Letters from Home

Samwise Gamgee strode determinedly up to the spot where Lady Galadriel held herself motionless, sitting and watching the reunions.  ‘I have a message from you from the Lord Celeborn,’ he said, then hesitated uncertainly before leaning forward and kissing her gently on each cheek.

Galadriel’s eyes sparkled as Frodo said in a shocked tone, ‘Sam!’

Sam blushed.  ‘And I have these,’ he said, taking from his inside pocket a wrapped package and handing it to the amused elf. On the outside of the bundle, in Celeborn’s firm hand, her name was inscribed in flowing letters.  She stretched out her fingers to touch the ink, as if the mere feel of his handwriting could bring him closer to her.  Her eyes filled with sudden tears, which spilled over to trickle down her cheeks unchecked.

Sam suddenly felt much older, and considerably less nervous of the lady.  When he had seen her last, he had been a shy young hobbit, unsure of his own worth and position in the world, and he had been terrified by the deep knowledge in her eyes even as he was stunned by her beauty, but he had grown up and old, in a way she never would.  He had left children and grandchildren behind him in the Shire and he had endless experience of comforting their woes.  He leant over and kissed her paternally on the forehead, his hand stroking her hair gently, as if she were his Ellie. ‘There, there, my lady,’ he said reassuringly. ‘He will come to you soon, I’m sure. Just be patient.’

Frodo stiffened, ‘Sam, you can’t do that,’ he whispered in a pained squeak.  ‘Elves don’t like to be touched.  You can’t.  .  .’

Galadriel lowered her head to rest it on Sam’s shoulder as he continued to soothe her, stroking her golden locks and patting her gently on the back. ‘What do you call soon, Samwise Gamgee?’ she asked mournfully.

‘To elves, all times are soon, my lass,’ he comforted.

She remained motionless for a few moments, calming herself before she raised her head. ‘Thank you, Sam,’ she said, and kissed him warmly on both cheeks, ‘and don’t worry, Frodo.  I am honoured to have been held by Master Gamgee.  There are few who are unafraid enough to be willing to offer me consolation when I need it. I think I rather like the hobbit way of giving support.’

She took the package in her hand and held it close, waiting until the time was right for her to leave and seek the privacy of her own rooms to read the messages that her lord had sent to her.

***

The small ship had not come from the Havens, and the watching elves could not perceive returning kin crowding the rails.  In fact, there only seemed to be one elf on board - but he was accompanied by a dwarf.

Few could believe that the Valar had permitted the ship to approach the Blessed Realm and fewer still that those on board it would be allowed to land, but the spectators were wrong.  The ship eased smoothly into dock and the crowd waited in silence to see two of the Nine Walkers disembark boldly, in the only way that they could in the face of such disapproval. 

Legolas was greeted by those of his kin who had already crossed the sea; his mother, of whom he had almost no recollection whatsoever, his siblings and their families.  He was immediately at the centre of a protective group.

Gimli had no-one to welcome him; he would be the only dwarf ever to grace the lands of the elven-home.  He stood at the centre of an empty circle from which the curious elves held back.

Through the lines of the less-than-welcoming stepped a shining elven ruler of power and authority, as Lady Galadriel came to the side of the dwarf.

‘You are most welcome, Gimli, son of Gloin,’ the lady said, her clear tones audible throughout the grumbling crowds.  ‘I am glad to greet you in the name of Lord Manwe and Lady Varda, who are both looking forward to meeting you.’

There was a soft buzz of interest from the watchers.

Gimli bowed respectfully, his eyes gleaming with admiration for the beautiful Lady of Lothlorien. ‘I am honoured,’ he said, as he touched and briefly kissed her hand. ‘The mere sight of you is enough to have made the journey worthwhile.’  The lady’s smile glowed with a warmth that brightened the day. ‘And I have been asked to bring something for you, my lady.’  He reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and drew out a package of letters.

Galadriel caught her breath.

The sunlight made the paper shimmer, so that the flowing black of the inscription shouted at her boldly.  ‘My lord,’ she said, her voice trailing away.

‘Lord Celeborn visited Ithilien some months before we were free to leave.  He asked me to deliver these.’

Even as the lady took his arm and led him to join her daughter and son-in-law, she took the bundle and held it close, breathing in the scent of the parchment and ink, as if hoping to catch the fragrance of her husband hidden between the pages.  The letters were thinner, she thought, as if he had less to say now that their experience had been divided.  They had been apart in body before, as duty or ambition had led them along different paths, but always their bond had enabled them to share their spirit.  What if he had found it a relief to be apart from her?  Even those closest to her found her intimidating. Perhaps he would choose to fade rather than rejoin her across the Sundering Seas.

‘Did he say anything about making the crossing?’ she asked hopefully.

Gimli hesitated, reluctant to say anything that might upset her. ‘No, my lady, he said nothing.  But do not doubt that he will come,’ he reassured her gruffly.

She bowed her head and quietly tucked the letters into the bodice of her gown, saving them until she could be alone.

