Reminiscent Threnody 
AfterEver 
AfterEver@aol.com

Rating:
This series of short stories is rated PG-13, on account of dealing with 
generally adult issues. Younger audiences are encouraged to enjoy, but advised 
to proceed with due caution. The following tales are not intended for children, 
per se, though those of certain maturity and with a hankering for angst may 
rejoice.

Author's Notes: 
This is my attempt at delving into the mind of a certain character, and 
recounting here what is found therein. Comments and/or objections are welcome 
and encouraged, but please be specific and clear in the case of the latter. I'm 
not terribly interested in vague generalities pointing out 'mistakes' or poorly 
written reviews critiquing the quality of the story in question. However, I 
enthusiastically accept any opportunity to improve, so advice pertaining to such 
would be appreciated greatly.

Story Notes: 
Following is a series of vignettes, written from the POV of one Elrond Peredhil. 
They are chronological in relation to each other, but should not be considered a 
'year-by-year' account of his history. Only poignant episodes of his life are 
recounted, and it will be made clear within each chapter approximately when, 
where, and what the story is reflecting upon. This story was beta read by 
Lyllyn, who is a goddess, last I heard. ::bows:: 
 



Interlude in Remembrance

Summary: 
It is nearly the end of the First Age. West Beleriand and the island Balar have 
been evacuated by the decree of the Valar, who march to Angband in the north, 
where war is waged against Morgoth. Before joining Gil-galad in the promised 
safety of the east, Elrond Peredhil visits his first home by the shores of 
Sirion, ere it is too late. 

******* 


It is far too late to be looking for things. I am too old to need 'things'. I 
vowed never to want things. But here I stand, on the shores of where was once 
Sirion, searching for some thing, some miniscule trinket or worthless token that 
I am wise enough to know cannot now be found; will never be found, as what no 
longer exists shall remain ever unknown. 

Yet here I am, as so many before me are not. They are ashes, they who died for 
me, the son of their Lord, the son of their Lady, the heir to their precious 
Jewel- that cursed Silmaril. 

Sirion burned slowly, that much can still be known, looking at what barely 
remains; a charred prow here, a blackened stone hearth there. But there is no 
warmth left by fire's fury, no footprints remain in bloodied sand, no moans of 
the dying or screams of the striving echo through this night. For the quiet and 
still I am both glad and denied; glad for solitude and closure, but denied the 
chance to preserve this place by a memento or hold a piece of that time in my 
hand, to keep the past protected and near. Remembered and mourned. Word of mouth 
does not hold the strength it used to. If I would have this tale known I must 
speak of it well indeed without any evidence as proof, unless there be the pain 
and terror of that night still reflected in my eyes. 

So many deaths, so much heartache... So here I stand. 

My King is calling me, though not in words- but I feel his plea even from the 
Sea where he sails, and I shall go to him now, to meet him on new land, and 
establish with him his new Kingdom. I leave this shore behind willingly, as 
before I was wrenched painfully away. I go, though not entirely of my choice 
alone, for if I were to stay, the rising tide would sweep me under unto my 
death. Dwelling is not really a choice at all, hence neither is departing; I do 
what I must, and pretend it is my will. 

The world is changing. Already, I feel it beginning. I wonder in the end, what 
will be left of anything. And I mourn, for I hold to me nothing of the past, 
save my memories that may fade, as reminder of what once was. And I know not 
what will be, but that I fear it. 

I return to my horse, and mount him respectfully. We shall ride to the east as 
we were charged, where it will be safe, as the Valar claimed. Safe, until 
darkness returns; and darkness always returns, eventually. In the north, there 
is returned darkness even now, an angry and evil sort. Under cloud and storm, 
amid thunder and lightning, there rages a battle twixt darkness and light. 

Angband rings with battle; I hear the clashing of metal from where I stand far 
south, I feel the vibrations of a marching fleet of Valar upon this earth, I 
smell burning orc-flesh as poignant as death itself, and I know nothing will 
ever be the same. I sense Morgoth's power cannot be contained even within all of 
Anfauglith; his forces bleed outwards, meeting the Valar sooner than I imagined, 
and war is now fought. 

Bless the Valar, for this strife is beyond Iluvatar's children alone, beyond us 
poor fools in Exile. And bless Earendil, for he saw further than all, and spoke 
on behalf of those who were silent. 

My horse goes on through the night, and my heart grows cold for a time. 

