Fields and Mountains Ever Blessed by StarSpray

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Even in the middle of spring, the dawn breeze off the sea was cold. Elrond stood on one of the many terraces of Círdan's house with his cloak wrapped around him, watching fishing boats set sail, and some return out of the fog from fishing overnight, and a handful of other ships preparing for the much longer voyage south around the coast to Dol Amroth; already Aragorn was eager to rebuild connections between the north and south. There was also one more ship, larger and sturdier, being boarded for a journey from which there would be no returning. On the quay farewells were taking place, lingering embraces and promises from those who stayed behind that they would not board their own ship soon.

The last time Elrond had watched a ship sail away West, it had been with grief clutching at him like talons, and the years stretching in front of him, too many, too long. Now only one year lay between him and his own departure, and it felt almost surreal, to be counting the time in months rather than centuries.

As the ship sailed away through the Gulf toward the open Sea, Círdan made his way back home, joining Elrond on the terrace. By the time the ship vanished beyond even Elven sight, the sun had risen high enough to burn away the last of the lingering mists, and the breeze was gentler and warmer as they sat down together for breakfast. The conversation remained light at first, exchanging news, sharing gossip, before turning to the ship being build for the Ringbearers. It was nearly finished, Círdan said, eyes wistful. It was ostensibly why he had invited Elrond to Mithlond, but Elrond had yet to lay eyes on it, though Elrohir had been spending all his time since their arrival in the shipyards, having discovered a new and keen interest in the craft.

At last, Círdan leaned back in his seat, tipping his head back a little in the sunlight. "I've been hearing some interesting tales lately," he remarked, seemingly offhand.

"What sort of tales?" Elrond asked.

"The sort you spent a century chasing, after Beleriand sank," Círdan said. Elrond sat up. "Folk have been hearing singing—Men say it is a ghost—at night, they say, when the stars are out."

"They aren't afraid?"

"Oh, of course they are, a little. They don't go outside after sunset, and children are told not to wander too far from home—but no one seems to think this 'ghost' will do more than sing sad songs."

"Where can it be heard?"

Círdan chuckled. "To the south," he said. "I can say no more than that—the stories vary. But it seems to be making its way north." He picked up his glass of juice and drained it. "Would you like someone to go with you?"

Elrond shook his head. This errand was his alone.

He left Mithlond only a few hours later, taking his horse down the beaches, riding briskly over the sand. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying plaintively into the wind. Grass grew on the dunes, green and waving as though in greeting as he passed; shells lay scattered on the sand. Small villages dotted the coastline, the farmers dwelling farther inland than the fishermen. Their inhabitants greeted Elrond cheerfully, and the farther south he went the more stories he heard of music on the waves, mournful and lonely, especially when the stars were bright.

After a week, he heard the singing himself as he set up camp at sunset. Elrond stood still for a while, a piece of driftwood for the fire in either hand, and listened. He had not heard that voice since he and Elros had gone to join with Gil-galad's armies during the War of Wrath. He had not truly expected to hear it now. The song was mostly wordless, swelling and subsiding like the waves. Elrond finished building his fire, and once it was burning merrily he sat down and took out his harp. He began to play, but not in harmony with the singing. Instead he plucked a merry tune often sung in Rivendell in summer, when the stars shone brighter than diamonds, and the scent of pine rose thick in the air by the river. It did not take long at all for the mournful lamentations to cease, but it was much longer before a dark shape came walking slowly down the beach. Elrond kept playing, leaving Elven music to take up Shire songs, with words Bilbo had written concerning hearth and home and good food and better company—and, often, beer.

At last, Maglor entered the circle of firelight, standing just at the edge so that half of him remained in shadow. He was barefoot, his clothes well-mended but nearly threadbare, his hair a wild tangle around his shoulders. He was slightly sunburned and too thin, but his small smile was genuine—amused and fond.

Elrond finished the song about the Man in the Moon drinking himself silly at an inn and lowered his harp—the wrong instrument entirely for such music, but that was all right. For almost a full minute they just looked at each other; it had been so long, and so much had happened and changed, that Elrond wasn't sure at first what to say.

It was Maglor who finally broke the silence. "Is that what passes for music these days?"

"Oh, yes," Elrond said. "The finest." Then, "Will you join me?"

Maglor dropped his satchel to the sand and sat, not quite across from Elrond, and not quite beside him. In the firelight the shiny scar tissue stretched across his right hand was visible. "There have been great deeds a foot," he said after a moment.

