Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: No rights, no money, no profit. Just the good feeling of writing a story about my favourite characters...

A/N: Unlike Gil-Estel, this is not a “real-time story”. Actually, the chapters can be considered as stand-alones... You don’t have to read Gil-Estel first, but you may understand some of Eärendil’s thoughts better if you have.

They were nine. Nine entered the gate leading under the mountain. Only eight came out... I have been watching them for many nights. A strange group – two Men, an Elf, a Dwarf, one of the Istari even, and four from the strange little folk that came to dwell in Eriador.

Only eight came out... the ninth will not come. I see it in their faces: Olórin will not come out of the mines of Moria. The Maia... oh no! No... merciful Valar! I felt it – the heavy silence that veiled the whole of Valinor. They were five, the Istari, the only way the Valar could help the Children of Ilúvatar on these shores after Valinor had been taken from the circles of the world. Now two are lost. One has a different task – not with the children of Ilúvatar, but with Yavanna’s children in these dark times. One betrayed... and the last one... The last one has fallen today. I felt the sadness of Valinor, the quiet mourning in the wind in the branches of dead Trees. Now the Children stand alone against the shadow of Mordor, and nobody is left to show the way...

I mourn with the Valar – and I mourn for them, because I know the fate of a helpless watcher. My light burns still, but the Flame of Anor sent by Valar was extinguished, and the whispers in the air are telling about the Flame of Udûn. When I set my sail today, it was almost as if I could feel their voiceless blessings. “Shine,” they were saying, “shine for the distant shores. Show them in your light that we care. Show them our love and the love of Ilúvatar...”

And so I shine – the Star of Hope. That is my purpose that I accepted when I set my sail with the intention to reach the far West, for all the Ages to come, through all assaults of darkness to come. I didn’t know then how many there would yet be, and how terrible. Through the ages I could only watch – and I despaired. But then came a man from my own line, who found hope in my light. And in his hope, I found my own again. Hope was his name – Estel.

Today I sail and shine for the whole Middle-earth, a messenger from the Valar saying that they didn’t abandon the Children of Ilúvatar in their darkest hour. My light can’t fight the dark things under Moria, it can’t shorten the road under the feet of those who have the need for speed this night. It can do only that for which the Istari were sent: show the way, that you have to walk alone, and give hope – estel...

Estel... I want to shine for you, because I know... they mourn for Olórin, the Valar, and for their helplessness. But you, you mourn for a dear friend. I have seen the friendship of a Ranger and a Wizard through the years, the journeys that you have taken together, the quarrels and reconciliations. I will never forget the expression in the Maia’s face when he came to Mirkwood in all haste. It was after you arrived with the creature, Gollum, there - on the very border of your strength. I watched you on that arduous journey, and my heart bled for you. Never before have I seen a journey so hard, a will so strong. On the last bits of your strength you reached the halls of the Wood Elves’ kingdom.

“My dear Aragorn, how are you?” he asked when he arrived, and his eyes spoke about all his worries and regret for not accompanying you on that journey, and of his love. He did not wait for your answer – it was too evident in your sunken cheeks and dark circles under your eyes, although it was already a week since you arrived. He embraced you, and then he wouldn’t stop his chiding for a few hours. It was good that someone did, because in that moment I would embrace you and chide you myself, if I could, and then embrace you again and personally bind you to bed with several plates of food. Sometimes he seemed like an old moody man, didn’t he? But you knew him. You knew all his faces: Gandalf, Mithrandir, and, most deeply beneath the surface, Olórin.

I watched you now, on this last journey. Sometimes you sat with Gandalf at the fire after everyone else has fallen asleep. You spoke about things both common and serious or just sat quietly in a companionate silence. Now that friend is no more...

I’m watching you now – running at the head of the Fellowship – leading them. They do not see your face... but I do. There are no tears in your eyes, and your face is pale and like carven stone. Only your eyes speak about the depth of your grief. You run first now – for the first time since the Fellowship left Rivendell. Until now, Gandalf was the leader, and you... you walked most often at the end, helping those who faltered and grew weary of the pace of the hard traveling. Now you walk first, alone with your grief – the leader. A leader is always alone... It’s a heavy burden and hard decisions that await you, like my own decision to sail to the West.

I wish I could tell you that you are not alone. I am here, and all who love you are with you in their mind. Elrond, your father, stands at the window in Rivendell in this moment, and looks to the South-East. His daughter is sitting in the light of many candles in her room, and doing embroidery. It is a big piece of silken cloth she has in her hands, and black like the night sky is its color. The light of the candles is reflected on the gems that she is weaving into the cloth, placed around a magnificent white tree and a winged crown like seven stars. I wish I could tell you about the Rangers in the North, sitting around a fire in this moment. “I would gladly give my life to be at his side when he needs me...” one of them is saying. Halbarad is his name...

But you are not looking to the sky. Forward is your look directed, and a grim expression of responsibility is in your eyes. The sky darkens and the orcs are coming out of the gates of Moria. You must lead the others to safety, they rely on you, and you will not disappoint them...

A slipstream... a place of light in the growing darkness is Lórien – such is the might of the Lady of the Golden Wood. Galadriel...Sometimes Finarfin comes to Elwing’s tower when Vingilot is in its haven, to ask for news about his daughter – about Artanis, Nerwen, who became Galadriel. And I tell him how she danced under the stars, and created the realm of Lothlórien with her song and the power of the star on her finger. I tell him about the mallorn trees, golden against the cold winter sky when all the other trees stand naked and bleak like masts of abandoned ships sailing though the ghostly waters into the distance. The winter has not come to Lórien yet... but the fall is approaching.

The last night she sang to me. She sang about hope and light, and then she stroked the surface of the water and caught my light reflecting there into her song. The light of my star, of the silmaril raised to the sky she put into a vial, and it shimmered there like diamond dew in the fresh mornings of Valinor. That vial is now in the hands of the one who carries a heavy burden, and I feel like I am in that fellowship myself, able to help them on that dangerous journey. When all other lights go out, I will be there...

...do you feel my presence, Aragorn? You led them to the safety of Lórien. No evil enters the borders of that realm... except the one that you carry with yourself. But it is true for grief, also, and for other burdens that you carry.

Today, you left the safe haven that is Lothlórien, and, while I sail the heavenly currents above you, you sail the mighty river Anduin in grey elven boats. You are leading the vessel safely and firmly, the first of the three boats... There is still doubt and grief, but also a new strength and grim determination in your movements, one that I didn’t see before. To my eye, you look almost like a king standing on the prow of his ship... You remind me on Elros sailing to Númenor – to the kingdom given to him by Valar. To his own kingdom. Are you sailing to your kingdom, Aragorn? Or are you sailing to ruins and darkness? Your path is as unclear before my eyes as it is before yours...

From the slipstream of Lórien, where will the river take you? It flows to the south... Gondor is there, with its white towers and mighty walls... and silver trumpets – trumpets calling for help in the fight. Will you hear their call? But another realm lies to the south, too. Its towers are black, and its trumpets call for blood. Does your way lead there, to the fires of Mordor? You will have to decide, and not only for yourself, for you are the leader of the Fellowship. The weight of that decision lies on you even since you left Moria.

Yet there is a new light in your eyes when you are looking forwards, to the south. In your gaze, I see a reflection of a green stone... It is pinned on your breast, a magnificent green stone in a silver brooch in the shape of an eagle spreading its wings. A word comes to my mind when I see it. Thorongil... Eagle of the Star. The gem shines like a star between the eagle’s wings, but it is your look that reminds me on it. It is a look of one who accepted the leadership...

The stone... Green stone shining like the rays of sun through the young beech leaves... I recognize it! An eagle-plume upon his crest, upon his breast an emerald... I remember those verses from the hobbit’s song in the Hall of Fire, and this is indeed Elessar, the stone given to me by my mother Idril, that I carried with me into the West... You sat at the window, my son, and I saw the hobbit approaching you that evening. I remember how he asked for your help with the song then, and you told him that if he had the cheek to make verses about Eärendil in the house of Elrond, it was his affair... I had to smile at that, my child, but it was a sad smile. Did you seek to protect your father from the memories that such verses might evoke? The memories of a father leaving his two little sons behind... Yet you insisted on the green stone, although the hobbit didn’t know why it is important to you. Now you carry that very stone upon your breast...