I sense failure in the lands to which I travel, and it unnerves me even ere I 
arrive. I sense sorrow, loss, and unloved victory; looming, drawing nearer, 
closing in. I already feel suffocated by afflictions I have not yet endured. 
There is also light beyond, and peace and hope, but such rewards are far away, 
and bought with a heavy due, and I fear I may break long before I rejoice. 

Yet it is all I can do to continue. Indeed, it is my lot now, to endure, to 
remain and prevail; for like my patents, I have accepted the privilege of the 
Firstborn. I have forsaken Iluvatar's gift to Men, and chosen Immortality, to 
abide by the measure of this world. Yea, that I have done, that choice at least 
was mine, and I made it freely. 

And though I considered all other eventualities, I did not consider that my 
brother would choose differently... But it matters not; I cannot permit it to 
effect me as perhaps it should, otherwise I will die of grief. That also I 
considered, and perhaps it is why I believed Elros would not leave me; but alas, 
for he shall. 'Tis wrong in some way, I am certain, to conceive of one's own 
worth to another. I never will, again. To be wise, I must learn from my 
mistakes, not wallow or repeat them. And though I am immortal, I have not the 
time to brood. I must go forth, to the inevitable. Nay, I 'must' not. I choose 
to. 

******* 



Reflection Mine

'In Middle-earth dwelt also Gil-galad the High King, and with him Elrond 
Half-elven, who chose, as was granted him, to be numbered among the Eldar; but 
Elros his brother chose to abide with Men.'
--Tolkien 
Summary 

Elrond reflects on the passing of his brother, and their separate paths taken, 
even unto death. 

******* 

Mirror, mirror
Mirror mine
To look at you
Is me I find-


Reflection changes
Reflector does not
Woe is be
To endure this lot 

My brother is dead. 

He had been dying little by little, day after day, for over four hundred years. 
I knew this as well as he did, but we ignored it. It was easier that way, more 
diplomatic. I pretended I did not notice as silver gradually began to streak his 
black hair over the centuries. He pretended to not notice that I stood a little 
taller than him with every visit, as his back gently bent with age. Not the 
graceful, empowering maturing of the Elves; like hardy trees, Elves root deeper 
into the earth and the past, wearing ever better against the weather of change, 
the longer they thrive. Old, wise, and hale trees; that is what Elves are like. 
For my part as well, I suppose, I am one of those fair trees in a forest of 
many. But Mortal age, menacing and deadly; that is what took my brother. 

My brother grew old and died, right before my immortal eyes. 

'The gift of man,' he said to me, eager to accept it, meaning to convince me to 
do the same. 

Any other elf might have been fooled. But the blood of men too flowed in my 
veins, and I think in his senility, Elros Tar-Minyatur sometimes forgot that. 

'Aye, brother,' said I. 'What about it?' 

Elros sniffed, gazing beyond the Sea from the watchtower where we stood, looking 
for something beyond the horizon that only a mortal would care to find. 'I will 
receive it soon,' he said, 'gladly.' 

His tone was honest, and Iluvatar help me if I did not wish for a moment he 
would resist instead. But only for a moment; a gift was a gift, even if to some 
it might seem as otherwise. 'So be it,' said I. 

'Do not return again, Elrond, ere I am gone,' he went on. 'It would pain you too 
much, to see me any nearer to departing than I stand now.' 

'You would not have your brother bid you farewell ere the end?' asked I, 
avoiding the issue for as long as I could. And immortals are accomplished at 
stalling against change, more so than any. 

'I would indeed. On the morrow, we part ways for the last time, until we meet 
again beyond the circles of this world, if it be so destined.' 

I was not ready to give a final good-bye, even if he was. It was too soon. Much, 
much too soon. But I said, 'As you will it, brother. It is your funeral.' And we 
laughed. 

In the orange glow of early morning sunlight, the first King of Numenor and I 
parted ways, but not for the last time. The wind confided in me as much, as did 
my dreams the night before. As the ship sailed away, taking me with it, Cirdan 
stood by my side at the prow, smiling in his shrewd and easy way. 

Farseeing he was, though not so near to the subject of his knowledge as I. My 
brother was dying, right before my eyes, and with him a piece of me would 
shrivel and die as well. Had Cirdan known which piece of me it would be, I think 
no smile could have found its way to his face that morning. 

I wrote a poem for Elros as I was sailed home. I gave it to no one. I only read 
it once, and tossed it to Sea. The parchment fluttered in the wind, and fell to 
the waves, soaked all that it could, and tore asunder, carried under, destroyed. 
No likeness of a great white bird rose from the foam and flew to the heavens. I 
wept for all that was not, and thought I heard someone singing alone by the 
shore. 

