Lord of the Rings After the Last Alliance

The result of me rummaging around my WIP files. An attempt to write a foundation for the character of Ereinion's mother in High Princes of Tirion, and explain Elrond's reasoning in waiting until 109Third Age before marrying Celebrían.

Disclaimer: Elrond, Celebrían, Ereinion Gil-galad, Círdan, and the settings of Middle-earth and Aman belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just playing around with it all.

Gil-galad's heritage as mentioned in The Silmarillion. I have no canonical proof of what elves exactly do with their dead in general, but I went for burial.

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**After the Last ****Alliance******

by Nemis

Elrond shifted in the saddle to loosen the muscles in his back and shoulders that had knotted unnoticeably but were now making themselves known. Or perhaps he had been able to ignore their warning signs by closing his mind for them until now. He was tired, and a seemingly eternal headache had taken up residence in his head.

For weeks they had been on the road, he and his; and the journey was almost becoming another battle after the years in Mordor, a challenge of endurance. Had the enticing drunkenness of victory been with them it would no doubt have been different. But instead their companion was lingering demise and an all too present feeling of regret.

He had not gone to Lórien when he had been invited to. Instead he had watched those few of the Lórien elves that had survived Dagorlad go into the forests as his own party continued on. In much the same fashion, the Elves from Greenwood had left their company a few days previous to that.

Lórien was different from Greenwood, of course. Very different. He had listened to the whispers of those further removed from him in the ranks, surprised they had not made for Caras Galadhon. Elrond had contemplated it. But grief weighed too heavily on his shoulders now. It was not that some part of him did not long to know where she was. Each time his mind went to her, as it had many times during the long years in the Black Land, he imagined how it would be to touch her hair, to let the silver slip through his fingers. But right now, it seemed only a fool's dream.

It was not to be.

Every vein in his body wished to keep her from the pain he felt now, however much the action would hurt him in turn. It had not ended. They had not been victorious, not truly. They had accomplished too little and lost too much for that. There would come a day when the darkness would return in full force, and he would have to ride out. The chance he would have to exchange these lands for Mandos's Halls was too eminently present, and he now vowed he would never put her through that.

There was only one goal that stood before him now. And it lay not in Lórien, nor at Imladris.

At Lindon he would decide how matters would go further. His only wish at the moment was to reach that destination.

Part of him suspected he had decided to go there because it was the last place where he expected her to be. He could simply not face her now. If he did, all his resolutions would vanish into thin air.

Suddenly quiet tears stung behind his eyes, the first in weeks of stern self-control. So many regrets. They had not recognised it for what it had been in time, not until it was too late. He had not been able to avert the death of his king, nor stop Isildur from taking the Ring.

After death, failure was becoming his constant companion now.

But mostly, he regretted he could not keep his promise to her. In a way, he had pledged to keep her safe, to keep Middle-earth safe. Even if it all had been left largely unspoken, they had both expected to be together if it all ended for the better.

It was not to be.

He was uncertain how many days had passed when he recognised his surroundings for the first time and judged they were nearing their destination. Progressing over familiar paths he sent messengers ahead, almost without thinking. He caught himself looking forward to being welcomed by that boisterous laughter. The confrontation with the realisation it was never to occur again was painful, but only two people, one in Mandos and one in Lórien would have been able to read it from his features. Those beside him now never noticed.

The confrontation with eyes too similar to Gil-galad's for comfort was even more excruciating.

The lady was dressed in grey, not her son's blue and silver. But all Elrond could observe was that she knew. If not through a mother's instinct, someone had to have told her; there were those who had left Mordor before they had, Elrond was well aware. He was grateful she did not ask him, grateful for simply her arms around him, if only in recognition of a similar sorrow.

To see him return alive instead of her son had to be difficult.

When it came to it, he was surprised to learn that the high king had considered the possibility he would not return, in striking contrast with his ever-positive predictions of victory. There were no documents which clearly and succinctly set down his wishes, but instead some simple words in his clear hand pointing towards the same.

