Thanks to Ghettoelleth for her encouragement.

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The trees of the forest spoke welcome to him as he hurried along the path. Though not visibly marked in the ground, this was a trail he had traversed for many turns of the stars, not always through this same forest, but always between the same two places: the settlement of the Noldor and the settlement of the Teleri. If it were not for the fact that his group was so much larger than that of his best friend’s or that his folk were more loathe to depart from the confines of the known darkness to venture forth to the glorious light of the Two Trees, he would travel side by side with Finwë for the entire journey to Valinor.

Every time he left his friend to venture home among his own folk again, he wished he could find a new way to further motivate his people to move faster. If his brother Olwë’s host would just move more quickly through the forests and across the rivers… If dissenters would cease rising up from among the ranks of his brother’s host… If only he could show his people the indescribable beauty of the light toward which he led them … If Oromë would just stay with them instead of galloping on ahead with his radiant holy light leaving deeper shadows in his wake… Then they would not tarry on the road. If… If… If…

Now the Noldor were preparing to rise and continue the journey once again. And once again his host would be left by the wayside. Once again, his people would be too loathe to depart and go forth to the new. How could he interrupt this pattern? How could he change the ways of his folk? How could he better describe to them the wonder of a light beyond that of fire, beyond that of lightening in a storm, beyond that of the very stars themselves, bathing all of the world in wondrous illumination?

Of a sudden, the song of nightingales reached out to him. He froze, unable to move as the sound filled his mind with solace, caressing his very fëa with a joy like starlight kissing his eyes. Gradually regaining his limbs, his concerns were utterly forgotten as he searched in wonder for the source of that beauteous sound. Deeper into the wood of Nan Elmoth he strode, heedless of the measure of time, enchanted beyond all other purpose, following the birds to find that which had touched his very heart.

He knew not the miles he had traveled nor cared, for what could matter but that glorious music? Finally, something glistening in the distance, glowing brighter than one of Varda’s stars through the trees, caught his eye. He ran toward this light, flying through the forest with long swift strides, soon finding himself in a clearing. Starlight smiled upon him as he beheld the light of the Two Trees once again, shining in the face of the most beautiful maiden had ever seen. Her long dark hair cascaded about her lithe voluptuous body like the black woven among the stars of the sky. An all consuming love filled his heart as he slowly advanced, taking her small white hand in his. And time stood still…

Slowly he emerged from the river, rivulets of water pouring down his body, dripping from his long black hair. Hard muscles rippled enticingly across his torso as he made his way to the bank. He was brave, loyal, passionate, the greatest of his mortal kind. And most importantly of all, he was hers.

Curling her legs to one side, her bare feet tucked beneath her skirt, she rested her back against a tree, so she could better admire him in all of his magnificent glory. She watched the light of the new day glistening in the tiny droplets which clung to his skin like the stars cleaving themselves to the heavens, like she had clung to him last night.

Smiling contentedly, she remembered the night she first held him to her. She had danced in the starlight, singing for joy. Suddenly a rich desperate voice called out to her, “Tinúviel! Tinúviel!” stilling her step, silencing her song. He came to her then, way-worn, weary, without home or lands. She looked upon his keen grey eyes in his handsome face, seeing the scars of mortality etched upon his hard features and his well-formed body. Then her sight pierced through to the mighty and glorious fëa within and she knew she could love no other. So spellbound was she that when he drew her into his arms and worshipfully kissed her lips, she could do not but respond in kind. Lovingly, she drew him down to lay his weary head upon her breast, giving him healing respite for a single night and herself dreams of what her life could be. Then as the stars faded from the sky, she had slipped away.

They had faced so many obstacles together since then, seen so many times both evil and good. But now, in spite of those trials and because of them, they were married at last and not even death could part them. And now at last, her dreams of that first starry night were coming true.

Beren softly approached and reclined on the mossy ground beside her. Taking her in his arms, he laid her down, kissing her lingeringly. When their lips parted from the bliss, he whispered, “My Tinúviel.”

She smiled up at him. “My beloved,” and gently she took his hand and placed it upon her flat belly. “Last night you gave me a gift and in time I shall return him to you.”

He looked at her curiously for a moment, then wonder and joyous realization lit his features.

“In the spring, I shall bear your son,” she said.

She had labored all day and into the night. Now at last Nimloth lay spent, her silver hair blending with the moonlight scattered across her pillow. Her weary blue eyes at peace, her mighty deed done, she slept.