I remember little of that poem now. Some time after returning to the mainland, I 
wrote a small song with what remained of a verse I cared to recall, and never 
sang it aloud but once. I hope no one heard when I did. That music I also 
destroyed, though I remember not how. 

Short years passed swiftly, as time is prone to do: Elven time, that is. Not a 
day went by in which I did not expect to collapse where I stood, broken with the 
sudden cognizance that my brother had gone. I found myself waiting for that 
moment, which never came. But a summons did. 

All a pretense. An excuse to be civil and politic, because we can. As if I could 
not tell the pen that wrote the words was cradled in frail fingers, held by a 
trembling hand and guided by a weak arm. Elros asked me to sail to him, not a 
quarter of a century after he sent me away. The poor thing probably forgot he 
meant to spare me the pain. I would not remind him when I arrived, of course. To 
do so would not be courteous. It would be unbecoming. All a pretense. But no 
reason we both should suffer, for any reason. So I forgot his earlier proffered 
kindness, tucked his folded letter in a pocket over my heart, and sailed that 
very week. 

We spoke sparsely together, for little strength remained within him. He smiled 
at my presence, relieved that I had come not too late, and said all he could, 
whenever he was able. 

He chose to go, like many of his lineage after him. But for days before that, he 
was visited and pampered by his family, sipped hot soup and napped in his bed by 
the fire, smiled often and held on by a thread. He did not resist death as I had 
once selfishly wished he would, but rather lingered respectfully alive, maybe to 
prove that he also could. 

But I knew why, really. Elros always did bask in attention. It had little to do 
with keeping an even score with Elven mannerisms; he simply cherished being 
doted upon, and not a single one of his kin did not gladly contribute to 
coddling him in his last days. 

Finally, just ere the end, he looked at me and nodded. Then his eyes fluttered 
without shutting, and he fell into the waking sleep of the Firstborn, as he had 
not done for a half-millennia. He dreamt there a while, as I watched over his 
pleasant dreams, and then the light left his eyes. What once burned hotly like 
the sun faded to a pale moonish glow, then faint as a faraway star, and lastly 
was no more. 

I believe the light did not extinguish; I know it did not. But it did indeed 
leave. I felt him go, I heard the whisper of my twin's mind dissipate to a 
chilling silence, I stood there as my mirror image lay dead before me, I felt my 
skin grow cold with the realization that I was completely alone, no matter how 
many Mortals stood around me. And though I did not stand there for long, the 
loneliness has yet to abandon my destitute heart, as I fled that as good as 
empty room. 

The burial was something I never wished to see, but Elros' family would not have 
understood that, so I did not tell them. The blood of Elvenkind flows potent 
through my veins, and I think in their likening of me to my brother, Elros' 
closest kin sometimes forgot that. 

I was glad for the company, for the most part. Though, several times I 
unwittingly sent a grandniece or distant sister-by-law into grievous tears, and 
I could have lived without such helpless guilt. Even my eldest nephew, then the 
new King, turned from me once in pain of remembrance. It was difficult for them, 
I imagine, to attend a funeral for a man whose mirror image too attended. 
Personally, I was heartened that I could be reminded of my brother's visage, any 
time I looked in a mirror. But even at that time, it was no surprise that the 
hearts of Edain mystified me. 

That was long ago. Most of those who stood beside me on that day are also now 
dead, or were too young at the time to note my presence. It is more seldom that 
I sail to Numenor these days, though Cirdan is ever accommodating when I do. It 
is not so strange now, my resemblance to the first King of that realm, for none 
now live who knew Elros in his youth; save those of Elvenkind, who could tell my 
face apart from my brother's, regardless. 

I think less frequently upon those days, of late. Some memories should be 
preserved, shared, sacred. But others bring heartache and sorrow. For me, such 
memories should be revealed only when their unveiling could teach one a lesson, 
save another from falling under the same shadow, prevent others from suffering a 
similar hurt. 

Some do not want to be saved. 

I would accept salvation, were it offered to me. I always would have. 

I miss my brother. I wish I had kept his poem. Perhaps one day, I will bring 
myself to write another for him. 

