Long had it been since he had taken his rest in a shared bed, but he was pleased to discover he had retained the ability to leave it without disturbing his wife. The day had been full to the point of overwhelming, yet despite the now ever-present exhaustion he could not sleep. A small inner court in the family’s rented home boasted a single tall, slender tree. He made his way there now, bare feet padding noiseless in the night-drenched hallways upon the warm rugs and smooth stone.

Few were the trees he had seen upon arrival, merely decorative in a way he had never imagined trees to be, and of course none had been upon the long journey across the Sea. He was anxious to reacquaint himself with the feel of living wood beneath his hands.

The moon was dark at this time, but the stars were bright in a way he had not known since his days in Doriath before the first rising of the sun. Their brilliance loosened the knot within his heart, taking him back to another time and place. How many of those lost to him would he meet again within the Undying Lands? Strange was the thought, and unsettling.

The tree welcomed him, inviting his touch and offering succor in a manner which led him to suspect he was not the first disoriented Elf to seek shelter beneath it. He appreciated the effort, and hid from it his shock of disappointment at its strangeness. It was … so very alive. It vibrated beneath his touch in a way even the long-drowned trees of his homeland had never done, and he very nearly resented the poor friendly tree because of it.

Everything here seemed more alive. More solid. More whole. The eyes of those who had seen the light of the Trees shone for all to see, irresistible yet nearly too terrible to look upon. He had thought, in Middle-Earth, that his wife’s eyes had not dimmed throughout the Ages. Seeing now their brilliance rekindled, he wondered how he could truly have made such an error. His daughter had not seen the trees, had been worn and wounded when she had sailed, yet long had she lived in Valinor and she was present in a way he could not describe even now to himself. He was quite pathetically glad for Elrond and his grandsons, who although limned with vibrance he could still look upon without discomfort.

He kept his hand upon the slender white tree, breathing deeply, reaching tentatively his mind and heart toward it and toward the solid earth beneath him. He would simply have to become accustomed to it all. This was what there was for him now.

Her footsteps did not sound, nor her skirt rustle upon the grass. Ever had his wife been the epitome of grace. Rapt in his attempted communion with the tree, he did not note her approach until she folded herself down smoothly before him.

“You try too hard too soon. This place is not like others you have known. You must rest from the journey and from your grief ere you test yourself.”

He pushed down irritation—she stated only fact, not judgement—and ventured a question which had lain long upon his heart. “What of Amroth?”

She blinked. “Amroth?”

His wife had several times since his arrival been taken often off-guard by his queries, even those which seemed utterly basic to him. Celebrían, he had noted, also showed that same tendency. The mindset of one who had lived long in Valinor (or had returned there after long sojourn), it seemed, began from some slightly foreign set of assumptions he did not understand. He wondered if he too would eventually find himself with such a mindset, and was not certain the possibility pleased him. Yet again he was selfishly grateful for Elrond and his grandsons, who at  least seemed to be still firmly grounded in his own reality.

“Our son.” One silver eyebrow arched. “Perhaps you remember bearing such a one? I certainly remember scouring the entire Western shore of Middle-Earth in the vain hope that the seed of some much-desired fruit tree of Valinor had blown its way across the Sundering Sea and taken root in—”

The indelicate snort was quite at odds with her rich tones and regal bearing. “Do not needle me, Galadhonion. You may not enjoy the consequences.”

A spark stirred sluggishly within, rising to that challenge. He rolled forward, swift and smooth, capturing her head in his hands and her lips in his own. Her breath hitched as he stretched himself upon her, lean and warm in the cool night air. “Oh, but I will,” he murmured against her lips. His wife gasped once, then pulled back.

“Amroth,” she murmured.

Indeed, they were out of doors for all to see. He rolled from atop her, yet kept one long-fingered hand upon her abdomen. She did not remove it.

“Amroth is rehoused and well.” Irritation flickered across her features. “To my knowledge he is well.”

So very many years had passed since word of his son, and he was used to thinking of the dead as forever sundered from him. The reality of the rehoused was still new and strange.

“You do not … see him?”

She sighed. “Now and again he manages to remember I exist. Not as often as I might wish, but I suppose one cannot expect him to often stir himself from the perpetual contemplation of fair Nimrodel’s eyes.”

The familiar exasperation, both hers and his own, grounded him as had little else since setting foot upon Tol Eressëa.

“Still?”

“It is as if they met yesterday.”

His head thudded back against the cool grass. “I suppose they at least can’t get themselves killed this time.”

“You give the Undying Lands perhaps too much credit, my Lord.”

He rubbed at his suddenly-aching brow. “It seems Ilúvatar really does guide the paths of lovelorn fools. How long have they been … rehoused?”

“Amroth has been released for nearly an Age. He was not, I have been told, long in the Halls of Mandos.” The rich, deep voice turned wry. “Perhaps the Lord Námo could no longer bear his tortured sighs.”