“The Elessar I’m giving to you, my son. It shines with the light of that which was lost, but it is more than memory. Enerdhil, the greatest jewel-smith of Gondolin, has made it, and the light of spring sun through the emerald leaves in the gardens of the city that is no more is trapped in its facets. Never more will the sun shine on the white towers and reflect in the silver fountains. Yet when you look through it, you will see things that were withered or burned healed again, or as they were in the grace of their youth, and your hands will bring healing from hurt to all that they touch when you hold it. The Elessar I leave with thee, for there are grievous hurts to Middle-earth which thou maybe shalt heal. But to none other shalt thou deliver it.”

Eärendil bowed before Idril and she put the stone into his hand. He clasped it firmly, as if it wasn’t a jewel that he was holding, but his mother’s hand in a memory of running, fleeing before shadow and flame... But in the moment when he touched the stone, he looked back in memory, and didn’t see smoking ruins of a once beautiful city, but white towers and green gardens, immaculate and shining in the sun. A sense of warmth spread from his hand, like a sleepy afternoon on a sunny glade, and he had to smile with the feeling.

Idril’s eyes smiled too, and she kissed her son on the brow. Then Tuor put his hand on Eärendil’s shoulder, and looked him in the eyes with a long and wistful gaze. His hair was silvered with the touches of old age like winter touches the branches of a tree, and wrinkles creased his brow, but his eyes were clear as they had always been, and Eärendil could see the depths in them, like the infinite ocean. Then Tuor averted his eyes, and turned slowly. No words were needed between the father and son. Eärendil knew: it was their last look. The call of the Sea... Ulmo sounded his horns in the depths, and Tuor’s heart was drawn to them, to the wild, free, terribly-beautiful Sea. Eärendil had the feeling that he could hear the echo of this call in the foamy waves splashing on the beach and in his father’s eyes...

He watched the ship, proud Eärrámë built by Tuor himself, until it disappeared behind the horizon with the setting sun. Then he felt someone at his side. “Elwing...” he whispered, and she reached her hand and entwined her fingers with his. Together they stood on the beach until the stars were lit in the sky. A gull cried in the distance, and Elwing smiled. He kissed her on the top of her head. “Come, my sweet gull... it’s getting cold here...” One last time he looked at the broad ocean, and then he led his young wife to their home at the seashore, clutching a green stone to his breast.

After all the centuries, the memory is as clear as in the first day after my parents left, following the call of the Sea. I heard it too... I heard it from the very moment when I saw the blue infinity, and I longed to know what is there where the sea touches the sky - what is there where my father left... I heard the horns of Ulmo in my dreams. They were calling me, and a sound of urgency was in their call. I knew I had to sail and bear the message to Valar – a message from both Firstborn and Secondborn children of Ilúvatar, a call for help. I, with the blood of both, had to speak for both – or die trying to reach the western shores, for I had both the blood of a Mortal and Exile, for whom the realm of Aman is closed. Yet I had to sail, and hope to deliver the plea. But in the corner of my heart, I also hoped to see my parents again...

The first memory I have of my mother is the emerald upon her breast when she sang over my cradle, and sun shone through the windows in Gondolin. I carried the stone on my journeys - in some foolish hope that it would lead me to her, perhaps. Even the thought of my sons, my two beautiful sons, could not hold me back from that journey. I remember my last glimpse of them, waving on the shore, until my ship disappeared behind the horizon with the setting sun. They did not understand that they will never see me again. A part of my heart stayed on that shore. But I had to sail and follow the call, deliver the message. I stood on the prow of my ship, and the Elessar I carried upon my breast...

He turned at the sound of his name, and bowed to the Valie that approched him. “My Lady Yavanna?” He was still nervous in the presence of the Powers, despite speaking to the whole Council of them earlier. But under her look he relaxed slightly. Before, she looked much more intimidating on her throne in the halls of Ilmarin, like a mighty tree reaching to the clouds with its crown and crushing rocks with its roots, proud and magnificent. Now she was like a golden field of reaping corn, rippling in the wind, and her look was warm and welcoming. Inadvertently, he smiled.

“Varda says that Vingilot is ready. Tomorrow, you will sail for the first time.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement, and then looked up at her, unsure if he could ask his own question. Her eyes were welcoming, and encouraged him to speak.

“Even as we speak the preparations are being made,” she answered. “But it will take some time to assemble the hosts...” She looked at him intently. “But that is not the question you wanted to ask...”

He bit his lip, and his hand went unconsciously to the green stone on his breast. Yavanna waited patiently. He sighed. “I... I wanted to ask what happened to my parents...” he said quietly.

Yavanna smiled at him gently, but her eyes were sad. “That I can’t tell you, child. Know that they are well, but you will never see them again. Such is the will of Ilúvatar.”

He could not hide his disappointment, and suddenly something grim was in the Valie’s eyes, that made him take a step back. It passed quickly, but he found himself trembling. She put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched instinctively from her touch, but then he felt waves of soothing warmth flow from her hand, and he relaxed and looked up to meet her gaze.

“You came to deliver a message, not to find your parents...” she said mildly, but firmly. “You were allowed to enter the realm that was forbidden to you, but not on this purpose.”

He sighed, and nodded, still playing with the green stone. “I hoped to return it to my mother...” he whispered.

Yavanna smiled at him. “She does not need it in the place where she is. She knew it, and gave it to you to use it and heal the wounds of Middle-earth. You did worthy deeds with it, but now you do not need it anymore. It is time to pass it along to another.”

Eärendil looked uncertain as he stroked the smooth facets of the stone with his fingers. “She said... I shall deliver it to none other. It’s my first... and last... memory of her...”

Yavanna said nothing, but her look was compassionate. Finally he sighed, and unclamped the brooch. He held the jewel in his hand, looking at it for the last time. Here, in Valinor, there was no difference when he looked through the stone. It was Middle-earth that needed healing. Middle-earth that he left behind, where he left his own sons behind... He put the stone into the Valie’s hand. “Give it to the one who will need it, my lady.”

Many centuries I had to wait to see her words fulfilled. Yet what is an entire age to the Valar? I saw it on the ship that sailed together with my own – Vingilot in the heaven above, and the ship carrying the Istari on the ocean below, both sailing as a sign of hope. And as such the jewel came to Galadriel, when she grieved for the falling leaves and fading flowers of Middle-earth – a sign that the eyes of the Valar are not dimmed nor their hearts hardened. There was the stone that I carried to the West, and it had the same purpose as was my own... When I think back on it, I must wonder about the strange way of Valar. But I knew that Galadriel was not the one that Yavanna has spoken about. “But it is not for you to possess. You shall hand it on when the time comes. For before you grow weary, and at last forsake Middle-earth one shall come who is to receive it, and his name shall be that of the stone: Elessar he shall be called,” Olórin said to her. Now I see the meaning of his words...

You made me wait long to see your promise fulfilled, Yavanna... but it was a worth waiting. Aragorn... You are the one meant to carry the stone and heal the wounds of Middle-earth, my son... I see the jewel on your breast, and I am proud. So proud... May the elessar help you on the road that lies before you. May it bring healing through your hands as it once brought through mine in the havens of Sirion that lie beneath the waves of the sea now. May it... oh Aragorn!... may it ease the burdens on your heart, the grief and self-doubt. The eagle spreads its wings and the stone shines with the light of sun through the young leaves. May the wings give you speed when you need it most and the light lead you when the path ahead lies in the darkness. I wish you would remember me when carrying it. But it does not matter. What matters is that the green stone that was once mine has come to you, and it can help you in the trials that lie ahead. It could not come to hands more worthy to wield it then yours, Aragorn... Elessar.

A/N: The tale of elessar is described in Unfinished Tales. There are two version of that story. In the other version Aragorn’s elessar is not the same that Eärendil bore to the West, but a replacement, created by Celembrimor for Galadriel. But I think Eärendil likes the first version more =) I used some direct quotes from the chapter about elessar in Unfinished Tales, and paraphrased others. Direct quotes:

“The Elessar I leave with thee, for there are grievous hurts to Middle-earth which thou maybe shalt heal. But to none other shalt thou deliver it.”

“But it is not for you to possess. You shall hand it on when the time comes. For before you grow weary, and at last forsake Middle-earth one shall come who is to receive it, and his name shall be that of the stone: Elessar he shall be called.”

„As a matter of fact it was all mine. Except that Aragorn insisted on my putting in a green stone. He seemed to think it important. I don’t know why. Otherwise he obviously thought the whole thing rather above my head, and he said that if I had the cheek to make verses about Eärendil in the house of Elrond, it was my affair. I suppose he was right.“

A storm is on the mountains today. It rages on the peak of Celebdil, a wild, untamed dance of flame. The mountain has a crown of lightning, and columns of clouds are rising from it like steam from some underground forge. Ice falls like rain. Fire and snow. Light and shadow. Dancing in a deadly fight in the heart of the storm. The mountain trembles, the wind wails. It roars like a wild animal, and then it bears another tone on its wings, muted and quiet, then high and powerful. The roar rises to the surface, then drowns again. Roar and quiet, shadow and light. Elements dance. Elements fight.