But until that time, I await the distant light I spied so long ago. It seems 
long ago, and that is a strange feeling. Sorrow and loss I have now suffered, 
though unloved victory is not yet come, and I feel that I have not lost enough 
to deny myself joy of some achievement, and I am not so sorrowful to renounce 
triumph over an ordeal. So now through the imminent arrival of even more 
heartache and dispossession, I cannot see the distant light, nor the peace or 
hope. Though I do still sense the failure, the unloved victory. It is pending, 
and denial is futile. It is nearing. Another end and another beginning after it, 
neither of which I care particularly to see. 

Once again I have more to lose than I ever meant to acquire. Not 'things' as 
such, but emotional attachments. This Age will be the demise of me, or someone. 
Nay, not me; I foresee my lot, and it spans further than I wish to tarry, even 
now. Yea, that I chose my own fate. Well, how wise could I have been at the age 
of fifty? I suppose I am not to blame now. There will be time for that later. 

******* 



That Attained and What Remains

Summary: 
In essay form, Elrond recalls Gil-galad's fall during the Last Alliance, and 
what finally brought peace and light into his life. 

******* 

It was newly dark, when I retired to rest that night. I had watched the sun set, 
though it never completely broke through the dense, hideous clouds that 
blackened the land of Mordor, not even at mid-day. But I had grown accustomed to 
telling time by the subtle lightening of dark clouds o'er head, and timed that 
last repose to wait atop a hill, and hope for a clear setting of the sun. Verily 
fate was kind to my desire, for it was the only mentionable dusk I had witnessed 
in the last seven years. The sky turned a pink blush of gray against the blue of 
storm and remained thus for a while. It was beautiful, and I knew then that its 
memory would have to last me a long time, lest I forget beauty's fair face and 
take it for lost. 

I slept uneasily after that, if I slept at all. Thoughts were heavy on my mind. 
I knew that I needed to rest. I knew there would be ceaseless fighting met on 
the morrow. And I knew, somehow, that it would be the last chance to sleep I 
would have, before the battle ended, one way or another. But what I did not know 
was from where the dread in my heart came forth. I did not fear my own death; I 
would willingly sacrifice my life for any other. And I believed we would win, so 
considered no failure... Ah, but I knew. I did not allow myself to acknowledge 
it then, but I knew. 

As such, it was met with no surprise, the silent figure standing over me in the 
dark emptiness of my tent. I blinked my eyes, to indicate my wakefulness, even 
as mirth found a way to twist my lips. I remember how he started suddenly, 
realizing only then where he stood. Our eyes locked, and no words were needed. 
If I were to have spoken, I would have made a fool of myself, trying to convince 
us both how we were wrong in our mutual knowledge. If he had spoke- ah, but he 
did. 

Gil-galad always did things; kind things, explanatory things, precautionary 
things, even if they were unessential. It was his lot in life to be perpetually 
official, I once teased him. 

"I meant not to wake you," he said apologetically. 

"I meant not to wake," said I. 

He smiled, comprehending the meaning of all that I did not say. We meant for 
little in life, but that alters even less; for there we were, where we did not 
necessarily mean to be. I could see everything in Gil-galad's eyes. The 
lightlessness of night kept none of him from me. I believe he wished it were 
otherwise. He did not want me to see what he thought I did not already know. I 
did not blame him; I would have tried to protect him as well, if our 
predicaments had been switched. 

"Will you stay?" I asked. Again he started, I remember specifically because he 
winced that second time. 

"I cannot," he said, almost an apology. Always so sorry for things that were 
never his fault. So like myself. 

"We both need sleep," I stated, "and neither of us wishes to be alone." 

He shifted physically from reservations within, and his eyes left mine. 

"But do as you will." I watched him stand there, still wearing his armor, a 
great Elven-king on the outside and a lonely, fearful creature within. Soon he 
had made his decision, and considered only how to proceed. 

"Ereinion," I said, and extended a hand. "Just come." 

He removed his outermost armor, probably more of it than was safe even within 
camp, as my hand waited patiently, the invitation ever open. When he approached 
to take my hand, I drew it closer to me, just out of his reach; and he smiled. 
Only when he was lying beside me and sharing my blanket did I finally allow my 
hand to be had. 