"Yes. Sauron has been defeated."

"He has been defeated many times," Maglor said.

"For good this time. His Ring was destroyed," Elrond said. "Songs are already being sung of it—in Gondor all know the tale of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom."

Maglor's lips twitched. "Yet you sit out here singing nonsense."

Elrond shrugged. He had countered ancient sorrow with simple joy, and it had worked as intended. He set aside his harp in favor of the food he had brought with him—fresh bread and fish from the last village he had passed through, and carrots and potatoes for roasting. It was better fare than, he suspected, Maglor had had in a long time. While the fish and vegetables cooked, Elrond pulled out a pair of cups and a bottle of wine he had gotten from Círdan. "Lindon's finest," he said, holding out one of the cups.

Maglor took it but did not drink. "So a new Age is beginning," he said. "What will you do now?"

Elrond sipped at the wine. It was light and sweet, tasting of summer. "The time of the Elves is ending, and our fading is beginning," he said. "I am leaving these shores. Next autumn." He paused, but Maglor only glanced toward the waves, near invisible now in the dark beyond their fire. "Galadriel is leaving also, and we are taking two hobbits with us."

"Two mortals?"

"Bilbo and Frodo each carried the Ring for many years. Frodo bore it all the way to the Cracks of Doom, and was sorely wounded." Elrond lowered his cup and swallowed the old bitterness that welled up with his next words. "In Middle-earth there will be no healing for him."

The conversation faltered again; the food was done, and neither spoke while they ate. They both knew what Elrond was going to say next, why he had come searching for Maglor one last time, but Elrond did not know why Maglor had, this time, allowed himself to be found.

Elrond had spent the first decades of the Second Age dividing his time between helping Elros get his people to Númenor and scouring the new coastline of Middle-earth, chasing every rumor no matter how wild or unlikely. Sometimes Celebrimbor had joined him, or had gone out searching on his own. If he had spoken with Maglor he had not said, but Elrond himself had never found more than the occasional footprint or the cold remains of a fire.

"You could come West also," he said now, as Maglor set aside his plate. Maglor shook his head. "The last bans have been lifted, and Mithrandir would speak for you. As would I." For a moment he thought Maglor would agree—he could see longing in his eyes. "Two Ages of the world you have wandered alone. Is it not time to go home?"

But Maglor shook his head again. "Perhaps—someday," he said. "But it would hardly be proper for me to make the voyage with you, and Galadriel, and your halfling heroes."

"But someday."

"Someday. If the way is truly open to me. But enough of that." Maglor leaned forward. "Tell me of yourself, all you have been doing since last we spoke."

So Elrond started to talk, skirting the dark things and instead sharing the bright: how Lindon had thrived, and Eregion, and the beautiful things the Gwaith-i-Mírdain had made and their friendship with the folk of Khazad-dûm; the beauty of Rivendell; Celebrían with her warm heart and bright silver hair, and their children—and many other things besides. He picked up his harp again to sing the songs most often sung in the Hall of Fire.

They remained there in that small camp among the dunes for many days; it was easy to fall back into old rhythms, even after so long. Maglor picked up Elrond's harp and played, and they both sang old songs from ancient Beleriand. They did not speak again of sailing.

But eventually Elrond needed to return to Mithlond. He stood with Maglor at dawn by the water; in the west Gil-Estel shone, dipping down toward the horizon. He looked at Maglor as their shadows lengthened before them with the sunrise over the waves; he was rubbing at his scarred hand, gaze distant—leagues and Ages away. "Does it hurt?" Elrond asked.

Maglor shook his head faintly. "No. Well—sometimes. But it should." He turned away from the Sea and the Silmaril in the western sky, and they embraced, long and tight as they tried to say through touch things that could not be contained in words.

"Farewell, Elrond."

"Farewell. Do not tarry overlong."

Maglor only smiled, small and brief and sad. He stood by the edge of the water as Elrond rode away, until he turned back, just once, to see him raise a hand before turning to make his wandering way again down the beach. After a moment his voice lifted over the sound of the waves on the chilled morning breeze—singing of starlight on western seas.

.

"Did you find him?" Elrohir asked some weeks later, as he and Elrond passed through the Tower Hills on the way back to Rivendell. The towers stood tall and silent as sentinels. The hills themselves rolled away north and south, green with tall grass and dotted with daisies and forget-me-nots.