No, it is not a storm. Two flames battle together. The light, the voice – the flame of Anor. The shadow, the roar – the flame of Udûn. I see two shapes, two figures entwined in a deadly fight. One of them... Is it possible? One of them I recognize! Olórin! Olórin! Fallen into the deepest pits I thought you, and on the highest peaks I found you! Shadow and Flame envelops you, but your light shines through them, shines like the brightest of stars! The darkness wants to choke it, it roars and burns with a devouring flame. Fight, Olórin! Fight for the light!

“Fight! Do not fear the darkness, Children of the West! Fight for a new day!” Eönwë’s voice sounded over the battlefield, encouraging those who wavered, pouring new strength into the hands heavy with the weight of sword and hearts heavy with grief for the fallen. But there was one who didn’t fight...

Eärendil waited above the low hanging clouds, a star glimmering among the smoke of the fires of Angband, smothered by their sinister fumes. In one hand he clutched the rudder of Vingilot, and in the other a shining sword, a gift from Aulë. He watched the hosts of Valar and of all the free folk assembled under their banners, and the vast dark armies pouring from the gates of Angband. The battle was like a tide, the waves crashing together, ebbing and rising in the clash of steel, a bloody song of swords.

He could not join the song below with the melody of his own sword. He could not set foot on these shores anymore. That was the doom that was laid on him when he reached the forbidden shores of Valinor. Yet the Valar did not forbid him to follow their hosts, dressed for battle, a star of hope shining for the Children of the West. They gave him a sword of mighty steel, made in the fires of Aulë’s forge, in a scabbard of chalcedony. The clothed him in shining armor, chained rings and silver habergeon, and gave him a helmet of adamant. His shield bore runes of warding from wounds and harm.

The shield lay at the deck beside him now – he needed one hand to guide the ship. And what for,he thought. The cries of wounded and dying reached up into the clouds. Anyone of them would use that shield better, he mused bitterly as he watched the ongoing battle below, where he could not tread.

Suddenly... a shadow swooped down from the peaks of Thangorodrim, mighty and terrible, bringing dread to the hearts of those fighting for the light. A dragon, black like midnight, his scales glistening like obsidian in the light of fires. His wings swished in the air, two, three mighty swings that carried him to the middle of the battlefield like a shadow of death. He whirled in the air, looking for prey. And Eärendil knew. This was his foe...

He felt his heartbeat quicken, and his hand gripped the sword more firmly. For a short moment he didn’t move, just watched the dragon, stunnedwith the overwhelming challenge. It was... huge. Its wings had twice the span of the sails of Vingilot, and flames flared from its nostrils. The sounds of the fight seemed dulled, and the dragon filled his entire field of vision. He hesitated just for a moment. Then the sounds from the battlefield reached him again, and with them, the thrill of fight – the life of the enemy on the edge of his blade, the game with death, and the fullness of every moment when He walks on the warrior’s heels, observing and waiting for a mistake. He turned the rudder sharply, and Vingilot obeyed his very thoughts. Like a silver arrow she descended from the clouds, and it seemed as if a star was falling from the sky, enveloped in a great glow. With a battle cry he charged the terrifying form of the black dragon, a clear light against the dragon’s shadow and flame.

Shadow and flame have melted the snow on the peak and turned it black with ashes. The flame of light replaced its pristine glow now. Terrible is the battle on the peak of Celebdil high above the clouds. They are grey and heavy with rain. Black were the clouds below me when I battled Ancalagon – black with the smoke of fires. They were like a heavy curtain, dividing two battlefields. It was almost peaceful when we broke through it, and the sound and cries of the fight below silenced. For a moment, nothing moved. Just me and my foe, the shadow of leathery wings and the living light of Vingilot.

Just you two, Olórin – you and your foe. Long have you traveled the paths of Middle-earth, Grey Pilgrim, giving advice, and setting things to move in a great scheme that only the mind of an Ainu could encompass. No more schemes, no more paths. Just one battle... that is everything that exists. That is everything that matters.

The clouds divide you from everyone and everything below. Your eight companions rest in Lórien now, listening to the gentle breeze in the mallorn leaves. They do not know. Nobody knows. If someone is looking at the peak of Zirakzgil in this moment, he must think that a storm rages on the mountain. Nobody will sing about the glorious battle on the peak. Nobody in Middle-earth.

But I see your battle, Olórin. I see and will not forget. Gloriously will the songs about your fight sound in the streets of Valimar. Songs about heroes and great deeds... gloriously they sound, but there is nothing glorious in that moment. The taste of blood, the smell of burning hair, and the weight of sword in your hand. It will be after the fight that they celebrate your deeds and honor you. But here, nobody will. You fight because you have work yetto do. You fight because you want to live.

Shadow and flame... a spectre of the ancient world. What foe did you encounter in the darkness beneath the mountain, Olórin? No, it is not a dragon. A spirit of fire: a flame tainted by Morgoth, fallen Maia, twisted into the shape of a horrible beast. A balrog...

“Balrog! Balrog!” someone cried out, and the terror in the voice frightened the boy that stumbled on the narrow passage of Cirith Thoronath, clutching his mother’s hand. There were ugly figures all around them, and the warriors fought them while they ran. It was the first time Eärendil saw orcs. But something more terrifying then orcs was behind them...

He did not understand what was happening. A day ago, there were bright banners, and flowers in the streets. There was a tournament, held in the occasion of the upcoming feast of the Gates of Summer. He sat with his parents in the kingly lodge and watched the fighters below.

Tuor smiled. “For that you have enough time yet. But if you are good, I will make you a wooden sword.”

Tuor nodded, and the boy hesitated for a while, and then hugged his father in delight.

The warriors below raised their swords in greeting to Turgon. He stood up, and declaimed the opening speech of the tournament. While he was speaking, Tuor turned to Eärendil again, and whispered: “So which one are you crossing your fingers for?”

“Glorfindel!” the boy replied immediately, as if the fact were obvious.

“You don’t fight with him today. Tomorrow I’ll be crossing my fingers for you...”

“Ah, good that I have the support of my own son! And if I fight against Glorfindel in the finale, who will win?

Eärendil looked critically at the golden-haired warrior, and then at his father. “Glorfindel,” he said then with a grin.

And indeed Glorfindel won the first day of the tournament, as predicted by the expert. On the next day Idril woke Eärendil early. She was oblivious to her son’s pleas to stay up until morning like the grown ups, celebrating the shortest night and awaiting the dawn. But when she tucked him in the bed, he fell asleep immediately, tired by the day’s excitement. The sun has not risen yet, and he hurried to dress and join the Elves on the walls, and sing to Arien when she sailedabove the horizon.

“No...” he heard his father whisper, and the tune of his voice frightened him. “Dragons!” Tuor cried out, and his cry was echoed in the crowd.

Panic ensued. People ran. Dark shapes crossed the sky, breathing fire. Bringing destruction. Cries of terror. Whispers. “Morgoth...” they echoed. “Morgorth found us!”

“Nana!” he grasped his mother’s hand firmly, like something steady in the familiar world that has gone mad.

“We must flee!” Tuor’s voice rose above the panic. The captains of the houses were already assembling their warriors.

They fled. Through a dark tunnel, to the narrow mountain passes. Eärendil stumbled. The pace was too quick for his short legs. He did not comprehend what happened there, in the city. Idril clutched his hand, and didn’t let him fall. Shepulled him forwards in the mad flight. His father led the group, and Glorfindel covered their back. The city behind them burned. The bright banners flamed like torches. Steam rose from the fountains. Towers crumbled.

The ugly figures came suddenly from nowhere and surrounded them. Swords flashed. The cries. The warmth of his mother’s hand clutching his tightly. Suddenly there was a red light illuminating the faces of the refuges with a ghostlike glow, casting long, dark shadows before them, swaying in the rhythm of their steps. The fire was behind them. A terrible roar echoed in the pass.

“Run!” a flash of golden hair glistened in the light of fire. The silver armor shone like blood.

And they ran. Eärendil wept in terror. They ran until the fires and roars were far behind. The eagles came. They were splendid. For a moment Eärendil forgot the terror around them and imagined how it would feel to fly like them. They chased the ugly figures away.

