Restoration & Rebuilding Drabbles by Grundy

Galadriel slept.

Celebrían did not.

Celeborn had held many infants before, but none had ever been his.

His daughter watched him with wide, observant eyes, learning his face even as he was learning hers. The golodhrim would no doubt call her a jewel, but to one of Thingol’s folk, an acorn came first to mind.

He had little foresight, but he needed none to see a bright future before her – a childhood in peace and safety, a youth of joy and wonder…

He would do whatever it took to see to it that her path was her own to choose.

Elrond took in the sight of the port. Every visit to Elenna, he was struck by how much change was involved in the Mannish world.

In just a few short decades – short to him, that was – the buildings here looked completely different. The previously slightly dilapidated warehouses along the road had new additions, sections grafted on in entirely different styles. Where in Lindon, any new construction (had it been deemed necessary so quickly) would have blended seamlessly with the old. In Romenna, a patchwork of styles and intents formed an eclectic mix that would drive most elven architects to distraction.

Elros looked around.

“Yes,” he said to himself. “This is it.”

The whole of Elenna was marvelous and new, but he felt this was the right place for his house – and for his city, for he was under no illusion that he would be living in isolation. He was a king now, and kings had many luxuries, but true privacy was not one of them.

He will build something here to be proud of, not just a house or a city but a home and a family. A legacy.

He has to – he must leave Elrond some comfort, after all.

Arwen listened carefully.

The water sang to her of joy, of finally running freely again. It told her of great effort and care unlooked for from Men, setting aright what the malice of Sauron had despoiled.

She turned to Faramir, who was waiting somewhat nervously for her reaction. She tried not to let the slight undercurrent of fear beneath his fascination and Éowyn’s bother her.

This was her choice, after all – mortality and all that came with being the only one in this world of Men who felt and acted as an elf would.

“The stream thanks you,” she said.

Anorië looked around the room. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

“Royal Library” sounded so hollow applied to a few shelves, not enough books to fill them, and a single worktable. It was nothing compared to Armenelos.

Nor was she the only one who thought so, judging by the look on her father’s face as he entered.

“It is early days yet,” she told him firmly.

A look of shame flitted across his face before Elendil nodded and forced a smile.

“You have the right of it, brave one,” he replied. “We must look forward now, not back.”

Yavanna tried not to deflate at her sister’s skepticism.

“They are growing from death and decay,” Vána sniffed. “I see no beauty in them at all.”

Yavanna frowned in dismay. Not only were they elegant and wonderful in their own right, did Vana not see the spider constructing her web between them? The tiny insects exploring what might become a new home?

“Do what you want,” Vána shrugged. “You always do. But it seems more like his work than yours to me.”

She left before Yavanna could explain they were a rejoinder to Melkor, a fulfillment of their Father’ promise.

Tuor opened his eyes cautiously, unsure of what he would see.

He almost jumped out of his (newly youthened! Like he was twenty-five again!) skin when he found a large grey figure looming over him.

“This is unprecedented,” it said dourly. “You are a Man. You were meant to go on!”

“I did,” Tuor shrugged. “No one said I had to stay gone. I didn’t think it was fair to leave Idril here alone.”

“She was hardly alone,” Namo sniffed. “All her family are here.”

“I think we’re operating with different definitions,” Tuor sighed. “Where is she?”

He couldn’t wait.

“I’m sorry, Ada.”

Elros reminded himself sternly a grown man should not cry over a broken cup. Particularly not when Tindómiel’s little eyes were already filling with tears.

Even if it wasn’t just any broken cup, but one he’d had since he was a boy, that had followed him from Amon Ereb to Nogrod to Balar to Lindon to Elenna – and now to the unforgiving tile floor of the balcony over looking his garden.

“Cheer up, my loves,” his wife said. “It can be made whole again.”

Elros did cry two days later when she brought him the repaired cup.

Celeborn had to smother a smile at the look of utter outrage on Galadriel’s face as she watched.

They are firing the trees deliberately!

“Yes, my love, they are,” he agreed. “But it is a small, controlled fire. Some of these trees will only release their seeds after one passes through. It also creates the conditions needed for some of the plants on the forest floor.”

Galadriel had listened, but still looked rather mutinous. Celeborn suspected this practice must be unknown in the West.

“It does them good, truly. We would not undertake it otherwise. Not all fire means destruction.”

“Some of the former Exiles returning from the Halls wish to make a new city,” Arafinwë said, coming to the last item to discuss.

“Of course they do,” Findis sighed. “It’s not as though there isn’t plenty of building and rebuilding to do right here in Tirion.”

“It is not the same,” Anairë pointed out.

“No, it’s not,” Findis said sharply. “The work here is far more challenging – they’d have to work within the confines of what has already been established, rather than start fresh and do as they will.”

Arafinwë sighed. To think he’d hoped this would be quick.

Elrond did not allow himself to melt at the sight of Elrohir’s wobbling lip and teary eyes.

“I can’t, Ada! I’ll never get up there!”

“Of course you can, dear one,” he reassured his son, setting him back on his feet, and brushing dirt and stray leaves from his back. “It only seems impossible because you have not yet mastered the art.”

Elrohir gave him the most dubious look he had ever seen on a five-year-old.

“Would you like to try that tree again? Perhaps I will join you this time?”

“Okay,” Elrohir said grudgingly. “But only if you help.”

Faramir was astonished to find the King consulting with the builders on the restoration of the Merchants’ Hall. It had suffered badly in the assault on the city, holes in the roof, many of the windows shattered, and one section destroyed entirely.

“I am surprised to find you here,” he said. “I thought you would be in the upper circles.”

The King shook his head.

“Miss the chance to see the hall restored to its glory?” he asked mildly. “Or worse, restored poorly? More traders come from outside Gondor than diplomats. This place must make a suitable impression on them.”

“You should take it easy, Elrond,” Celeborn said tiredly. “What do you expect me to say to Celebrían and Galadriel if you work yourself to death? I know you have had the ‘peredhil can fade too’ conversation before, even if it wasn’t me you had it with.”

Not to mention Melian…

“I am not working myself to death,” Elrond said softly. “I am trying to work myself to health.”

Celeborn sighed and tried to follow the logic.

“Healing the land is healing me,” the boy continued.

“Lad, you can’t heal the entire Dagorlad,” Celeborn sighed. “Even you have your limits.”

Éowyn had cursed herself for her clumsiness the entire night. It wouldn’t have been so bad had she trodden on one of the dresses made here in Minas Tirith. But she had to rip one of Queen Arwen’s elvish dresses, which were all but impossible to replace now the elves were leaving Middle-earth. It wasn’t as though she could send for an elven tailor to come fix it!

She was astonished to see the queen wearing the same dress several days later.

“But-”

“It was no trouble to mend,” the queen assured her. “I can show you if you like.”