"I did."

"Will he go West with you?"

Elrond shook his head. Somewhere in the distance a sheep bleated. Overhead a lark sang, and higher an eagle circled. "No. Not yet."

.

Spring passed into summer into autumn, and it felt like Rivendell was trying to make Elrond's last few years some of the most beautiful. In between the many tasks that needed doing before he left, he walked every inch of the valley, visiting his favorite quiet glades and the trees that had welcomed him long ago, and others he had watched grow from seed and nut and acorn. He picked raspberries and strawberries that burst with flavor on his tongue, and sat for hours by the many falls and streams, listening to the music of the water and committing it all to memory. In the starry twilight he daydreamed about finding a valley like this one somewhere in the West and building a second Homely House—or maybe not something so ambitious. Perhaps only a modest house for himself and Celebrían, surrounded by mountains and by streams.

Autumn went by in a riot of color, with a winter of snowdrifts and long nights in the Hall of Fire hard on its heels. Spring came like in the songs—with rising lark and falling rain and snow melt bubbling in the streams and swelling the river. Spring brought also Galadriel and Celeborn from Lothlórien, as soon as the mountain passes opened, and preparations for leaving began in earnest as their last summer in Middle-earth passed by.

And then it was time. His farewells to Elladan and Elrohir were less fraught than his parting with Arwen, but he looked back many times as they climbed the path out of the valley, trees still green and just lightly gilded with autumn-gold, the water shimmering in the sun, Elven voices singing tra la la lally through the fir trees.

They set sail from Mithlond at sunset. Elrond had boarded with Bilbo, who sat on the deck as they drifted away from the dock with his eyes closed, enjoying the breeze off the water. "I've never smelled anything quite like it," he said, and inhaled deeply.

"No," Elrond said, "there is nothing in the world like the Sea."

He moved to the stern to stand beside Frodo as they drew away from the harbor, the coast widening before them. Frodo held up the star-glass given him by Galadriel as a farewell to his friends who stood still on the dock looking small and forlorn. But Elrond's gaze was drawn to a patch of bare, rocky shore outside of the city, where a familiar dark figure stood, hand raised in farewell.

.

After a voyage that seemed at once exceedingly swift and tortuously long, Valinor rose on the horizon as rainclouds parted before them like a curtain and the sun rose behind them, illuminating the lush green of Tol Eressëa and glittering on the snowy peaks of the Pelóri reaching ever skyward and making the Misty Mountains seem like mere hills. Singing echoed over the water, and the sound of bells in white Avallónë; dolphins leaped from the water and frolicked about their ship to the alarm and then to the delight of the hobbits, as Mithrandir laughed with the joyful abandon of one coming home after a long and weary journey to find it even fairer than memory made it. The joy in Galadriel's eyes was no less, though she did not laugh but stood silent at the ship's prow.

Other ships came sailing out to meet them, silver-haired mariners from Alqualondë singing out greetings as they hung from rigging about brightly-dyed sails, and others from Avallónë calling in more familiar tongues.

And on the quay at the very front of the crowd awaiting them was Celebrían, bouncing on her toes, flowers braided in her hair. The moment Elrond stepped off the gangplank she flew into his arms, nearly knocking him back into the water. Elrond wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck, everything in him singing out that he was at last home, home, home.

While she had awaited them, Celebrían had not been idle. A house on the quiet outskirts of Avallónë had been made ready for them, with special thought given to the hobbits. It was open and spacious and right on the shore, so the sound of the waves was a gentle, constant rhythm wherever one was in the house, and to reach the beach was to merely step out the door.

The first few months were quiet, Elrond and Celebrían rarely leaving each other's side; most morning they lingered in bed, dozing tangled up together until well after the sun rose, often not getting out of bed until second breakfast. It was lazy and indulgent and Elrond loved every moment—the sun streaming through the windows to gleam on Celebrían's long silver hair and glow on her freckled shoulders, the breeze billowing up the light cotton drapes, carrying the scent of roses from the garden, and the sounds of singing and laughter somewhere outside, just close enough to be faintly heard.

Then visitors started arriving, a steady stream of Elves fascinated by the Halflings, eager to welcome Galadriel home at last, and to meet Elrond, and before long he found himself in danger of losing track of just how many of them claimed him as kin and how they were related. Celebrían only laughed at him. "That's what comes of being descended from nearly everyone," she said. "Did you know that Master Bilbo intends to sketch out your lineage tree? He was asking yesterday whether a large enough piece of parchment could be found for it. Uncle Finrod is delighted." Elrond groaned and rolled over to bury his face in a pillow. "Oh, cheer up—with Uncle Finrod here, you won't be needed to answer all his questions. In fact, he might know more than you do."