We lay thus for a while in silence, side by side in every way. It felt so right, 
so natural, to be that close to him. I was reminded of my childhood, when I 
would sleep along his side, Elros lying opposite me, my fingers entwined with my 
brother's, our joined hands rested atop our King's heart. Years later, as two 
dignitaries in Lindon, the King and I would occasionally make escape from duty 
and obligation long enough to share a goblet, tales, laughter, and fall asleep 
someplace under the stars we loved, hidden from sight of our disciples till 
dawn. During the Last Alliance, the most secure we felt was when in each other's 
sight, or within a breath's distance. For the Elven-lord I called father, 
cousin, friend, and King, there could be none fonder in my heart. I imagine it 
was little different for his part. He named me his son, his heir, his herald, 
and his confidant. It was love of the purest kind we shared, and we knew well 
our time to honor it was ending. 

After a duration of silence, Gil-galad spoke. 

"All that is mine, I offer to you, Elrond. I once named you my son, and I do now 
name you my heir, if such words need be spoken aloud." 

"I want nothing more than I already have, Lord. And nothing less." 

"You must take what you deserve in life, Elrond." 

"What else I deserve will come to me." 

Gil-galad's jaw then set in tensions unspoken, and he said, "Would you have me 
personally place the crown upon your head then, ere I am dead?" 

"Nay, Lord. Place your love upon me now, and I shall be well content." 

And I was, that night; we both were. 

In kinship we were bonded by blood, by friendship we were bonded in trust, and 
over millennia a deep understanding was conceived, one that withstood many 
trials, and no bond was more everlasting. That night was the last chance we 
would have to hold to our connection, and we held tight, even into sleep. It was 
the last time Gil-galad would walk in Elven-dreams, and I trod there beside him. 
The last time he walked upon Middle-earth, I was beside him as well. And the 
last word he said was heard to my ears alone, as fate would have it. 

I remember when Cirdan was eventually able to pull me away from the smoking 
corpse of our King- in my pitible state of shock and panic, I could not believe 
all hope was lost, and tried stubbornly to heal Gil-galad; the price I paid was 
a fair share of my own flesh and pride. As the Shipwright frantically tended my 
sustained burns, ignoring his own, his quivering voice broke with grief when he 
asked, "What did he tell you?" 

He so desperately needed to know- Gil-galad was as much a son to Cirdan as he 
was a father to me. I could not deny a father such closure as knowing his 
child's last utterance for the sake of my own comfort; though how it hurt me to 
repeat! Shutting my eyes against pains of all sorts, I answered, "El... he said 
'El!'." 

Gil-galad was not talking to me when he spoke, though Cirdan might have believed 
otherwise. I will never forget the King's destroyed body, and the fragile light 
yet glittering in his lidless eyes, as they stared through a sudden break in the 
endless clouds above, at the stars beyond. And despite his scalded voice he 
cried with his last breath, 'El!'. 

Thus it was at the end as it was in the beginning: an Elven-king in his last 
second alive exclaiming at the stars, as the Firstborn named them millennia ago 
with their first word. Is that how I knew then our time was over? That the Elves 
had come full circle at last? I know not. All I could see when I thought back 
was Gil-galad's lidless eyes, and how I felt it meant something even more. 
Lidless eyes, seeing beyond mere vision... 

It was relatively easy for me, after that, to go on. Eyes that looked to 
Gil-galad before suddenly fell upon me in his stead. Some of the King's 
responsibilities, commitments, and obligations to matters of state were 
undertaken by Cirdan, but many still by me. There was much to do, simply in 
getting home, and then in other things. Plenty of other things... though I do 
not recall now what exactly they were. But I do know if not for the saving grace 
that there was little time to think at all, I might have despaired. But I did 
not. I could not. I had things to do- supposedly. 

The King's crown was smelted on the battlefield, just as his armor, and I never 
ordered for a replica to be crafted. In fact, I imposed the opposite. Gil-galad 
was the last High King of the Noldor in Exile, and I was the first to say so. 
Henceforth none dared called me King, though it would be a millennium until I 
was ever simply 'Master' again. Even Celeborn and Thranduil addressed me as Lord 
thereafter, although it's possible they had done so before, and I simply failed 
to notice. Many things I failed to notice, in those hectic years before 
Gil-galad's fall, and the dreadfully cloudy years following. Through a mournful 
fog I muddled during those dark days, and if I bumped into walls whilst I walked 
from time to time, no one told me so. 

An entire century passed, and what I remember best of that time, though still 
vaguely, is letters- many received and many more sent. Seems I wrote everything 
down in letters, and knew where they needed to go. All of my sorrows, pains, and 
worries were printed by my hand, stamped by my personal seal, and delivered by 
my most trusted messenger. As often as need be I would write those letters, 
until everything made sense again, until I could think and eat and breathe 
again. I must have written enough, for I did indeed function to the standards 
and requirements of my office. But without the clarity those letters provided, 
if not for the escape of reading the comforting replies and spelling out yet 
more thoughts that I could not speak, I would not have managed, not even with 
all of the assistance offered to me. 

