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Long-Awaited  by PSW

The sun was high overhead when a hand upon his shoulder woke him. He blinked for a moment, regaining his bearings – a necessity upon waking in the months since he had set foot upon ship at the Grey Havens – then looked up into his wife’s eyes.

“You should have wakened me. Did you not wish to set out in the early morning hours?”

“I thought better of it, upon seeing the extent of your weariness.” He sat, intending to protest, but she held forth a hand. “Indeed, it is as well, for we have received a dinner invitation.”

A dinner invitation? He leaned back against the slender white tree, more familiar now with its rushing energy and glad for its support. Last night’s small gathering with his daughter, son-in-law, and grandsons had been nearly enough to send him in search of a private corner within which to collect himself. A dinner invitation …

It seemed, though he did not know why such a thing should be, that the journey itself had compounded his sense of grief and fatigue at leaving Middle-Earth. Perhaps he would ask his wife for an explanation at some future time, but for now he could not stir even irritation at the shell it had left him, much less curiosity at how it had come to pass. Her words upon arriving had relieved him, so he had thought, of the need to maintain a strong façade, and he had let go its last threads. That he would be required to scramble now to retrieve them stirred a sluggish annoyance. His wife only smiled, the light of deep affection in her glorious eyes.

“Fear not, my husband.” She took his hands in her own and rose, drawing him with her. “You will not, I think, regret it. Our hosts are both impeccable and understanding – none present shall require anything of you that you do not wish to offer. If you do nothing but sit in a chair beneath the trees of the garden, no one will think anything of it.”

He had put himself into her hands...

“Very well. Do I have aught to wear that is fit to attend upon the residents of these shores? I have seen that the formal fashion is not as our own.”

“But it is not a formal event. I myself shall attend as you see me.”

Her raiment was indeed informal – elegant as were all his wife’s gowns, but the soft blue sheath had clearly been crafted with comfort foremost in mind. The news that his own clothing would be sufficient calmed him more than had her reassurances. He laid a last grateful touch upon the tree, then followed her into the rented house.

“And who shall be present?”

“Our hosts, Celebrían, Elrond, and we two. No more.”

He noted that she did not reveal the identity of their hosts, and assumed this was done on purpose – not often did his wife misspeak. He did not, however, intend to fall into her trap and beg for their identity.

“Not our grandsons?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly – she had caught on that he had caught on, then – but she merely shook her head. “We did not wish to overwhelm you. They will visit us often, and they see our hosts quite often as well. They received an invitation, but declined.”

“And this will not offend … our hosts?

Golden laughter was his wife’s only response as she steered him gently into their dressing room, touched her lips briefly to his, then left him alone to prepare.

He was surprised to find that their daughter and her husband had already joined their hosts, but not displeased for an opportunity to walk alone through Avallonë with his wife. Long had been their parting – not so long as some of their others, in truth, but keenly had he felt her absence during these last centuries and he was content now in her silent company. She, too, seemed glad in his presence, for her grip upon his arm was warm and tight as they wound through the wide stone streets. She did not attempt to orient him or explain their surroundings, and he was grateful for his wife’s understanding. He would not now have retained the information, and their silence amid the bustle of the city was a balm.

Most of their journey was spent in an attempt not to gawk like an Elfling at the splendor of this port city of Eressëa – not even a part of Valinor proper, yet still magnificent in a way he had never seen upon Middle-Earth – for he could feel the eyes upon them. He was no one here, but his wife was both the daughter of the Noldorin High King and well-known in her own right. He would be weighed, judged, wherever he went upon these shores.

Her fingers pressed his arm, though she did not look upon him. “Many of the peoples upon this isle are of our own lands. They will rejoice upon your arrival. As for those who are not … Celeborn the Wise has distinguished himself in counsel and in blood against far greater foes than most of these will ever see. He need court the favor of none here.”

He chuckled, sighing upon the same breath. “Ever you know my thoughts.” 

“I can be none other than who I am.”

His wife’s clear-sightedness had been as often bane to him as blessing, yet its depth and discernment was now far greater than it had once been. Long had she labored in that achievement, against kin and friend and foe and herself. Indeed, he was more thankful for it than even she knew, for the question of what he would have done faced with a Dark Queen, fair and dreadful and utterly beyond the reach of both wisdom and love, still at times came to him in his nightmares. And here she was now—come through the dangers of Morgoth and Sauron and Saruman, war and pride and the Ring—standing real and solid and with him to face this new battle.

“I could not have been content with another.”

He drew her around and kissed her in the street for all of Avallonë to witness. Let them think of him what they would.

Let them talk about that.

She rested in his arms for a moment after he had pulled away, then touched his cheek with gentle fingers. “We have arrived, my Lord husband.”

He followed his wife’s gaze, and stared in wonder.





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