"I'm sure he knew most of my forebears personally," Elrond said into the pillow. He turned back to Celebrían to wrap an arm around her waist and draw her closer. "What shall we do, then, if I am not required to satisfy an old hobbit's curiosity?"

"Well…there is a place I would like to show you. I discovered it some time ago, and I think you'll love it as much as I do."

"On Eressëa?"

"No, on the mainland—not far, just this side of the Pelóri." Her hair tickled his shoulder as she propped herself up on an elbow.

"Alqualondë, then?"

"A bit farther inland than that—and that's all I can tell you, if it's to be a proper surprise."

"Mm." It would be nice to walk at the feet of mountains again, even the Pelóri that were dizzying even from a distance.

They departed from Tol Eressëa early in the marooning on one of the many ships that came and went from all hours. Frodo and Mithrandir accompanied them, along with Shadowfax, as far as the outskirts of Alqualondë where they parted ways—Frodo and Mithrandir to Lórien, and Elrond and Celebrían to water awaited them in the mountains.

The path was clear and well-trodden as they entered the hills. Soon trees closed around them, tall and green and cool. Deer paused to watch them go by; songbirds filled the wood with music. "Where is this place?" Elrond asked as Celebrían darted ahead, hair rippling down her back in loose waves. Her laughter was like silver bells, startling a rabbit from a bramble patch to dart away into some honeysuckle.

"It's a surprise!" she called over her shoulder. "Keep up, Elrond!"

It took several days to reach Celebrían's destination—which was mostly Elrond's fault. He kept finding new and interesting plants, many of which were edible, that he wanted to learn more about. Celebrían indulged him for a few days, as they wandered a bit from the path, camping by several of the many clear streams flowing down out of the mountains, frigid with snow melt. The nights were cool, but they found plenty of dead wood to burn, and things to forage—it was too early for nuts and berries, but there were plenty of greens that Celebrían found to go with the provisions they had brought. But it was not long before she grew impatient with Elrond, and dragged him back to the path. "Come! We can come back, or you can go later to Yavanna for a hundred years of teaching!" Laughing, he let himself be dragged.

At last, the path came to a sudden stop—or rather, a sudden turning, sharply to the left and then winding downward, as a sheer cliff dropped away before their feet. They stood on the side of a mountain looking across a deep, narrow river valley at another mountainside—but this on looked like in some long ago Age a mighty hand had reached down from the sky to scoop away a portion, leaving behind another valley, small, tough-shaped, and filled with greenery. The silver ribbon of a waterfall plunged shimmering over the ridge into the deeper valley below.

Celebrían slipped her arm through Elrond's and leaned into his side. "Isn't it wonderful?" she said. "It isn't Imladris, but if there was ever a perfect place for another Homely House…"

"It's beautiful," he said. "Did you really go looking for a second Imladris?"

"Well, maybe." She smiled brightly before pulling him farther along, down the path that now wounded into the larger valley. "I did more than that, and there were many of the original builders here more than willing to help me!"

"Builders? You mean—"

"Come and see!"

It was simple to reach the mountainside, but at first Elrond could not see how they were to reach the hanging valley except by scaling the almost-sheer cliff-face. When he asked, Celebrían lit up. "Oh, it was a delightful problem to solve—it took years! And Aulë and some of his people came to see how we did it—we used techniques shared by the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm when their friendship with Eregion was at its height."

The path had been cut deep into the mountain, so that it was in fact a tunnel, much like the ones carved by Dwarves, so that they were protected from the elements and did not need to fear falling down the mountain if they lost their footing. Slits had been cut into the outer rock to let in natural light, but from far away they were impossible to see. Crystal lamps had been set in small alcove opposite them to further light the way.

"How long ago did you find this place?" Elrond asked. The steps were long and shallow—very unlike Dwarven stairs—taking them easily up the switchbacking path; several times they passed near the waterfall, and the openings here allowed the sound of it into the tunnel, as well as a faint mist if the wind was right. The path was well-made, but did not look new—and it would have taken a very long time to build even after they decided how to do it, unless Aulë and his Maiar had done more than observe.