After one hundred years of ignoring whose place I had taken in role and 
authority, of ignoring my heart and my mind, I started suddenly, realizing only 
then where I stood. Before me was the creature I already knew I loved. I had not 
forgotten, as such; it merely seemed as though she was always there, all along, 
through everything. The only light in the darkest span of my life. 

One early morning during the still-young season of spring, Celebrian walked 
towards me smiling, and stuffed a note into my hand. 

"There!" she said decisively, a twinkle in her eye. "Now I am spared the 
dejected eyes of my father's message-rider, were I to give her yet another 
letter to carry for me." 

I remember not which words at first found their way to my tongue, but Celebrian 
replied kindly, "And hail, Elrond Peredhil! It is indeed long since we met, and 
'twas a short tryst, last time." 

I recall something about our letters that I broached, and she laughed, 
answering, "Yes, I agree. For a century it feels that I have spoken with you, in 
more ways than mere written words. But truly I have kept your expressions close 
to heart, and only wished that we too could be nearer." Then she blushed, having 
said more than she intended. Her next words set my heart free from doubt, 
remorse, and loneliness. "Walk with me?" 

And to that, I clearly remember my reply. "For as long as I can." 

The next letter I wrote was sent to the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Could 
I have printed it whilst down upon my knees, I would have, for to attain 
permission to betroth their daughter, verily I was prepared to beg. I need not 
have, but ever was I willing. A mere decade later, on a bright and joyous spring 
morning, Celebrian and I were wed, and my life started anew, in every way it 
could have. 

Ereinion Gil-galad was the last High King of the Noldor in Exile. I would say he 
was also the best, but he was the only one I ever met, so my opinion is hardly 
noteworthy on that matter. After Gil-galad was destroyed, my life ended as well, 
in most ways. That is to say, everything changed. I could no longer be the same 
person without him. The King defines His Herald; and without one, the other is 
null. But it was not my time to end, so I adapted, I endured. 

The Last Alliance was over, the war won, and I scorned the pointless victory 
then, with all of my heart that remained. The Men returned to their 
Man-dwellings, their foolishness and their pettiness. Thranduil and his sadly 
reduced forces returned to Greenwood, and he took his inheritance as King of 
that woodland realm. Cirdan returned to the shore, as was his wont, and many 
Elves went with him, some to Sail, others to dwell in Middle-earth a while yet. 
Lord Celeborn returned to Lorien and his awaiting family, and with him went the 
rest of his kin. While I... I returned to Rivendell, as its Lord and Master, 
with much less of myself than I had when last I left. 

Often I wonder, what might have become of me, had Celeborn not so graciously 
bestowed upon me permission to write his beloved daughter, or if I had made less 
candid use of the privilege- though how surely those letters saved me! Aye, I 
wonder; and to this day, I know not. Yesterday, I ceased worrying about it, at 
least. Also yesterday, my third child was born. A daughter has come this time, 
surprising no one except for her brothers. She is sleeping now, in her mother's 
arms, and I am content. 

Arwen will be the last, I know, but this bothers me naught. I have two sons, 
already grown, and a daughter newly born. I have Imladris, and my father's star 
shining brightest upon my House. And now I have joys to equalize my sorrows. 
Like a well-constructed building, I am sturdy. Thanks in all to her: Celebrian. 
For she brought me all of that which I had none, and gave me the will to 
acknowledge all of that which I had left. She is the foundation I stand upon as 
surely as I do this earth. And all other pieces of my life, some heavy and 
burdensome, now lean in perfect balance against not me, but against each other. 
My troubles bother my other troubles, and I am left unmolested, out of the 
fight, out of the rain, and my eyes are dry enough to watch the world fade, and 
my mind is clear enough to laugh at cares which are not mine; for I have paid my 
dues. I have pierced the darkness and reached the light; I have shunned the 
mistakes of my forefathers, and outlived their curse; and I did it without 
breaking. 

I feel freed, and though this world and my people's place in it does fade, there 
is time yet to rejoice. There is a harmony in my life that I never knew could 
exist before. For once I do not think of the future, unless it is counted by 
when I might next hold my dear children or beloved wife. I no longer see what 
will or might become of anything. I have lost none of my insight in this, the 
fates and destinies of Arda and its inhabitants. Only lately, my eyes have been 
focused on other, smaller, closer things. 