***

Few ships came.  The woods of Lothlorien were empty and the mallorn groves had fallen. Ithilien continued its recovery without the aid of the elves.  The refuge of Imladris endured briefly as autumn turned to winter in the hidden valley. Only Lasgalen held on stubbornly, ignoring the way the world had changed.  Those few remaining elsewhere continued to bleed along the arteries of the roads to pool at the Havens, where elves still worked with hammer and saw to build the ships that would bring them to final peace and refuge.

No longer did excited crowds gather in anticipation of long looked-for reconciliation with those much missed.

Any who came now were tired, disheartened; in need of time and healing before they were willing to live again.

Still the lady waited.

These elves, unloading the mementoes of their long lives from the salt-stained ship, looked worn, but she knew them nonetheless.  If they were here, then Imladris must now have been abandoned.  Hope placed her husband and grandsons on the ship with them, but realism acknowledged their absence.

Erestor would have chosen to greet his lord first, but Elrond had not met the ship. He approached Galadriel cautiously, as nervous of her as he had always been.  He stopped and bowed respectfully.  ‘My lady,’ he said.

‘They have not come,’ she stated, her deep voice holding the grief of ages, although no tears fell.  ‘Have they chosen to remain?’

‘No, my lady,’ he reassured her hastily. ‘They only said – not yet.’  He had not dared to tackle Lord Celeborn openly with the question, but he had pressed the twins and Glorfindel as fiercely as he could, reluctant to arrive and greet Lord Elrond and his wife in their absence.

Her glow was diminished, he noticed in the small part of his mind that always held itself aloof.  She seemed more real than he remembered her – and considerably less terrifying.  Odd – he had never really thought of her as a wife, a mother, a grandmother; her power had always set her apart.

‘I have brought letters for you,’ he told her.

‘From my lord?’

‘And others,’ he replied, removing a package from his bag and handing it to her.

The letters were wrapped carefully and bound in tape to hold them together. The name on the binding was hers, but it had not been written by her lord.  She recognised Erestor’s neat clerk’s hand.  She tried to think it was not significant, that it was only representative of the elf who had brought the letters, but she felt it as a knife strike.  Her lord had not cared enough to prepare the letters himself.  He had not cared enough to come.  She had lost him.

She held the bundle to her closely and fought to retain her dignity.  ‘Lord Elrond will be glad to see you,’ she said.  ‘I will see that you are brought to him straight away.’

Erestor bowed again as Galadriel turned and walked away, her step heavy and her head down, wanting only the privacy of her rooms, where she could read of his abandonment of her to eternal loneliness. 

***

She watched the sea.

She had been forgiven and the ban lifted.  She was able to travel where she wanted, visit whomsoever she chose, establish her own household, be free and healed in the homeland of her youth and the haven of her people.  But she wanted none of it.

She watched the sea.

The restless waves crawled before her; sometimes gentle and soothing, reflecting the blues of the open sky, flashing silver, crested with foaming white, singing softly and rhythmically of reconciliation; at other times angry, clawing at the frowning sky, grey and thunderous, the sulphurous breakers threatening to suck in and consume any who dared expose themselves to their rage.

She watched the sea.

It was the only thing that made her feel alive. She ate, because she must. She took rest and dressed and talked and pretended to be whole, but she knew it for the sham it was.  At least she could be honest with herself.  The injury she had taken from her long years as a Ringbearer was as nothing compared to this.  Her pride, her power – his support – had enabled her to survive that, and long years in the Blessed Lands had turned those wounds to barely visible scars.  But this was damage that would never heal and she would continue to bleed until she no longer had strength sufficient to remain.  She was fading and even her desire not to cause her daughter pain could not hold her for ever.

She watched the sea.

He would not come.  His letters had professed his love for her, his distress at their parting, but he had never once mentioned their reunion.  He had never promised that he would take ship and join her.  The Sundering Seas divided them more surely than death; a separation that he would not overcome and that she could not.  She had never realised in all their long years together how much she relied on him.  She had taken pride in her strength, her authority, her independence.  She had made decisions that had distressed him and held to them because she was convinced that she was right.  She had imposed her will on half of Middle Earth and had never been aware that he was the source of much of her power.  And now she was afraid that she had driven him away, and it was too late to admit to him how important he was to her, too late to offer him her unconditional love, too late to win him back, too late to change, too late to save her.

Her daughter worried for her.  Celebrian knew the pain of being divided from her partner, but she had known deep within herself that Elrond would come to her when he was free to leave his responsibilities.  The years had sometimes seemed long without him, but time ran differently here and, for her, the waiting had not been too hard.  It was destroying her mother.

***

The ship slipped up to the horizon unnoticed, not waiting for daylight to announce its presence.  The moon had set and the gleaming stars were hidden behind light clouds that seemed to be co-operating with the vessel in its desire to arrive quietly, but no subtlety could prevent the awareness in elven hearts of the presence of those long absent, whose life force echoed in the minds of those who loved them. 

Elrond and Celebrian leapt to instant alertness. ‘The boys!’ Elrond cried.