"Oh, I'm not sure. You lose track of the years so easily, here. But it was quite a long time ago."

They emerged from the tunnel at the side of the valley, whee its walls began. Elanor blossomed along the path, now not merely a track but a well-defined path of smooth white gravel. It branched off here and there, but Celebrían led them along the main path.

"I missed Imladris terribly when I came here," she said. "I kept searching for a place like it—that felt the same—but couldn't find one. Then I was wandering the woods with Uncle Finrod, and we found this valley, and I thought, since I could not find another Imladris, perhaps I could make one—and have it ready for you when you came!"

They emerged from the trees into a wide meadow through which a small river flowed. A simple bridge arched over it, leading to a large, comfortable-looking house of grey and white stone, with many windows and doors and terraces, surrounded by gardens fragrant with herbs and flowers, dotted with fountains and sculptures, and shaded by tall trees. Further up the valley were other buildings—at least one smithy by the sound of it, and another that looked like a barn. In the distance a sheep bleated.

The main house was not a reproduction of the house in Imladris—that had been designed and built in haste, and thought given to beauty and comfort only later. The opposite had been done here; there were echoes of Imladris everywhere while being distinctly Valinorean, and Elrond could see the work of familiar hands behind it.

"Welcome to Amon Imrath!" Celebrían said. "Many of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain dwell here. Well? What do you think?"

"It's marvelous," he said. It wasn't really the right word—it did not capture just how marvelous, how wonderful, how truly amazing it all was. He had imagined building something like this, but had never thought to find it already built and waiting for him! Nor had his imaginings been near as lovely or well-crafted.

Many familiar faces greeted them when they stepped inside. Nearly everyone there had dwelled at one time or another in Rivendell; others had died in Eregion, or had lived in Lindon until deciding to come West. There was a Hall of Fire inside, larger than the old one, and many other rooms and workshops and corridors, expansive kitchens, a feast hall, and a grand library already filled with books and scrolls. All of it was beautiful without being grand—it was homely, comfortable and warm. Celebrían's touch could be seen on nearly every inch. Everyone seemed to agree that the only thing it had been missing was Elrond himself.

Most marvelous were the tapestries that lined the walls of the feast hall and the Hall of Fire. They were beautiful: masterfully woven of luminous colors and gold and silver and copper threads, depicting scenes out of songs and histories, or else intricate designs that one could look at for hours and continue to see new things. "Melian wove many of them," Celebrían told him.

Celebrimbor was there, too, though Elrond did not see him until the next afternoon, when he finally emerged from one of the workshops. "Well met, Elrond," he said. He looked tired, but cheerful and satisfied with whatever project he was working on. "It is good to see you again at last." Then he glimpsed Vilya, still on Elrond's finger, and smiled. "Ah—I am glad it came to you. Nenya is in Galadriel's keeping, I know, but no one seems to know what became of Narya. Does Círdan have it?"
"No, he gave it to Mithrandir when he came to Middle-earth."

They sat together on a terrace overlooking the river, and the meadows where sheep grazed. Higher on the mountainside Elrond could see goats. The sun was high and warm, glinting on the water. Elrond looked down at his hand resting on the table between them, Vilya's sapphire shimmering deep blue.

Celebrimbor gazed at it too, wistful. "They were my greatest work," he said. "My grandfather had his gems, I had my rings. At least the Silmarils were never themselves corrupted."

"Nor were your rings," Elrond said. "We used them—and used them well, I think. Sauron never touched them."

"I am glad—more than you know."

"He is destroyed," Elrond said, gently. "And his Ring." He slipped Vilya off and held it out, but Celebrimbor waved it away.

"You keep it. I made them to give away, and you were meant to have it, I think. Not that it's anything more than a mere trinket, now." He leaned back in his seat, sweeping his gaze out over the valley. Then he asked abruptly, "Where is he? The halfling that carried it? I heard he had come here to Valinor."

"Frodo has gone to Lórien; he was sorely wounded on his quest—more than once. His kinsman Bilbo, who found it in the Misty Mountains and carried it for many years without knowing what it was, is on Tol Eressëa, compiling my family tree with help from Finrod."

This startled a laugh from Celebrimbor. "Whatever for?"

"Hobbits are very keen on such things. Bilbo showed me his own, once—there were so many branches I could hardly read it. And Bilbo is himself something of a loremaster. He translated many of our histories into Westron while living in Rivendell—and a handful of songs, too."