Finally they stopped. Eärendil realized that it is quiet. No roars were heard anymore. Then the biggest of the eagles flew to them, clutching something in his talons. Idril covered Eärendil’s eyes, and led him away, despite his struggles to see what is happening. Then she embraced him firmly, and held him long, and he could feel the tears running down her cheeks. He snuggled close to her, as all the terror crashed on him suddenly.

He did, my childhood hero. He never knew he was that, I think. I was too shy in his presence then, a lad of seven years in awe of a mighty warrior. He returned from the Halls of Mandos... and he returned to Middle-earth. I saw him on the same ship that carried the Istari. Why did he return? Why did he not seek rest in Valinor, a deserved reward for his deeds? Maybe it was the same knowledge that drives me forwards every night, that makes me sail and shine like a sigh of hope – the knowledge that there is evil in the lands below, and people who suffer under it, and people who fight it valiantly. The knowledge that I could make a difference. I have almost forgotten it, but I was reminded of it by the scion of my own line, and as I watch now, I’m reminded of it again and again. Glorfindel could not find rest in Valinor – not while he could make a difference in Middle-earth...

I can imagine him sitting at the hearth with Olórin, his hair reflecting the light of fire like molten gold, rising a glass of wine. “To us balrog-slayers!” he would say with a wide grin, and Olórin would nod solemnly with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and raise his own goblet. Then he would light his pipe and stretch his legs to the fire, and Glorfindel would wave the elaborated shapes of smoke away from him, snickering.

The longer I watch, the more I know that I’m trying to deceive myself. No, you will not sit at the fire with Glorfindel anymore. Never more will you drink wine and smoke pipe-weed. There is work yetto do, but not for you anymore. Your path ends here. Not in the dark pits under Moria, but high above the clouds – so close to the sky... You do not fight to live anymore. Yet you still fight – because you can make a difference...

The sword in your hand is glowing white-hot. I recognize the blade! It is Glamdring, the sword of Gondolin. I saw it many years ago – in the hand of my grandfather, when I saw him retreating to the tower. I saw him for the last time then. The darkness of Morgoth killed the white city – the Orcs, dragons and balrogs. Now this sword will bring revenge!

I see a flash of red light. Narya, the ring of fire, and you are a flame yourself, a flame of quick anger and joy, pure flame of a burning spirit. The flames reach high to the sky. The very air vibrates with power. You are giving everything that you have into the fight. You are leaving nothing to yourself, nothing for the future – there is none. The white flame surpasses the dark one! It shines brightly like a star on the top of the mountain, beautiful and terrible for a short moment. The dark flame dwindles, and then... it’s extinguished! A dark shape falls from the stone tower, and crushes into the snow below, a black stain against its whiteness. You won, Olórin! You won!

But the white flame wavers too. Oh, most faithful of Istari, high is the price of your victory! The flame dies in a last flicker of light. A body of an old man lies on the top of the mountain, pale against the ashes and debris of battle. The wind blows his hair from his face, but he does not move. A snowflake caresses his palm, but he does not feel it. It does not melt. The unseeing eyes are turned to the sky. You dream your last dream, Olórin...

And on the snow-covered stones below, I see a dark shape, still and unmoving, too. The wind blows. For a moment, there is a shivering shape of light above it. It is beautiful, untainted. The spirit of a Maia before the evil of Morgoth touched him, and swayed him to his side, twisted him. The light flickers, and the shape dissolves in the wind. Silence veils the peak of Celebdil.

There will be songs about your last fight, Olórin. But not today. Today, I can’t sing. I can only guide my ship, a learned, subconscious movement, and stare blankly at the sea below me. I do not wonder when I see Manwë at the shore, looking to the East. Tears are in the eyes of the Elder King...

Something will happen today. I feel it in the air. The heavenly winds whisper, tell something, but I do not understand their voices. They are not the voices of the world below. Not even the voices of Valar. It is something else, like the feeling of change before the turning of the tide. It drives my sight to one place. A lifeless place, high in the mountains. I didn’t look at it for many days – there was nothing to see... I don’t want to look at the peak of the mountain – but I have the feeling that the mountain is looking at me. Or is it something – someone – else that is looking?

A strange tension is in the air. I try to catch the voices. No, it’s only one voice, sounding like a chorus of the entire world. I hear music. A song... It resonates in every fibre of my being. It makes the light of Silmaril shine brighter, pulsing in its rhythm. For a moment, it seems I’m close to grasping the melody, but immediately it eludes me, and I’m left with a feeling of loss, of something greater than this world that I can’t comprehend. Yet it seems to me I was so close to it – so close... Like the country that I see sometimes in my dreams, the soft green country behind a grey curtain of rain. It seems so close – I need only reach my hand and touch it, but when I do, I touch only empty air. But the voice... it’s coming from that country, and fills my soul with longing to touch the music and be a part of it. It comes from that place, where I didn’t want to look, yet I must – from the peak of Celebdil.

I strain my ears, but I do not hear the music anymore. I look. Two eyes are looking into mine, and for a moment I’m lost in them. There is immeasurable depth. There are mysteries of far places and times that are beyond the time that flows here in one direction. They are the eyes of one who has seen beyond the stars, beyond the circles of the world, the eyes of one who has wandered paths out of thought and time, and returned through flame and water, on the place where the earth touches the air. No longer are those eyes dim and unseeing – there is life in them! They are the eyes of... Olórin?

Olórin, is that you? I recognize you, and yet I do not... You are the one who stood on the deck of a white ship sailing eastwards, a grey figure against the grey waves of the sea. You are the one who travelled long and far to know the hearts of Elves and Men, who travelled many miles with Aragorn – miles that would be hard and lonely without your company, and for that I was thankful to you, Grey Pilgrim. Yet I do not see Grey anymore. I see White. The purest white, shining more brightly then the snow around. The Grey Wizard is gone forever. I am the first one to behold Olórin the White.

I think I can understand Eönwë now, and his words to me when I first beheld him. 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! Splendour of the Children of Earth, star in the darkness, jewel in the sunset, radiant in the morning!, he said, and I felt myself blushing at those words, awed and a bit afraid of the Herald of Valar. But for him, I was not a man awed by the splendour of Valinor and afraid to never see his family again. I was the fulfilment of hope, looked for for a long time. How much more are you, Olórin? A fulfilment of hope unlooked for...

Hail Olórin, of Istari most faithful, the unlooked for that cometh at unawares, the lost who returneth beyond hope! Hail Olórin, bearer of the flame of Anor! Splendour of the thought of Ilúvatar, white flame in the darkness, messenger from Valinor, voice of Manwë, giving hope to Middle-earth!

Much have I heard about you in Valinor in the last days. Laments sounded in the streets of Valimar, wistful and beautiful like the ripples on a calm sea before sunset, when the water surface burns with the last rays of Sun like a road leading to the West. There were songs about the Battle of the Peak, heroic and glorious, but many more songs were about your gentle spirit and tireless work, and I began to truly understand the loss about which they spoke.

One of the songs spoke about the council of Valar after they beheld the new shadow growing in Middle-earth. They made a mistake before, they said, when they wanted to separate and keep the Eldar with their power, a mistake that sowed the seeds of treachery into the heart of Fëanor, and laid the words of a cursed oath into the mouth of his sons. Then they revealed they might to the Edain,a mistake that helped Sauron Annatar sow the seeds of pride and treachery into the heart of Númenor. Now they would not show might and power, but humility and understanding. Theones who would be sent to Middle-earthwould wear the bodies of Men, not like clothes to give shape to the fëa when dealing with the Children of Ilúvatar, but a true body that can be injured and killed, that feels pain and weariness of the earth. They would not command, but listen and encourage. Their fëar bound to a body, they would forget much that they knew, and have to learn much, and the West would be only a dim memory and a deep longing to them, a hope when their labours are accomplished. Much have they sacrificed to be able to help. We have more in common then I thought, Olórin...

He came late for that council, returning from his errands, and sat behind when the ones who wanted to take this task stepped forward. Yet Manwë asked him to come, despite his protests that he is unworthy of the task. That is even more reason for you to come, the Elder King said – oh yes, the Valar too learned the price of humility... And so he sailed, chosen as last, but not last, as Varda said. Were those words of hers the soil for the seeds of pride of the one chosen as first, of Curunír who is called Saruman? Humility is a hard lesson to learn, and often it does not hold in the many tests of the world. Pride taints the pure white then, and shatters it to many colours, changing before the sight and deceiving. Now there is white once again, pure and untainted. Olórin returned!