Recently I wrote a poem about happiness, with music to accompany it, and tonight 
I will sing it for all to hear. It is time to make some new memories, I deem, 
while time still there is to be had, and gathered, and spent. 

I believe I know at last how Iluvatar meant for his children to live, and it was 
not in tears or war or regret: rather just like this, in bliss. 

******* 



Twilight Forsaken

Author's Note: 
This chapter was written with Lyllyn foremost in my mind. I know she has a 
certain liking for the golden-haired Elf-lord, and I wanted to do something 
special in thanks for my poor, abused beta reader. ;-) So I wrote this 
conclusion featuring Glorfindel -loyal and valiant as he is- making a rather 
admirable (and in my mind, totally believable) appearance. Lyllyn, this one's 
for you. :-) 

Summary 

After Celebrian sails West, Elrond finds himself alone one starless night, 
suffering unbearable heartache and searching for an end to the pain. 

******* 

A new beginning
and another end
As simple as painful a web
that life does spin 

Spurn we not
our gift of choice
And listen well
to that sensible voice 

I do not know on which cliff I stand. Nor do I remember how or when I arrived 
here. All I know is that my world has ended, for all it was worth, and I care 
not to begin another; I mean not to. 

Celebrian has gone, and after her, our children. Arwen to seek solitude and 
distraction with her grandparents in Lothlorien. Elrohir and Elladan to extract 
amends and cleave some peace into these once again troubled lands. I cannot 
blame them for leaving; any of them. But I can blame myself. I could not heal 
her. For all my power and wisdom, I was not enough. I know well that no Healer 
this side of the Sea could have done more or better than I... but that does not 
matter. Celebrian is gone, and with her went the best part of me. Celebrian is 
gone, and after her went our children, with every last bit of me. 

All of my stars, gone from under my roof, gone from my House and my presence. 
Father's star does not shine despite the clouds this eve, and I do not blame him 
either. I was not enough. I was never enough. I believe I understand how Elwing 
felt, my dear mother. Curse me, I think I know now how they all felt; Feanor and 
his seven sorry sons, Turgon and his fateful pride, the Kinslayers and their 
desperate flight. Curse me! But I want something! Some 'thing', for the love of 
life! I want some thing that is only mine; some thing that cannot leave or be 
taken, some thing that exists solely for me, because I created it or because I 
captured it or because I earned it. It can be any thing, it simply must not feel 
or need or want of its own volition. It must be some thing of mine, that I may 
dote on and toil over and gloat about, and it will do nothing but be splendid or 
present or fair; whatever I contrived it to be! 

And then I would have something forever, with me always, by my side, in my hand, 
before my eyes, close to heart. And I would never lose everything, not again, 
not ever, because I would always have my brilliant Silmaril or my hidden city or 
my hard-won independence, and I would be content. 

Ai!... ai... but no. I want nothing of that kind. Not truly. Perhaps I want 
nothing at all, for a change. Seems no matter how I strove, I ever only was 
happiest when surrounded by 'things' of a sort; people, prosperity, peace. It 
may be that we were not created to be satisfied with nothing at all. But then, 
one cannot suffer for deprivation if they surrender all of what they have, and 
their ability to acquire more. No Imladris, no Heirs of Isildur, no White 
Council, no Nameless fear... could I make that change? Am I ready to be ended? 

The wind stings my face, and I am reminded of Vilya, who belongs to no one save 
itself. Nay, I would not covet Vilya; I would not dare. The Three are not 
possessed, but kept. I am Vilya's keeper, not its master, and Vilya would not 
miss me in the presence of whom I have arranged it bestowed to in the case of 
my... absence. 

I step further out on the cliff, reaching the sheer edge, and hear the waterfall 
thundering from not far off. So close, to the edge, to the end, to nothing. Is 
this what I want as my last desire ever? Nothing? I know not. I should ponder a 
while... think this through. But as I make to back away from the ledge, a sharp 
pain takes my breath away. Ai... aye, I remember now; why I came and where I am. 
'Tis no mere cliff on which I stand, but the highest in Imladris; and I arrived 
on no mindless whim, but a mission of mercy. It is the pain! I cannor bear it 
any longer. It follows in my footsteps, everywhere I go- everywhere that 
Celebrian has been. I think I can still smell her sometimes, in the hallways or 
in our bed, akin to lavender and honey, and not if Rivendell burned to the 
ground would my head be clear of that familiar scent. 