"Are they all like that—hobbits, you called them?"

Elrond laughed. "Not at all. But neither is Bilbo as singular as I once thought. You should visit him, if you are curious—he would be very pleased to meet you. And Mithrandir knows more hobbit lore than anyone, even most hobbits."

"Perhaps I will. Or perhaps he will come here."

"Perhaps. But Bilbo is very old. He has found new vigor since coming west, but I do not know if much travel is left in him."

Celebrimbor nodded. Silence fell between them for a while, filled only by the sounds of the valley. In the garden someone started to play a cheerful tune on a flute. "Did you even find Maglor?" Celebrimbor asked after a while.

"Yes. Once—just before I left."

"He was well?"

"He seemed so. But he would not come with me."

"Of course not." Celebrimbor shook his head. "Just as my father and uncles refuse to come out of Mandos."

"Did you ever see him, when you searched?" Elrond asked.

"No. I heard his voice on the wind once or twice, but I never laid eyes on him. But if he has let himself be found, maybe there is hope for him yet."

.

In the end, Bilbo did leave Eressëa to spend his last years at Amon Imrath. He was delighted by all of it, and especially by its visitors—kings and queens and Maiar and occasionally one of the Valar. And he did complete his extremely complicated map of all of Elrond's relations, with help from Finrod and others who had known the earliest Men to come into Beleriand. Celebrían said it made her eyes cross; Finrod thought it delightful. Frodo and Mithrandir laughed themselves hoarse when they saw it, and Bilbo was very smug.

Frodo did more wandering about Valinor than Bilbo, visiting Tirion and Valmar and other places after spending several years in Lórien with Estë and Nienna and their people. Usually he was accompanied by Mithrandir—and Sam, when he at last made his voyage.

Elrond went traveling also, with Celebrían always as his guide. She showed him all of her favorite places in Valinor, but always they came back to their mountain valley where the water flowed and the flowers bloomed and the bluebirds sang.

They buried the hobbits there, in a small green glade—first Bilbo, then some years later Frodo and Sam together. Elanor and white Evermind grew over the graves and throughout the glade, and on the day of their passing the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom was sung from Tol Eressëa to Valmar. At Amon Imrath, Mithrandir shot off his last fireworks.

.

It was many years after his own arrival on Tol Eressëa that Elrond found himself back at Avallónë's harbor, this time as one waiting on the quay for a long-expected ship. Celebrían stood with him, every few minutes using his shoulder to steady herself as she rose onto her toes, craning her neck for a better glimpse of the horizon. Elrond remained still, but only because she was restless. It was a bittersweet anticipation—their sons were coming home to them at last, but with them came the knowledge that Arwen and Aragorn had passed away beyond the circles of the world.

"Círdan's ships must be getting slower," Celebrían said. "He is losing his skill in his old age. I was not waiting so long for you!"

Elrond smiled. "It may not be Círdan's work," he said. "When last I saw him, Elrohir had discovered a keen interest in shipbuilding."

At last, the ship sailed smoothly into the harbor, escorted as Elrond's had been by a handful of Telerin ships out of Avallónë and Alqualondë. It was one of Círdan's, and Elrond did not think it any slower than his others. Elladan and Elrohir hung over the prow, as eager to make landfall as Celebrían was to see them; in their haste to leap off the ship before the gangplank could be lowered, Elrohir very nearly pushed Elladan into the water.

Celebrían and Elrond met them halfway down the dock; their reunion was a tangle of embraces and laughter and tears, and Elrohir nearly getting elbowed in the nose by Elladan, perhaps in retaliation. Elladan pulled away first. "Oh! Father—you'll never guess who we found haunting the harbor in Mithlond!" He pulled Elrond away from Elrohir and Celebrían, who were exchanging bits of news already, back towards the ship. Its other passengers greeted Elrond joyfully as they passed, but did not linger, eager to seek out their own loved ones. But one hung back, hooded and cloaked and apparently reluctantly to venture any farther. Elrond halted, for a moment too shocked to do more than gape foolishly.

Maglor pushed back his hood, his expression apprehensive and a little sheepish. "You did ask me not to tarry," he said.

"We nearly had to drag him on board," Elladan said, laughing.

Dreamlike, Elrond was not aware of closing the distance between them. He embraced Maglor, who huffed a laugh at its intensity as he wrapped his own arms around Elrond. "Well met, Elrond."

"Welcome home, Maglor."