Her most precious gift to him swaddled and nestling silently in the crook of his strong arm, Dior Aranel walked out into the clear night. Seating himself on a large rock just removed from the misting of Lanthir Lamath, he let the sounds of the waterfall beside his house soothe him as he gazed in wonder at the child in his arms. A wisp of her downy black hair lay on her forehead, contrasting exquisitely with her flawless pale skin. Though born after only 10 months of pregnancy as her elder twin brothers had been, she was smaller than they had been and finer of feature and bone. Stroking her tiny face with his fingers and feeling her fëa respond to the touch of his, he realized elvish blood ran more truly through her than it did through either him or her brothers. Her face reflected very little of his wife’s kinship, but mirrored very much of him. He had secretly hoped his daughter would bear the silver hair and blue eyes of her mother’s kin, but gazing on the child now, he was not at all disappointed. She was their little girl and she was simply beautiful.

Now she needed a name.

Hugging her close, he looked up at the waterfall. The tumbling water swirled and flashed in the moonlight, creating sweet harmonies that even the minstrels of Ossiriand could not rival. Long he listened to the water crashing about the rocks, gazing at the light of the heavens glistening in the sparkling drops as if the very stars had been caught in the spray. Suddenly the foresight of his mother’s kin came upon him.

He beheld a beautiful dark-haired woman clad in white, standing by the sea. The Nauglimir bearing the Silmaril rested upon her, glimmering in between the dark heads of two sleeping baby boys. Then the vision was replaced with a bird rising like a star up from the waters below a cliff to soar over a large body of water and land on a white ship. The scene shifted again to a shining star flying through the night sky to be met at dawn by the same white bird winging its way from a tower out to the sea.

He blinked and saw only the night sky reflected upon the waters near his home. His wife’s mental voice touched his mind and he swiftly rose, leaving behind the glorious night to return to Nimloth’s side.

Entering their bedroom, he lovingly kissed his wife’s lips. “My lady,” he whispered.

She smiled at him sleepily and asked, “Have you thought of a name?”

Glancing down at the lovely face of his daughter and then back at the equally enchanting face of his wife, he smiled happily and replied, “Yes. I shall call her Elwing for the stars of this night and the waters beside our home.”

Nimloth lovingly received the child back into her waiting arms, gazing pensively on the tiny sleeping face. Briefly, something clouded her bright blue eyes. When it had passed, she looked knowingly at Dior.

“Yes, my love. I think that ‘star-spray’ is a suitable name, for the water and the stars shall ever be in her life.”

Author's Note: Technically speaking, Earendil is not really a member of a generation of Thingol and Melian's line, but he did marry one (Elwing). However, he is the only one of this whole lot who Tolkien himself described as "glistening". Therefore, I wrote about Earendil doing that which made him glisten, according to Tolkien, not according to Elwing who I am sure made him glisten in other ways which we will not explore at this time.

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He started down yet another deserted street, passing more empty houses and a few more closed shops. Looking up at the mid-afternoon sun, he realized he had been engaged in this fruitless endeavor for several hours now. He had never before seen a city this magnificent or this large. How many streets could one city possibly have? Where was everyone?

“Hello! Is anyone here?” he cried out again and again in each of the many languages he knew, his voice echoing eerily among the seemingly uninhabited buildings. Again and again, his only answer was silence. Coughing hard to clear his parched throat, his voice hoarse from shouting, he turned down one last empty alley and decided to give up his pointless search.

Hope died in his heart as he realized that Middle-earth was not the only place in Arda poisoned with Morgoth’s taint. Here he stood in Valinor, in what he guessed was the great city of Tirion – and it was completely deserted. Morgoth must have become bored with fighting the free folk of Middle-earth and destroyed the elves of Valinor as well. Morgoth must be mighty indeed if he subdued the Valar in their own lands. Now all that remained was emptiness.

By the time the wanderer reached the city gates, anger overwhelmed him. He punched one of the pillars of the gate as hard as he could, the pain and exertion an outlet for his frustration and despair. He hammered at it with his fist again and again until his hand bled and his arm and shoulder ached from the punishment.

He had failed.

He exited through the unguarded city gate and started down the long winding stairs to the road. Shoulders slumped, chin resting on chest, he did not even notice how many steps he had traversed. He had counted 288 steps on the way up, thinking those steps would never end. Now the number did not matter. Now nothing seemed to matter.

He just could not believe it. How could this have happened? How? All of his life he had believed…NO, he had known that he was the one to bear the message to the Valar, begging for aid for the peoples of Middle-earth. He had KNOWN! Dream after dream and the song of the sea spoke ever in his heart urging him, demanding of him that he build a ship worthy enough to reach Valinor, that he sail to Valinor to beseech pardon for the forsaken. But he had failed…

He had come too late.