_Elrond will know what to do._

And strangely enough, he did.

If one walked through the palace, from east to west, all ways inevitably arrived in the high king's sea-garden. From there a long and seldom-used path led in turn to the sea. But there was no need to walk the path all the way. There was a place where the dunes were highest which offered a grand view, with on one side the sea and on the other the gardens.

A suitable resting place. And so it was.

The monument of dark marble bore the high king's device in silver alone. Anyone who would purposely seek it would recognise it for what it was, while those who came upon it by accident were not meant to know and would not understand its significance.

As he stood there, looking out over the sea, feeling the winds, appropriately solemn for the occasion, he could not help but wonder. Had Gil-galad known? There was a difference between taking the possibility of death into account and expecting it. Had he known?

It was then that Círdan came to stand beside him. Practical as ever, Círdan had no time for such inconsequentialities. Or perhaps he did not know the answer either.

'Either I stay, or I return to Mithlond.'

Elrond thought at some point during their journey he had contemplated this already, but somehow he could not recall to which decision he had come concerning the matter. All left to him was to give the other Elf a weak smile.

'Go home.'

And Círdan went.

The half-elven lord was the last to leave, many hours later. Alone he stood by the burial site, long lost in thought. Finally he placed a hand on the marble.

'Îdh ned sîdh, meldir-nín. Ae pân nol dúath pen le.'

Entering the palace, Anar long-gone, he stepped into the study that bordered on the garden. He recalled the arguments he had had in this very room on which books could be kept on the shelves here. The salt and humid environment had been less than ideal conditions for some of the more ancient volumes. How he longed to be able to have one of those never-resolved arguments now, even if they had irritated him beyond endurance at the time. So pointless it all seemed now.

He did not notice that he was not alone in seeking those rooms that eve. Dusk concealed much of the chamber in shadows, and one had used its cover effectively enough to escape Elrond Half-elven's eye.

'He is gone, can you feel it? His fëa has finally left these shores.'

Surprised, Elrond turned to find the lady he had accompanied to the burial this afternoon sitting on the other side of the chamber. Still dressed soberly, she emanated a peacefulness he wished to have also.

'Finally?'

She smiled enigmatically and offered a hand.

'He was here for a time. Not long, but I felt it.'

Nearing her he caught her hand. Close by, he saw that the peacefulness he had discerned in her earlier was fragile.

'What shall you do now, lady?' he asked, hesitant to face her in her grief.

After swallowing back imminent tears her voice was soft.

'I sail for the West, Elrond. All my hopes lie there now.'

He envied her then, merely because she knew what to do. His destination had been Lindon, had been today, but from here all was unclear. Slowly he released her hand and stepped back, facing the garden. Somewhere in the gloaming he could see a blur of white. Aeglos flowers, perhaps, having travelled far from Amon Rûdh.

'And what of you?' she asked in turn, wishing to break the silence that had come over the room.

With a shake of the head the lord of Imladris closed his eyes. A vision came to him, of pale skin against his, of love spanning time, fingers bringing that much-desired peace merely by touch.

'I do not know.'

He stiffened as a hand, a real one, rested on his arm and serious grey eyes that remembered him of things past met his.

'Yes, you do.'

Perhaps he did. But still, even when he watched the ship sail, bringing the wife of the Valiant and mother of the Star of Radiance to the Blessed Realm, he knew he could not go.

She could be waiting, at Imladris, in Lórien.

So he would remain here.

'Nîn díheno, Celebrían,' he whispered to the wind. There would come a day when he would ask it of her, but he could not say, could not promise, whether that day would come soon. Meanwhile the wind, faithful as ever, perhaps indebted to the Mariner himself, carried his words to her, and she understood.

It was not to be. At least not yet...

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Îdh ned sîdh, meldir-nín. Ae pân nol dúath pen le: Rest in peace, my friend. (Even) if all is darkness without you. (More or less.)

Nîn díheno: Forgive me

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End file.

Lord of the Rings, Angst