Come Back to the Valley by StarSpray

As war loomed, it was decided that Celebrían should leave Lórien and go north to Imladris. If everything went wrong, her mother said, she would have a much better chance of reaching the Havens from there. Celebrían had not argued; she did not want to see war again, and she did very much want to see Elrond. It grieved her to part from her parents, though, as the Shadow in the east loomed ever larger, and Amdir began to marshal his forces.

She reached Imladris just in time to see the armies of Lindon and Arnor arrive. The valley was scarcely large enough to hold them all. While the lords and generals debated stratagems and marching routes and supply lines, Celebrían busied herself in the workshops. She was a child of Ost-in-Edhil, and had spent her childhood under the feet of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and between their teachings and those of her mother she was no mean craftswoman herself. Those who had survived the wreck of Eregion greeted her gladly, and put her to work inlaying runes upon shields and armor—signs to ward off rust and the wear and tear of regular use, and also the enchantments and fell weapons of the Enemy and his servants. And when she was not singing herself hoarse as she carved careful runes into metal or into wood, she joined Isildur's wife Princess Lirulin, and her sister Lady Lícumiel, in running the household and ensuring the kitchens—both in the main house and scattered throughout the camps—had enough supplies to feed the ever-growing number of soldiers.

At last, the time came for the armies of Arnor and of Lindon to depart. Overhead the sky grew pale with the coming dawn, but shadows still hung over Imladris. In the gloaming the many streams and little falls seemed to shimmer, as though last night's starlight had been caught up in them and had yet to fade away. The tree-shadows remained dark, but for the flickering of torches as the many rows of tents were swiftly broken down and the soldiers gathered. Banners bearing the stars of Gil-galad and the waves of Círdan, and the White Tree and Stars of Anor, and the Star of Eärendil bounded by niphredil that Elrond used all fluttered in the breeze, though as yet their bright colors could not be seen.

Celebrían stood on a porch that overlooked the valley, doing her best not to watch as Isildur and his elder sons said farewell to Lirulin and little Valandil nearby. As she watched the light slowly grow in the valley, Elrond approached. He was dressed for travel and battle, and wore the cloak that Celebrían had brought for him from her mother; had it not been thrown back over one shoulder she might not have seen him coming at all. "Lady Celebrían," Elrond began, and then stopped. His face was very grave; he seemed to be having some sort of inner struggle; his features seemed sharper than normal, with his hair pulled back into tight battle braids, not a single dark strand out of place. Finally he said, "I have been a poor host to you. I am sorry for it."

It was not what he had meant to say, Celebrían was certain. But she also knew that it was, perhaps, better not to speak now what he really meant. "I did not come to be a pampered guest," she said, offering him a smile. "But if you feel badly, you can make up for it upon your return."

Elrond did not smile in return. "I hope I shall be able to," he said. "But all is dark before me—I cannot see through the Shadow out of Mordor. But I feel a heaviness on my heart—that few who leave this valley today shall ever return to see it again, that the darkness will swallow then."

Celebrían looked at him. She was not famed for her wisdom or foresight—that belonged to her mother—but she was not without such gifts, though they came to her but rarely. Now, though, she knew what Elrond spoke of when he talked of all the world being shrouded in darkness, obscured by the designs and powers of the Enemy. But… "I do not think that will be your fate, son of Eärendil," she said. As she spoke the sun crested the mountains over their heads, and pale light fell upon them and upon all the valley. A lark burst into song in a nearby meadow, and closer at hand a nightingale trilled.

His smile was small but sweet. A horn called, echoing off of the mountains, and closer at hand someone called to him. "Farewell, my lady," he said, with a bow.

Celebrían remained on the porch until the last of the soldiers disappeared from the valley, leaving it strangely empty and silent, but for the sound of flowing water.

The war lasted many years. Little Valandil grew up from a babe in arms to an active, cheerful child on the cusp of that awkward stage where children were all elbows and knees and cracking voices. Celebrían found herself the acting mistress of Imladris, though she had no real claim to the role, and she set about making some of the changes she had longed to see but never quite had the courage to suggest before Elrond had departed. The gardens were reorganized and the library was expanded, made more open and airier. Texts from Arnor and Lindon were copied, and the tanners busied themselves making the leather for the bindings. Princess Lirulin and her ladies took to their looms, and the Hall of Fire gained many colorful tapestries, and Celebrían made sure that the room was open and often used in the long stretches of time between reports from the south, when all was uncertain and worry and fear could creep in like a winter's chill through chinks in walls and underneath doors in less snugly built houses.

Queen Sírien reigned in Annúminas until her death, only the year before word came north at last of victory on the slopes of Mount Doom—and the deaths of Gil-galad and Elendil. The news of Gil-galad's loss rocked Celebrían. Somehow she had thought that if they were victorious it would be a true victory, and the king would return to Lindon in blazing glory and fanfare. All in Imladris were plunged into mourning even as they breathed a collective sigh of relief, for Sauron was no more. The armies of the north came trickling back, greatly diminished. The Dúnedain did not linger long in Imladris, eager to return to their homes, and those who had waited in the valley for them also began to depart, until only the royal entourage remained. Isildur would be coming north to take up his father's seat in Annúminas, and his wife did not wish to leave without him.

There was little fanfare when Elrond himself returned. He arrived with only a small party late in the evening, as dusk was starting to settle into the valley, as the sunset turned purple and the stars began to come out, twinkling gently. A burst of cheerfully teasing verses came from the pine trees near the path leading down into the valley, though it was shorter lived than usual. Celebrían heard it from farther up in the valley, where she had been all day in a small, newly-planted apple orchard, singing songs of growth and vibrancy and sweetness to the slender young trees. She hurried down to the main house, following a path that wound beside the course of a small stream that flowed with a sound of laughter over smooth river stones and leaped down tiny series of falls.

Elrond had just stepped into the rose garden when she arrived. He had removed his traveling cloak and his boots, and stood barefoot on the flagstones in front of the fountain, gazing about him as though seeing the valley and the garden for the first time. He had untied his braids and was combing his fingers through his hair slowly, absently. He looked, Celebrían thought, very tired, weighed down with grief as well as travel and all of the years of fighting in the foul airs of Mordor that had come before.

"Welcome home," Celebrían said, stepping out of the shadows of a trellis. Elrond turned and smiled at her. He was thinner than he had been, and there was a small scar just above his right eyebrow that had not been there before, but otherwise he was nearly unchanged. His hair fell in messy waves about his shoulders, still half tangled up in the remnants of his braids. The relief that surged through Celebrían at the sight of his smile surprised her—she had not realized until that moment just how worried she had been for him. She gave into impulse and rounded the fountain to throw her arms around him. He made a small surprised noise, but his arms came up to hold her without hesitation.

"Thank you," he said. He took a breath and as he let it out Celebrían could feel his shoulders relax beneath her hands. Overhead the stars blazed, and elsewhere in the gardens someone took up a flute, its delicate melody weaving into seamless harmony with the fountain and the flowing streams.