‘And Adar, too.’ Celebrian’s eyes filled with tears. ‘And they are not the only ones. We must go now if we are to be there on time.’

‘Your mother?’ Elrond asked.

‘She will be there already.’ Celebrian shook her head. ‘And to seek her would only delay us.’

Galadriel watched the sea.  At night it rolled like midnight blue satin, devoid of the colours the sky allowed it during the day.  She found it more comforting and its song eased her, reminding her of the lullabies she had crooned to her daughter.  She did not notice at first when its rhythm was joined by a heartbeat and another distant song entered her mind.  Not until it grew nearer did she realise that her torn soul had recognised the call. 

‘He is coming. . .’ she whispered, the icy calm she had developed to conceal her pain beginning to fail. ‘He is coming.’  Without conscious decision she began to move, first slowly, then more swiftly, until she was running from the cliff to the harbour with no concern for the steepness of the path or the darkness of the pre-dawn morning.

As the sun began to cast a glow into the sky, the ship was there, silhouetted against the sea, small and dark and unbelievably welcome. Anor rose majestically into the sky and cast before it a sun path of molten gold, along which the ship flowed into port, growing larger and more real as it approached.

Galadriel felt his presence ever more strongly in her mind, touching her, stroking her, warming, welcoming, wanting, and she clung to him with a hunger that amazed even her. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘you have come!’

‘Did you doubt me, my lady?’ he asked in surprise.

She opened her mind to him, revealing all she had felt and feared, and in a single moment allowed him to access all her being, for she no longer wished to keep any of herself aloof from him.  He held her gently and returned the favour.  ‘Folly, my love,’ he whispered in the depths of her mind. ‘We are bound to one another just as surely as the land and the sea, different, but equally important and indivisible.  I came when I felt it right to leave – and you would not have wanted me to do anything else.’

‘I love you, Celeborn,’ she answered him.

‘Words we have never said enough,’ he replied. ‘Although they are unnecessary.’

‘Unnecessary, but welcome.’

‘I will be with you soon, my love.  We can then spend eternity repeating them to one another.’

The frozen reserve in Galadriel’s heart continued to melt as she watched the ship draw closer. ‘I am sorry, my lord.’

‘For what?’

‘For everything I have done that has displeased you.  I will try to . . .’

‘My love,’ he interrupted her, his voice alive with amusement. ‘Make no promises.  If I had wanted an easy life, I would never have courted you in the first place.  I love you for what you are, my stubborn, arrogant, driven, precious Noldor princess.  Don’t think to change.’

‘How long until you land?’ she asked. ‘I want to. . .’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Soon, my love, soon.  Wait for me now.’

***

The ship was empty and the curious departed when he disembarked.  She was waiting. Colour had returned to her cheeks and her eyes were bright with the light of the stars. She glowed, even in the light of day, but she was too thin and he thought he could almost see through her.  He marvelled, deep in the quiet silence of his soul, that she could be so insecure as to doubt his love, their bond, his desire to be with her.

‘Don’t touch me, my lord,’ she murmured as he approached.

He laughed.  ‘Are you rejecting me already, my wife?’

She smiled at him.  ‘It is not unknown for lovers to be unable to reach the privacy of their own rooms, my lord, and I have no desire for us to make a spectacle of ourselves.  If you touch me, I will be lost to all propriety.’

‘Then I hope your rooms are nearby, my lady, or we shall be forced to seek an alternative.’

They walked demurely through the streets to reach her home, acknowledging greetings and good wishes with cool dignity, even as they allowed their minds to recreate the bonds that they had missed so badly. Celeborn did not look at his wife at all, so that many of those they met decided that he was less than happy at the prospect of the reunion.  Galadriel kept her eyes down and her face serene, but the stillness of her body and the distance she kept between them did not reassure those concerned for her health.

Celebrian met them as they entered her mother’s rooms. She hugged each of them. ‘What is the matter?’ she asked anxiously.  ‘You look most odd.’

Her parents looked at her, the unshielded desire in their eyes making her blush. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you, then.’

Finally they were able to close and bar the door behind them.

They touched gently, fingers brushing; skin so sensitive that they trembled even at that delicate contact.  They paused to catch their breath, to enjoy the warmth of each other’s presence, the scent of skin, the sound of heartbeats, the sight of the other when each had been alone for so long. ‘I thank you, my lord,’ she said, ‘for the times you sent me letters.  I do not know if I could have endured without the knowledge that I was in your mind and heart.’

He leant forward slowly and touched his lips to hers, like a butterfly on a flower, tasting, touching, probing tenderly.  ‘This is better,’ he told her.

‘Much better,’ she agreed, slipping one arm around him as her other hand caressed his cheek and pushed back the silver hair.

‘I am reluctant to move too quickly,’ he confessed.  ‘I want this moment to last as long as possible.’

She kissed him greedily.  ‘No matter,’ she said, ‘for this moment will be followed by another.  We have all the time we need.’

He laughed and allowed himself to relax as they released themselves in the passionate and repeated renewal of their love.  For the first time in half a millennium they were together, mind and body, and they were at last able to begin to heal the wounds of their long division.