What had he given up all of these years to come here? He had lost his mortal father and elven mother to their attempt to voyage here. He had lost his home and his city to the wrath of the sons of Fëanor because he was away when they attacked, trying to regain the Silmaril his wife possessed. He had failed his people for he was their lord and was not there to defend them.

He had lost his little boys in that attack as well, his beloved twin sons who he hardly even knew for the urgency of his searching the seas for the way to Valinor. He had hoped to make a world safe for them and for their children where he could teach them to sail and spend his days with them and his beautiful wife Elwing.

Oh, Elwing.

What had he done to her? She was always so patient with him in his mad passion, always understanding of what possessed him, what drove him to sail away after too little time home. She had persevered for him, had found him at sea with the Silmaril at her breast. She had stayed by his side through it all, and for what? In her setting foot on Valinor against the ban of the Valar, she had called the wrath of the Valar upon herself as he had taken it upon himself.

And now he had failed. He had failed her. He had failed the Moriquendi and the Atani, now bereft of every home they had ever known. He had failed the Noldor, cursed and bereft of everything they had gained as well. He had failed everyone…

Shaking his head, tears began to slip down his face, one for every step he took, one for every life lost, one for every person he had failed...

His slow decent finally met the level ground of the seaward road. With naught left to do but return to his ship and take council with his wife, he turned and began the long trudge back to the sea.

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But unbeknownst to the wanderer, his many calls had been heard. Eonwë, herald of Manwë the King of Arda stood silent upon Tuna, the hill crowned by Tirion the fair, watching. He also had perceived the visitor’s despairing thoughts. Long had the herald looked upon the glistening form of this lonely mariner whose clothes were now bathed in the dust of diamonds from his trek through the jewel-lined streets of Tirion. Eonwë had marveled at the beauty of this strange being blended of the two kindreds of the Children of Iluvatar, gazing upon the tall powerful body, the eyes which surpassed the deepest blue of the sapphires in Manwë’s crown, the hair of shining gold, the Silmaril boldly bound upon the noble brow. There Eärendil shone; a light for both elves and men. Pity and awe consumed Eonwë’s heart as he triumphantly called to the young peredhel in a mighty voice.

“Hail Eärendil, of mariners most renowned, the looked for that cometh at unawares, the longed for that cometh beyond hope! Hail Eärendil, bearer of light before the Sun and Moon! Splendor of the Children of Earth, star in the darkness, jewel in the sunset, radiant in the morning!”

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The mariner stopped in his tracks, turning to face the voice. And hope was born again in Eärendil’s heart.

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Eonwë’s greeting is quoted directly from the Silmarillion.

Note: Many thanks to Ghettoelleth for her suggestions and for being my beta on this part.

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It was late, but his desk remained clear of the pervasive clutter of papers, which ever seemed to harry those who ruled. Others were still in charge of the task of running Imladris for now. Newly returned from the desolation, the sorrow, the bloody chaos of surviving a seven-year siege, Elrond was not yet ready to resume his lordship over this land.

The Peredhel had watched his king, kinsman, and closest friend, Gil-Galad die beside Elendil, the latest ruling scion of his own twin brother’s line when these two great kings fought to overthrow Sauron. The Noldorin blood must have run hot in their veins for them to stand forth in single combat before such an overwhelming adversary against whom they had no chance of winning. Had not their forefathers Finwë and Fingolfin each taken on Morgoth in single combat as well? Had they not both died, hopelessly overwhelmed by their utterly evil opponent as well? At least for Gil-Galad and Elendil their armies had ultimately won the war.

Now it was all over. Sauron had been overthrown and a new age was beginning in Middle-earth. A new son of Elros ruled the Numenoreans, but no new king would rule the Noldor. The one surviving male descendant of Finwë had been asked, offered, begged to take the kingship of the Noldor, but he had declined. Elrond had declined.

It was not out of fear or sorrow or inability that Elrond had made this choice. His wisdom had guided him. The time of men was at hand. There simply were not enough of the Noldor left in exile after the war and the departure of so many elves over the sea. They no longer needed a king, they needed strong lords capable of maintaining islands of fortitude and elven bliss amidst the mortality encroaching upon and swallowing up the lands of Middle-earth.

Taking a long pull of his wine, Elrond carefully replaced the glass on his desk beside the small object which was his new responsibility. Gil-Galad may not have been able to force him to take up the crown of the Noldor, but he did thrust a different circlet of power upon him, and it was one Elrond dared not refuse.