“And Nimrodel?” His son’s love was perhaps a bit vague, but always kind and well-intentioned. He could not imagine she had dwelt in the Halls for—

“Nay, my Lord. She did not die.”

That was a surprise. He rolled abruptly to face her. “You say she actually found a ship? How?” His memory returned to those days—to the stark, abandoned lands and harbor which had met him when he went in search of the truth behind the tales. “Where?”

“The Grey Havens.”

For a moment, the words would not register. Then, he sat bolt upright.

“Círdan?”

She too sat, straightening her sleeping gown with sharper movements than were strictly necessary. “So it would seem.”

“But … why would he not tell us of this?”

“Indeed, my husband, I intend to be waiting at the quay with that very question when the Shipwright arrives upon these shores.” Some small amount of the sharpness bled from his wife’s tone. “To be strictly fair, it is not certain that he knew. He cannot have personally seen to the boarding of every Elf who took sail from the Havens, especially in those days. They had, of course, no previous acquaintance, and as she arrived with others—”

“What others?” Even knowing that Amroth and his love were now reunited and (apparently) lost in bliss, anger stirred. “Had she no real intention of meeting him, then? Did he waste his time and his life in waiting for—”

“Peace, my husband.” Cool fingers fell upon his knee. Her countenance was amused and understanding. “You know that Nimrodel loves our son. She would not harm him purposely. She simply became … distracted.”

“They were fleeing for the coast.”

One exquisite shoulder shrugged. “It does not always take much.” She sighed. “In all honesty, can you not say a part of you might have wished for some distraction that would have kept you upon your beloved shores rather than sailing for a land not your own?”

“Aye.” Her words struck him, and he felt suddenly a stronger kinship for his daughter-in-law. “And not a small part.”

The fingers upon his knee tightened. “I rejoice that you came to me, in the end.”

His own hand found hers. “I know you do not see it, but that was never in doubt.” Not in this Age, at least, much as his soul ached with the parting from Middle-Earth’s shores.

“Well.” Her voice was again brisk. “Nimrodel apparently became separated from her companions as well as from Amroth and wandered alone for quite some time. She arrived at the river and dallied there for a number of days, uncertain of the way, and when she finally crossed was struck by driftwood and nearly drowned. She made her way to shore and slept long in her exhaustion, during which time a group of Círdan’s people returning to Mithlond found her.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “The deep sleep.” That part of the tale had always struck him as more bard’s embellishment than truth.

“Indeed.”

“What were Círdan’s people doing so far afield?”

“They came from the havens at Belfalas, in truth. Círdan wished to convince the Elves left upon that shore to relocate to Mithlond rather than remain alone in an increasingly abandoned port. His people witnessed the storm which blew the last ship out to sea, and knew at least one sailor had drowned, though they knew not who. When Nimrodel learned she would find no passage at that destination, she determined the best course of action would be to sail for Valinor from the Grey Havens, assuming Amroth would meet her at their destination.”

“That was good thinking.”

A far better idea, indeed, than casting oneself into a stormy sea in hopes of finding a single Elf maiden amongst all the wilds of Middle-Earth …

His wife nodded once. “Quite well done. She sailed from Mithlond–with or without Círdan’s aid I have, as you know, yet to determine–and learned news of Amroth from his fellow sailors upon arrival.” An unmistakably fond smile played at the edges of her lips. “From Eressëa she traveled immediately to the Halls of Mandos, sat outside the Gates, and … waited.”

A smile of his own began to form. “Just sat there and waited for him?”

“Indeed.” Warm mirth suffused her tone. “She did not, it seems, abandon her post for the entirety of his sojourn in the Halls.”

For the first time since his arrival, he felt an urge to laugh. “They deserve each other, those two.” He wished his daughter-in-law present at that very moment, that he might bestow a kiss and his most fervent affection.

“Indeed. I have been reliably told that the Lady Vairë organized food to be brought to her until Amroth’s release.” His chuckles burst forth, and he drew her to him. She laid her head upon his breast, pondering. “Perhaps it was more his wife’s compassion for Nimrodel than our son’s laments which convinced Mandos to so quickly rehouse him.”

“And after he was rehoused?”

“They say he looked neither left nor right, but made his way straight into his lover’s arms. They fell into each other’s eyes, and have been apart not a moment in the Ages since that day.”

“That seems … excessive.”

“It is a very popular tale. Legions of the maidens of Valinor pine after a love such as theirs.”

He snorted softly, and settled cautiously against the tree with his wife in his arms. Finally, he felt drowsy and able to contemplate rest.

“How did the two of us ever manage to raise–”

“I know not.” She hummed softly. “A gift of Ilúvatar, surely.”

A gift of Ilúvatar, indeed. Such was this strange new world.