless you, Gildor, and may you find your loved ones waiting for you when you return to your home of old,” she added, pressing tightly one last time against him and almost choking in her tears.

“Are you upsetting my wife, Guardian?” Aragorn stood behind them with a sad, knowing look in his grey eyes. Softly, Gildor disentangled himself from Arwen’s embrace and delivered her into her husband’s comforting arms.

“So that you have the pleasure of restoring her mood, Estel,” he joked, nodding to the full-grown king that had once been a restless child always eager for tales and news from foreign lands. “By your leave, I will go and get ready for the journey. May the stars of Varda always shine upon you, Queen Arwen,” he offered, bowing formally before her and striding away wihtout looking back.

And yet as he climbed down the stairs, burdened by a sadness that was not bitter, he also felt a deep joy slowly bubbling inside him. For the first time in three ages he felt the call of the Sea stirring deeply in his soul. A shiver of anticipation coursed down his spine, as he understood that all his toils were ended and that he was, at last, heading home.

The End.

A/N

A couple of canon notes to support Gildor’s position in this tale.

“In the first (the elves lingering in Middle-earth after the War of Wrath)  we see a second fall or at least “error” of the Elves. There was nothing wrong essentially in their lingering against counsel (....) but they wanted to have their cake without eating it. They wanted the peace and bliss and perfect memory of “The West” and yet to remain on the ordinary earth where their prestige as the highest people was greater than at the bottom of the hierarchy of Valinor” JRR Tolkien. Letters. Letter 131.

“But the Elves are not wholly good or in the right. Not so much because they had flirted with Sauron, as because with or without his assistance they were “embalmers”. They wanted to have their cake and not eat it: to live in the mortal historical Middle-earth because they had become fond of it (and perhaps because there they had the advantages of a superior caste), and so tried to stop its change and history, stop its growth, keep it as a pleasaunce, even largely a desert, where they could be “artists” –and they were overburdened with sadness and nostalgic regret.”  JRR Tolkien. Letters. Letter 154