Weighing it in his palm, the object did not feel particularly heavy for a jeweled ring. But this ring bore a weight of responsibility that transcended anything he had ever known before. He held it up to a candle, the dark blue sapphire glistening like windblown starlight in a midnight sky. Enamored by its almost whimsical beauty, he turned the ring, admiring each of the many deeply majestic facets. The strength of a thousand storms lay in his hand or was it the subtle power of the breath of life he held? Rivers would rage in torrents yet bleeding wounds would heal. Abundant life and light would flow and the autumn of the world would be turned back into the gentle airy youth of spring.

He knew in his heart beyond all doubt that his calling was not to be regent of an elven nation, but caretaker of a people. With a sigh, he accepted the task with the heavy burdens and responsibilities that would accompany it. Taking a deep steadying breath, he placed Vilya upon his finger, and the renewal began.

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“Of the Three Rings that the Elves had preserved unsullied no open word was ever spoken among the Wise, and few even among the Eldar knew where they were bestowed. Yet after the fall of Sauron their power was ever at work, and where they abode there mirth also dwelt and all things were unstained by the griefs of time. Therefore ere the Third Age was ended the Elves perceived that the Ring of Sapphire was with Elrond, in the fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone…” -- The Silmarillion “Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age”

Many thanks to Michelle for all of her help.

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Elladan quietly hummed a love song as he worked. It had been an exceptionally good day. The orc patrol had been taken in its camp completely at unawares. The ensuing blood bath had been a cleansing one for him. But, after much toil, the gore was gone from his weapons. Now they lay clean ready for polishing so they could continue to support him, protect him, take care of him as they had today, as they had every day for these last many years.

It used to be his mother who supported him, protected him, cared for him. But now she was gone from his life until he sailed to Valinor – if he ever sailed. Did he want immortal life? He was not so certain any more. For what could it bring but endless days of sorrow for what the orcs had done to his mother, taking her away from him and dividing his family?

Before his mother had departed, she had told him that perhaps he would find a lovely elleth who would care for him, love him, give him a child of his own, bring him joy. But what joy could an elleth bring to him now? Why would he want to bring a child into this cursed world so it could suffer the losses he had suffered?

Slowly, he applied the oil to his blade till it lay glistening and dripping in the afternoon sun. With practiced hands he caressed the length, stroking it until he brought forth a deadly sheen. With each loving glide of the cloth on the cold hardness, he purged the memories of what his weapon had done, preparing it for the climax of the new lives it would claim. His sword, ever at his side was his lover and guardian now. His daggers and knives were the precious presence kept close to his skin. His bow and quiver of arrows were his offspring. His pleasures of the flesh were goring the meat and sinew of the enemy.

When Sauron was defeated, when this war was done, then he would take thought for a mate. Until then, his only passion would be war.

Many thanks to Michelle for all of her help.

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It had been a long harrowing day like so many before and like so many would be after it. The stench of orc blood clung to his clothes and skin, but Elrohir did not care. Glancing over at his twin brother who steadily wiped the glistening blood from arrow after arrow, he noticed that Elladan’s appearance fared little better than his own. This realization brought a grim smile to Elrohir’s face.

Are not all craftsmen covered in the evidence or byproduct of their craft? Flour for the baker, dirt for the farmer, ink for the loremaster, blood for the warrior. His father would have said blood for the healer as well.

Elrohir looked down at his hands as he steadily cleansed the spatters of blood and gore from his own weapons. He used to have the hands of a healer. Did bloodshed diminish the ability to heal? But then again, was there much difference any more between blood shedding and blood letting? Do they not both serve the purpose of bringing a healing resolution to the threat to a life? Perhaps now he was healing a different sort of wound, a wound to the life of Arda itself. Did not the death of every orc he slew bring a measure of additional peace, a balm for the life in Arda?

Did not the death of every orc he slew bring healing to the wounds in his own heart? Was not their dripping blood a tonic for the injuries the orcs had caused him, for the injuries they had caused his family?

His family.

Could one really call it a family any more?

His mother was gone now. Her physical wounds had been healed by his father’s skillful hands, but her spirit had been beyond aide. She had been the cohesive force which bound them all together. Now his father brooded in silence, buried in his work and care for Imladris. His sister resided in Lorien under the care of their grandparents. All that remained to him was Elladan.

It was up to him and his twin to be the healers for the family now. And heal they would. With knives and bows and arrows and swords of steel, they would bind Arda’s wounds, cleanse the poison from their own fëar. Then one day, when the last orc was dead, their family could be whole and well again.

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Author's Note: I have found it quite interesting to note the difference in what has glistened in the lives of each generation of this family. When I started this, I only had an idea of what would glisten for each generation and who would be involved, beyond that was the realm of my muse.