His eyes follow me across the sky, as if they areout of time still; they follow the dance of stars and the ship of Moon, the heavenly patterns unchanged by the battles, by the falling and rising of kingdoms and realms below. He lies still and unmoving high above the clouds, on the peak where all sounds of the world reach like distant echoes. Yet his chest rises and sinks in a barely visible movement, in a breath of life. He lies naked as every Man comes to the world, and yet there is no indignity. A sword lies beside him, where it has fallen after the fight, and it is Glamdring, the blade of Turgon forged when Gondolin yet stood in the hidden valley of Tumladen. It is the same as it was before. The ring on his finger shines with the same flame, matching and rekindling the flame of his spirit. But the flame filling him shines brighter then ever before – it is the flame that changed: the light and flame.

The flame burns with the Flame Imperishable itself, and the light of it feels as if it could never truly belong to this world. I look into the depths of your eyes, Olórin, and I see the truth. Your eyes have the look of one who knows what is beyond this world. You returned... but only for a short time. You have a task to finish, and then... then you must pay the price. Splendour of the thought of Ilúvatar, white flame in the darkness, only for a short while will your flame burn in Middle-earth.

Then you will return – where? I do not know. Sometimes I wish I would be allowed to find out, although for me it would be a way without return. That country in my dreams... it is fresh and green, with the scent of flowers in the air, and the humming of bees in apple-orchards. But I know that this is only a picture it takes in my mind, and I will never know what really is behind the silver rain-curtain and the gate of Death.

Eärendil studied the intricate embroidery adorning the hem of Manwë’s robes. Its colour matched the sky-blue garments, but the motifs were clearly visible. They depicted trees with entwined branches full of blossoms and birds taking off from them, yet together they created the shape of clouds and eagles with outlines created of many smaller wings. When Manwë moved, the birds and eagles seemed to be alive and the blossoms of the trees whispered in the wind. It fascinated him, but that was not the reason why he was studying it so intently. He stood before the Elder King awaiting his doom. He did not want to look higher, into his eyes that shone with Flame Imperishable like hundreds of stars and held the judgement for his daring deed.

Elwing stood at his side, and he stepped one step before her in a subconscious gesture, as if he would want to protect her. He felt her awe and fear. He had already seen the Valar before, but he fared no better. Then Manwë spoke, and his voice made Eärendil finally look up and meet the Elder King’s eyes. The sight hit him with its intensity. These were the eyes of one speaking with Ilúvatar in his thoughts, eyes older than Arda. Eärendil knew that their anger would be terrible to behold, but their light was kind.

“In this matter the power of doom is given to me,” he spoke. “ The peril that he ventured for love of the Two Kindreds shall not fall upon Eärendil, nor shall it fall upon Elwing his wife, who entered into peril for love of him; but they shall not walk again ever among Elves or Men in the Outer Lands. And this is my decree concerning them: to Eärendil and to Elwing, and to their sons, shall be given leave each to choose freely to which kindred their fates shall be joined, and under which kindred they shall be judged.”

Eärendil left out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding, and bowed his head. In that moment he found out that his sons were alive... and he realized he will never see them again. Suddenly he felt tired and old beyond his years. When he sailed, he knew that he would not return, yet there was still a small hope. Now there was none. He turned to Elwing, and managed a weak smile at her.

Oh Elwing, you have chosen to be counted to the Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar because of your grandmother Lúthien, although she herself has chosen a mortal fate out of love. Only two bonds between Men and Elves were in the history of Middle-earth, and we were the only children left from those unions. Is it not strange, how we found each other? We found each other, and we would not be separated anymore, not even by the Sundering Sea, nor by a choice of different fate. My heart was with the people of my father, but more then that it was with my wife.

Later have I heard rumours, bare uncertain whispers about the fate of my parents, telling that my father alone of mortal Men was numbered among the elder race, and was joined with the Noldor, whom he loved; and his fate was sundered from the fate of Men. I wish I could meet him again, but I have not seen him in all the centuries I dwelled in Valinor, and none could tell me something more certain about his fate. A strange irony it is, my beloved. You have chosen immortality for the only Elf in the tales of Arda who became mortal, and for my father who became immortal, my heart belonged to the race of Men. But above that, it belonged to you, my sweet gull, and I would not let us be sundered again. Once it was enough, more than I could bear...

Yet sometimes, in the long hours of night when I watch the tapestry of sorrow enfolding before my eyes, I wonder how it would be, had I taken a different choice. How it would be to enter the gates of Death and reveal the mystery that lies behind them. When I sailed to the West with the Silmaril bound to my brow and my wife at my side, I felt free and ready to face all dangers of unknown waters. When I left the earth behind and sailed the sky for the first time, I could not think on anything for a long while besides the thrill of flight. The lands were small below me, and the wind swept my hair as I stood at the prow of Vingilot. Tilion greeted me. For a while I was young and free, and the sky was a great adventure.

And beyond those gates awaits an adventure greatest of all, I feel. My heart is the heart of an adventurer and wanderer. My spirit is restless, and longs for freedom. Yet I know I cannot pursue that last adventure. I am bound to the fate of Arda - until Dagor Dagorath and the end of Time. You know what is beyond the gates of Death, Olórin. Only for a short time did you return... Hail Olórin, greatest of pilgrims! May Ilúvatar guide your steps to the fulfillment of your task. Light against shadow. Flame against flame. May the light prevail, the light worth dying for!

Direct quotes from: J. R. R. Tolkien: Silmarillion, Chapter 24: Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath

The council of Valar is mentioned in the chapter about Istari in the Unfinished Tales

A/N: Many thanks to Canafinwe for the suggestion of this chapter! This one is for you, and for a certain Dúnadan who happens to have birthday today....

"When at last they halted, even Aragorn was stiff and weary. Legolas and Gimli slept, and Aragorn lay flat, stretched upon his back; but Gandalf stood, leaning upon his staff, gazing into the darkness, east and west."
J. R. R. Tolkien: The Two Towers: The King of the Golden Hall

Swift are the feet of the steeds of Rohan, swallowing the miles of grassy plains like a ship sailing with favourable wind in her sails. Light are the hearts that walked long in the darkness of grief and doubt, when they find a beam of light again white light... white wizard. A friend thought lost that returned from death.... Light is the heart, although the body is weary.

Sleep, Aragorn. Rest.... You have run for long days like a hunter after the prey, determined and untiring. It was a strenuous pursuit, but you didn t waver. No, you do not use to give up... Today, you rode deep into the night. You are weary. And tomorrow, you must ride again: to Meduseld, to war. Rest while you can, my son...

No, your eyes do not close. You lie on your back and follow the nightly dance of stars, not truly seeing them. Too much is on your mind to sleep. The horses graze on the first blades of fresh grass peaking through the withered carpet of passed years, kissing the earth that nourishes them with every bite. The wind rustles in the grass and strokes it gently, as if soothing the hurts that the heavy feet of Orcs left in the plains. Even the Elf and Dwarf rest peacefully, their quiet breath and a whisper of the wind the only sounds of the night. He stands and keeps watch. Ol rin, Gandalf. Your eyes follow him when he doesn t look in your direction, and your expression is thoughtful, and a bit uncertain.

He changed. He returned from behind the gate of Death. He forgot many things that he knew before, and learned other, hidden ones. He is not the same. White, not grey. Much more power, almost scary in its full splendour a secret fire burning behind the mask. Where has he been? What did he learn? Why was he allowed to return? And... what were the things that he forgot?

Suddenly he turns, and looks at you. His eyes, looking worriedly to the east and west, soften for a moment, and he smiles. No, a friendship cannot be forgotten. A friendship lasts beyond death.... Your eyes meet without a sound. You understand each other without words, just like before. Much changed, and much will change yet. The end of the Age is coming, and change is in the very air. But something stays the same. Relief is in your eyes, as if a great weigh lifted from your shoulders. It is hard, very hard to lead and make decisions without somebody to lean on. And when those decisions seem to go wrong, many would break under their weight. You are strong, but the sorrows weigh heavily upon you.... Gandalf s eyes smile slightly. No, your decisions were not wrong. They led you here, where you could meet. They led you here, where you are needed.

Too much is on your mind to sleep. It is your body that needs rest, but even more your mind needs this night to sort your thoughts. When Gandalf turns again, you look to the stars. Their dance is regular, the same patterns night after night. It is soothing... I am the only one to bring inaccuracy into that dance, because I am a man, not a cold star. See my light, Aragorn. There may be darkness waiting ahead on your path. There may be malice and despair. Remember my light! Remember it, when the night is darkest. Remember me, and all those who love you....