I now have a choice before me. Either I am taken to death by my grief, during 
some dark and breathless night, or I leave willingly for the West, and hope to 
survive the journey... or, I just walk forward. Nay, I will not be taken, I 
refuse. But even so, I might not last to the Havens. So I walk? Or do I run? One 
way is swift and certain and painless, the other is a long road of agony and 
explanations and goodbyes. I have never chosen the easy way, for the sake of 
simplicity. I know not if I can; but I take that final step to find out. If it 
is not meant to be my path, I shall know soon enough. 

For a second I am falling without fear. Then I am grasped by arms trembling with 
it, the terror I am too numbed by heartache to notice. Backwards I am reeled, 
faster than my fall pulled me down, and I find my eyes had been closed the 
entire time. I open them to starlight, visible through an impossibly opportune 
breach in the clouds, and I sit upon a rock, half embraced by someone 
unexpected. 

"Glorfindel," I say; why my voice shudders I do not know. 

Glorfindel searches for a way to excuse his trespass; in his eyes it is plain he 
watched me for long. "You fell, my Lord," he lies, knowing it as well as I do. 

"You caught me," is the reply I hear myself make. "Why?" 

He thinks, his familiar face twisted with a worry I have never seen manifested 
there before. "I could not bear to see you fall, uncertain if you had considered 
the landing," he answers tightly, pinned somewhere between duty and inequity. 

Every means has an end; aye, I know that. But mayhap he is right in that I did 
not consider... all consequences. My one moment of selfish reflection, and 
Glorfindel caught me. I look upon his face, creased in distress with the 
injustice of it all; doubtless my appearance is little different. 

"All of my stars are gone," I explain, and wish Glorfindel luck in 
understanding, for I have no desire to hear my pitiable voice again soon. 

He looks up skyward, in vain at the again hidden hope, then back down, clearly 
wondering how he might bring the stars out for me. But he says naught, unless 
the anguish in his eyes learns to speak without his leave. 

"Gil... El... gone." My head hangs. "My stars... all of my stars." 

"They are gone," Glorfindel agrees, "but only for a time." Into his arms I am 
guided, and there I hear, "Would you not settle a while, for one golden flower 
instead?" His sweet voice is laced with gentle irony, and it comforts me- a 
reminder of better days. 

And his words, his meaning, spread through my mind and heart like a warm tonic. 
A golden flower, that had been there all along. Nay, that is not settling. It is 
realizing what you have lost, and knowing what you still have. It is choosing 
life over death. I made that choice already, long ago. Tonight, Glorfindel 
reminded me. 

"Why?" Seems that is the only thing I am capable of asking. 

Glorfindel pauses, though whether he is searching for the answer or simply the 
best way to phrase it, I know not. 

"I want to help you," he answers, sincere. "I want to protect you. I always 
have." Tears flow with his words, just as softly, but for a reason unknown to 
me. Perhaps I will learn later what I cannot fathom now. Perhaps I cry as well, 
and merely do not feel it. There is little I feel this minute, save the still of 
an empty night, and the warmth of the golden Elf-lord's arms, hands, and 
fingers, as they steal wetness from my cheeks, bringing feeling to my skin there 
also. 

"Nothing else have I ever wanted more," Glorfindel says, holding me with his 
eyes, then again to his bosom, close to heart. 

I have never conceived of my worth to Glorfindel; if I had, I might have been 
even more shocked than I am now. This is wrong! It is backwards and inside out 
and upside down. He has assumed my lot! I care for others, keep them safe and 
protected and well. I give, I toil, I sacrifice and suffer, so others will not 
have to. It is what I do and who I am; I am Star Dome! But Glorfindel, he... he- 

I realize, as I manage at last to relax against my reservations, that I have 
never been touched like this before. No one has ever wanted to serve and care 
for me more than anything else, without anything at all to gain for themselves, 
save for my well-being. Glorfindel could be anywhere, doing anything, with 
anyone... Yet he is here, holding me in this, my moment of most dire need. He 
has always been here... Suddenly I am held even closer. He will always be here, 
with me, for me, because of me; and naught else. 

I have never been touched like this. But I will be touched like this, whenever 
Glorfindel knows it is what I lack. The twilight I forsake, for one golden 
flower under the sun. I choose another day, and accept the light along with the 
dark. There will always be light, after the dark, and sometimes, this time, 
within. 

******* 

***end***