In Rivendell, the wind blows from the south. The lights of the Last Homely House shine into the night. A dark silhouette against the warm lights, Elrond stands on the balcony. A glass of wine is in his hand, reflecting the golden rays of fire in crimson glimmers. Arwen stands at his side, and the wind caresses her face and toys with the loose strands of her hair like the hands of a lover. Elrond raises his glass, looking somewhere behind the horizon.

I follow his sight - south from Rivendell, along the shadow of the mighty Hithaeglir. Near Glanduin, I see thirty riders in grey cloaks, resting after a whole day s ride. Just two of them are keeping watch. They are leaner than the rest of the riders, and their raven locks blow in the wind. My grandsons.... Do you ride to help your brother in his trials and battles? Oh, he will be glad to see you again....

For a moment, they watchful eyes turn to the south, and grow distant and wistful. "Happy birthday, Estel..." they whisper.

The wind turns for a moment, and carries their words to the grassy plains of Rohan, where it toys with the long green blades like with the waves of the sea, and sings tunes learned from the mournful whistles of shepherds greeting the dawn. It caresses your face, and soothes the tired eyes turned to the sky.

In Pelargir, the gulls sing about the Sea. I know their song.... I know the chorus of the waves on the shore, and the soft breeze bringing the scent of the sea on its wings. I know the voice calling to follow the setting sun...

Today, swords sing in Pelargir. In the head of an army you came, like a king returning to his kingdom. But the army is dead... The Dead have been summoned. A silver horn called them, in the hands of the heir of the one to whom they swore their oath, and they follow him to battle to fulfil it...

There are others who follow him, also. Not for an oath, but out of love and loyalty. My grandsons are among them, reminding me on the picture of my son fighting at the side of Elendil in the Lost Alliance. And the ranger called Halbarad rides at his side, and for some reason I feel a pang of sorrow when I look at him. He looked to the stars just before he entered the evil door under Morodruin, and his look was the look of one who wants to see them for the last time... But then his look changed to one of determination, and he entered the door without hesitation.

Oh Aragorn, you disappeared from my sight under the haunted mountain. I felt the darkness lying on my heart, the whispers of souls who could not find rest. All lights went out, and I could not show you the light of hope. The only light you had to guide you was the one in your heart...

The prophecy of Malbeth the Seer resonated in the skies like the echo of words spoken long ago, woken by the echoes of hoof beats under the mountain. From the North shall he come, need shall drive him... Need drives you, yes. What desperate need makes a man walk in the darkness and shadow of death? I saw the vast armies of Mordor, and the Corsair ships, preparing for a deadly strike at Gondor's heart. And I saw two hobbits on the very borders of Sauron's dark realm...

You have seen it too... In the palantír, five nights ago. I could only watch through the long hours of the night. I tried to touch you with my rays, but you did not see them – your mind was in another place, evil and terrible, and my light could not reach it – just like the paths under the mountain. Halbarad was with you, but just like me, he could not reach to you. But maybe you felt his presence, steadying you, the presence of a friend. Oh Aragorn, what evil did you face alone in that small room of Dúnharrow? It weighted on you like many years. I feared for you, I feared very much....

But you emerged from the darkness like the Moon after eclipse, victorious. The oath of the oathbreakers has been fulfilled, and no enemy will come to the White City in the black ships. Now the ships are yours... They are good ships, mighty and fast, although not elven-made. Their sails are black like the starless sky. Black is the banner that the fleet sails under, but from the darkness, light shines – white tree, and a crown and seven stars. The heir of Sea-kings returns to his kingdom in the tracks of his ancestors: from the sea. The singing, calling sea....

Oh Aragorn, you are mighty today. Despite the hardest ride in the shadow of the Dead, despite the weariness: your path lies clear before you. You sail to the White City. Black armies march from Mordor to turn the white walls red with blood and the light of devouring fires. You sail to war – to help your people. Elessar shines on your breast, and a white gem is upon your brow.

He was the heir of a fallen kingdom – the heir of Gondolin. But the lines of kingship, the names in the books of lore did not matter any more. What mattered were the people – both noble and simple, young and old. People lost in the darkness, people suffering. People who needed hope.... Always he liked far journeys, and the call of the sea. But now he watched the shore disappearing in the white foam behind his ship, and he knew that this is a journey that he will not return from. Only three men sailed with him. Three sailors... three friends. Falathar, Erellont and Aearandir. They had no families to return to, but he was leaving a wife and two sons behind. Heavy was his heart, but his determination was firm. He turned away from the shore, and stood on the prow, proud and tall, facing the vast waters ahead. On his breast, a green stone shone.

He sailed long and far, away from the known waters, away from the frozen hills of the North and flaming wastes of the South, away from the Mouth of Sirion and his family... Further and further he sailed beneath the starless sky, through the dark waters of unknown seas. They were calm and smooth like a black mirror. No sound was heard in the Night of Naught. The air was still and unmoving, heavy with the crushing silence. Nobody dared to speak in the ominous air of waiting. The splashing of the oars as they cut the smooth surface of water sounded almost sacrilegiously, the only sound in the sea of silence.

The wind came suddenly, without warning. The breath of wrath, the forbidding voice from the west. The punishment for the daring. The sea swelled. Waves like mountains towered above the ship. Crush her, break her, swallow her! Up and down. They jostled her about like a toy. From side to side. They punched the deck. They bathed it in salty spray. The wind veiled. The storm laughed.

Eärendil stood upright in the heart of wrath. His hands were clenched on the helm with all his force. He was bound to it with thick ropes. He gasped for breath every time a wave flooded the deck, but he didn't let go of the helm for even a moment to wipe the salty water from his eyes.

He faced the storm with a grim determination. He resisted the elements with all his will. No, he will not turn back! He will bring hope, hope for Middle-earth! Did the wind not see his determination? Did the waves not hear his voiceless prayers? They did not calm their wrath. He fought them for the whole night, refusing to turn back in failure...

The morning came without a dawn. The low hanging black clouds did not allow the rays of sun to reach the ship dancing without lead on the calming waves. The trap-door to the under deck opened hesitantly, and Falathar came out, staggering. Erellont and Aearandir followed him, looking anxiously for their captain. They feared they would find only an empty deck, that the fury of waves had swept him into a watery grave when he refused to leave the ship to be turned back by the storm.

But he was there... a limp figure at the helm, hanging from the ropes that he bound himself with. The wet cords were tight, biting into flesh. They didn't yield as they tugged on the knots. Erellont took out a dagger, and cut them quickly. Eärendil fell into Falathar's arms. The sailor lowered his captain to the deck gently, and searched for a pulse.

Eärendil opened his eyes slowly... and then his body curled in a convulsion as he threw up the salty water. Shivering, he sank into Falathar's arms again.

It is dark. I feel it. The thick oppressive darkness like a sticky web, binding and suffocating. Where? Where does the feeling come from? I am trapped somewhere underground, where the light of stars does not reach. No. Not me. It's my light, covered and hidden, unable to bring hope when all lights went out... The Phial of Galadriel. The hobbits... What dark paths do they thread? I feel their despair. It is so dark...

It was dark. The black clouds hung low, like a steady menace promising the wind of wrath to those who would dare to sail to the west, for those who would turn back after they were defeated by the wild storms.

Eärendil did not turn back. He stood at the helm of Vingilot, looking east. He did not speak for days, and not even Falathar dared to approach him. It was hard to tell one part of the day from another. It could be night, but no stars were visible.... They sailed through darkness. They sailed home, but there was no glory in their return. Just a dark foreboding and broken dreams....

Suddenly, a star rose on the east, a pale flame on wings of storm. A ray of light in the darkness. A ray of hope... Eärendil looked up, like entranced with the light. The star reflected in his eyes.

Shine! Shine through the darkness! The eternal night is strong and heavy – I feel the ancient malice standing against my light. I feel the hope of the heart that wields it. The hope rekindles the light. Shine! Drive the shadows away!

Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima! You call me. I am here.... I feel my light in your hand, the light trapped by Galadriel's song in the crystal phial, the light of hope that I am the messenger of, the light of the last Silmaril, the light of Two Trees, trapped by the skillful hands of Fëanor, the Flame Imperishable itself, the light older than time, and with that light, something of my will. I am here....

The darkness retreats. The light is victorious! Relief. Haste. Out, out of here! Trapped. Webs of darkness. Another takes the light. The webs yield. Freedom....

No! Do not cover the light! Do not hide it! The darkness lurks. It waits on the border where the light does not reach. A malicious will, an ancient evil in dreadful form. Oh Valar! The darkness... it is like the poison that killed the Two Trees. Like the webs of Ungoliath.... No, please no! Do not hide my light! It is the light of hope...

The light neared, like a white cloud exceeding swift beneath the moon. It wasn't a star. It moved too quickly, and in a strange course. It grew ever brighter. Eärendil followed it, not averting his eyes for a moment. Nearer and nearer it came. It illuminated the dark waters and the drops of foam were like pearls shining in the sun. It enveloped his ship in a globe of purity, in an island of light amidst the shadows.

That shine... he knew it! But how? How could it be... the Silmaril? The Silmaril! Carried on the wings of a bird – a beautiful gull with pristine white feathers. From the last bits of strength the gull reached the ship with swan-prow, and sank exhausted on her timbers. Eärendil caught the bird in his arms, and felt the little heart beating rapidly against his on chest, a quick melody in harmony with his own steady heartbeat.

It was then that, after the centuries in Morgoth's crown, the Silmaril became a symbol of hope. After it had been the reason of a fateful oath, after it had been imprisoned by darkness, after it had been the price and proof of love and then awakened greed and jealousy again, after all these sad events it received a new meaning – the meaning that it will bear from now on. Hope....

Fury and determination. A sword in hand. Bravery without pride. Loyalty. And hope.... It stands against the darkness. It stands, where the most courageous would waver. Where does that strength come from?

I know the strength in the middle of a battle, when blood boils and weariness and pain fade away in the sound of a battle cry, when not the mind but the heart moves the lips in defiance and fury, and you realize it is your voice first when you hear it echoing above the battlefield. I know the strength of the last stand, born of desperation, when there is nothing to lose, and the hope in that moment, born of everything noble and pure that is worth dying for.

But now, for the first time, I sense another strength. It does not taste of battle and glory. It tastes of simple things – of carefully grown strawberries in a fertile soil, and beer among friends in a warm evening. Some say that it is an honor to die for one's king. But here is another honor, quiet and selfless, doing great things in secret – for itself, not for the eyes of watchers. It is an honor to live and die for a friend....

There is the strength that comes from the belief that the world can be a good place where people can live a simple and joyful life in peace. For that belief, the sword does not waver when darkness is most horrible. For that belief my light shines now with a bright flame, and the darkness retreats, defeated by... a hobbit.

A hobbit. For centuries I have watched the face of Arda and those living in the mortal lands. I have witnessed great battles, bitter losses and glorious victories. I have witnessed the earth changing its shape, the rising of islands and falling of mountains, just like the kingdoms of my descendants rising and falling. I have seen both glory and diminishing of my line. But not often did my sight stray to the green land in the heart of Eriador. I noticed the strange folk that have settled it, coming from the valley of Anduin – it feels like just a short time ago. But it seemed not much was happening there, and there were other, greater things to watch. I see now how much I missed....

That land is peaceful now, under the starry sky of early spring. Just some of the round windows in a hillside shine with golden light into the night. A child is crying behind one of them, and then a woman's voice, rich like the warm soil of a sunny field, sings a lullaby about apples and ladybugs. A fiddle sounds from another window, and the sound of laughter, clinking glasses and dancing feet. There is a celebration today. Someone has birthday, maybe....

My little gardener, this is where your courage comes from. This is why the Ringbearer in not one of the Wise, nor a warrior. I wondered about the strange fellowship that set forth from Rivendell three months ago, counting four Periannath. I wondered about the decision that one of them should carry the fate of Middle-earth in his hands, in the form of a small golden ring. Now I wonder no more.

The grass in the Shire is green, and the first blossoms peak out of the soil and stretch their colorful petals to the sun. And at the borders of Mordor, two hobbits wander in the shadows. When all other lights go out, mine will shine. Not in the Phial, but in your heart. It is called Hope, and it tastes of strawberries....

Waiting. The entire world seems to be waiting. An army camps to the north-west of Morannon. The fires of twisted long-dead branches burn into the night. They enlighten the pale faces and glistening eyes straying to the darkness behind the circle of flickering light cast by the flames. Creatures of shadows creep there, and their eyes shimmer with menacing light.

Six thousand. That much stands against the entire might of Mordor. A desperate move, the last one. They do not sleep. Who knows what lurks in the dark corners of dreams in this place? They do not speak. The words are distracting, when every one of them is alone in the presence of the others, with his own thoughts, concentrating on the simple feeling of living, because tomorrow, it may not be true any more. Is this the end?

I seek one face among those six thousand. He watches the dance of flames with an absent-minded expression. What paths does his mind wander tonight? All the threads of fate connect here. This is the last step of the journey. Oh Aragorn, as I watch your face, like carven stone in the light of fires, I have tears in my eyes. So much toil, so much hard work and suffering to achieve this while, this day when everything will be decided, when everything can come in vain in one wrong step, one wrong movement.

What will I see when the stars will rise on the sky tomorrow? Will I search for your face among six thousand dead? This is not a march to victory. It is a sound of marching feet to conceal the sound of two silent footfalls, nearing to the Mount Doom... It is an eagle flying bravely to the nest of a dragon, so that a sparrow might slip between its claws...

The sky was filled with wings. Dragons and eagles locked in deadly fight, feathers and scales swooping in thought-quick pirouettes, and then falling to the ground carried with the wind slowly and calmly like a lazy rain, while their previous owners crashed into each other fiercely, claw against claw, beak against flame. And above them, in that strange silence above the clouds, a white swan faced a huge black dragon, seemingly helpless against his terrible power.

The land around Mount Doom is barren and grey. It takes all my attention to spot the two small figures curled among the sharp stones. Even in sleep, one is embracing the other protectively. They are so thin.... Their lips are parched, and eyes sunken deep in their sockets. When I watch them, my heart bleeds. It feels so wrong to see them thus... They are no warriors. Almost like children they look from above....

The simple strength and courage of their spirit astounds me. It feels like something precious, something that I see close to shattering now, and it is so painful to watch. They know it already. They know what I knew when I sailed to the West. This is a journey without return.... And yet they struggle on... to save that piece of green land that is simple and pure, not for themselves any more, but for those who know nothing about the rings and high towers, for those who know nothing about their sacrifice....

With heavy heart I avert my sight from the lands below. For the first time in many years I look up, to Varda's stars that shine like silver blossoms on trajectories above my own, and to the emptiness behind the stars. Tomorrow, the fate of Middle-earth will be decided. Will the stars shine unchanged? If the darkness veils the lands, will it reach to the stars, and make them wander lost in thick shadow, or fall to the ground and shatter like broken dreams? Maybe it would be better, than to watch the line of Elros obliterated and all hopes being broken, Gil-Estel like a mocking sign of something that is no more....

No, no, there is still hope! There always is.... I see the fires behind the Black Gate, twinkling like many small red eyes into the darkness, while a big eye of fire looks down from the Dark Tower. The black mass of a huge army lies there; ready to crush the Heir of Isildur and those faithful to him. They do not know that he is faithful too, and to something else than the power of kingship and foolish pride to challenge the Dark Lord. To the light, to his friends, and to an oath made in a time that seems like an entire life ago. If by life or death I can save you, I will.... The mass of Mordor's army lies in Udûn, and the way to the Mount Doom is clear.... No, as Arien rises on the sky with the bright light of dawn and I must return to my haven, I still believe in hope....

The ship with swan-prow charged against the dragon bravely. Eärendil grabbed the shield, and exchanged the sword for one of his spears. He stood on the prow of Vingilot, and the ship obeyed his very thoughts, even without his hand on the helm. The wind swept his hair, and his helmet reflected the fires of Angband. The Silmaril was like a white flame, tearing the shadows with its clear light. But the shadow of the dragon was of thick darkness.

Ancalagon turned in the air to shatter the ship with his claws. Vingilot changed her direction in the last moment, avoiding the claws by mere inches. Eärendil waited for a chance to throw the spear. As if the dragon would know it, he turned cunningly, avoiding exposing any softer spots, like a knight in full plate armour.

Vingilot made a wide arc, and turned back to attempt another throw. But Ancalagon attacked first this time. Right before he could catch the swan's wing with his sharp teeth, she sank like a stone through the layer of clouds in the attempt to avoid him.

Before Eärendil could balance the ship and rise again, a column of fire shot after him. A cry of pain told the dragon that he succeeded, but before he could attack again, Eärendil evened the flight with clenched teeth, and rose above the clouds again.

The dragon did not expect that, and for a moment his belly was exposed to Eärendil's spear. It flew with full strength from the Mariner's hand. But the dragon's scales were thick even there, and the spear made only a shallow scratch, annoying the dragon more the harming him. Quickly Vingilot swept to the side and Eärendil reached for another spear.

So they danced together, a deadly dance in the sky through the long hours of night. The pristine white swan-ship was stained with smouldering traces of the dragon's flame now, and Eärendil barely stood on his legs, shaking with exhaustion and the pain from his burns. Three times he managed to throw a spear. First time he scratched Ancalagon's belly, but the second time he missed. The third spear remained embedded in the black wing, slowing the dragon slightly, but making him even more furious. Evil red light glistened in his eyes.

He bid Vingilot to fly like an arrow, right against the dragon, a white flame against a terrible shadow. The first ray of sun glistened on the Silmaril with thousands of reflections. Ancalagon's jaws clasped, but missed, blinded momentarily. Vingilot made a sharp curve in the last moment, and flew straight down, Eärendil's hair blowing in the wind. As the dragon turned to hit her with his tail, he uncovered his armpit. Eärendil's spear flew with deadly accuracy, the light of the Silmaril reflecting on its point like living fire.

The dragon roared in pain, and with a last thrust he swung his tail at the ship, to swipe down in his final moments the tiny Man who mortally wounded him. Eärendil managed to lift the shield, but the force of the blow broke his arm with a sickening crack, and sent him flying across the deck.

Through a red haze he felt himself falling... they were falling together – the black dragon and the white ship, entangled in deathly throes. An impact. It sent him across the deck again until the rail stopped him. He moaned in pain. But it was not the ground... He was not falling any more, but moving gently up and down, as though carried by the wings of a bird. Manwë's eagles... he realized dimly, as the force of another impact far belowshook Vingilot. The sound of crumbling stones, no, entire mountains, rose to the sky, but Eärendil no longer perceived it, rocked gently by the beats of eagles' wings.

When he woke, he found himself lying on the cot in his own cabin. He knew the feeling of smooth and even flight, and he knew that Vingilot was sailing among the stars again, guided by a steady hand. He opened his eyes slowly, and blinked a few times. Everything was blurry, but a fresh scent was in the air. A wave of pain assaulted him suddenly, as he became aware of his injuries, and made him nearly cry out.

Someone leaned over him then; he felt the presence of a Maia. The Ainu supported his head gently, and poured some sweet liquid into his mouth. It soothed the pain, and soon his sight focused on the Maia's face. It was Olórin.... Eärendil relaxed, and closed his eyes.

He woke a few times after that, and always the Maia was with him, washing his brow and holding his hand while Vingilot sailed to the West. Once he had the feeling that he heard the cry of a gull from his sleep, but his eyelids were too heavy to lift and the darkness too warm and inviting....

It was Elwing's face that he saw when he opened his eyes again. He was in a soft bed. After a while the memory came. The bed was his own, in Elwing's white tower.... She smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back weakly. The war was over. Morgoth was defeated....

I stand high in the tower, and let the East wind blow into my face. It toys with the eagle feather in my hair. It was Thorondor's gift, after that battle where he saved my life... And Éonwë has made a bow for me, from one of Ancalagon's black horns. It hangs in my cabin on Vingilot now, and dust falls on it. It was long ago, a great battle in another age of the world. But somewhere there, to the East, another battle is going on, and I do not know what is happening there. I wonder now: what is worse? Fighting myself, feeling the pain and exhaustion, dancing on the thin line between life and death, or this oppressive uncertainty? The silence... An expecting silence...

Suddenly the wind brings a change. It is fresh and clear, as if a great evil had passed,and the land breathed out in relief. It brings pictures of crumbling dark towers and bonds of darkness breaking, and above the vision, an eagle flies, and sings:

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
for your watch hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King hath passed through,
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and the City shall he blessed.

Your King shall come again... There is a lump in my throat. Your King shall come again... How beautiful are those words...They did it! The hobbits fulfilled the quest that seemed almost impossible. Aragorn, my son, what seemed like a sacrificeturned to victory! You live, and you are victorious! Sing all ye people! Sing, for a great enemy is defeated, and light shines on the land again! Sing, for the line of Elros will bear the winged crown again! Sing, for the hobbits... Oh. Oh no... The hobbits! What happened to them? Did they survive? Could they survive? Sing... Oh yes, sing. But is the hymn a dirge for them? What will you tell me about them, messenger of Manwë? Why are you silent? Why don't you sing anymore?

The eagle looks at me, and like in a memory, I see Vingilot, supported by Thorondor and his eagles while a black dragon crashes to the ground. But the image changes. Two hobbits are carried out of fire in the claws of the eagles... I sigh with relief. Thank you, oh thank you, messenger of Manwë for coming to me in my uncertainty! For once, the message of my light was also for me. I believed in hope, and it fulfilled.... The Dark Tower crumbles, and the Tower of Guard stands proudly in the light of a new day. Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West!

The eagle's song - J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King, Book VI, Chapter 5: The Steward and the King

Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!

Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.

The words still echo in the skies, spoken several hours ago, reverberating between the stars, mixing with a memory: It is the second time that I have heard them. Just like the first time, they mark a new beginning. Elendil was the first to speak them, after the fall of Númenor. But almost, almost his words were not true. The line of his heirs faltered, and its end seemed near. Years became centuries, and the throne of Gondor stood empty under the white flag of stewards. Proud towers became ruins, and the last hope of the kingly line struggled like a flickering flame in the wilderness. Tales of fame became legends and Númenoreans became Rangers as the world shrouded in darkness. But strength cannot become weakness, and the blood of the Heirs of Isildur was still strong and true – the blood of Elros. My blood.

The crown of the Sea-kings is winged. You stand on the walls with the crown on your head, and let the wind play with your hair. The reflections of stars on the green stone on your breast match the light of Númenor in your eyes. It is my light that reflects there... Not Aragorn, The Chieftain of Dúnedain stands there, but Elessar, the King of Gondor. Elessar, Elfstone, carrying the name of the gem that I bore on my breast once. That gem helped to heal the wounds of the Mouth of Sirion. Bearing its name, you will heal the wounds of Middle-earth...

You take down the crown and turn it in your hands. Is it too heavy for you, Elessar? I know it can be, and it will be sometimes, but I know also that you are prepared for it. You trace the beautifully crafted wings of pearls and silver with your fingers. Out of the Sea, they flew like a shining bird once, carrying the faithful remnants of the fallen Númenor. Out of the wrath of the waves, to a new home. Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come.

The air was clear like a bright crystal with sharp edges reflecting a sweet song, almost inaudible and yet present deep in the heart of the breeze. The Sea was infinite in every direction, a cover of deep-blue satin guarding the secrets of the depths, as for almost the entire journey since the shores of Middle-earth disappeared behind the horizon. But in the West, a faint light shone like a thin line of pale dawn. Yet the morning passed long ago...

It was a blue outline first, a mirage blending with the blue of the sea and blue of the sky. With the shortening distance the blue shattered into colours. Green for the woods and white for the shores, shining like diamonds under the clear sky. Blue and grey and white for the mountains, a mighty wall touching the clouds, with one peak rising high above the others, into the heavenly streams where the stars sail. The music resonated in the air like its very substance.

Eärendil stood on the prow of Vingilot, clutching Elwing's hand in his. He felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and through their connected hands he could feel her heartbeat, matching his. For a moment, their hearts turned not to the East, mourning over the tragedy in the havens of Sirion and the uncertain fate of their sons, but to the West. The shores of Valinor... After all the perils of the journey, the wrath of air and water, of waves and storms, the shores of Valinor shone before them. In awe they passed the green hills of Tol Eressëa, but did not stop there. The Bay of Eldamar opened before them, like dazzling white arms of a fruitful land, awaiting. So sweet, so calm, so unlike the shadows and enchantments protecting it before those who arrive uninvited...

Sand rasped under the hull of the ship. The movement stopped suddenly, and sent them stumbling forwards and clutching the rails for support. Then everything was quiet, as if the very land was holding its breath. Eärendil felt the sweat on his palms. For weeks Vingilot was the only firm ground under their feet, dividing them from the blue depths. For centuries Middle-earth suffered under Morgoth's darkness. But for all the ages, the foot of a mortal didn't stand on these shores...

Eärendil took a deep breath, and jumped over the rail. Salty foam embraced his feet as they sank into the soft sand. He staggered - a sailor used to the swaying deck of his ship. For a few steps, he struggled to keep his balance, but then laughed aloud, and sank to his knees. The light of the Silmaril shimmered in the white sand with thousands of reflections. The sand clung to his clothes... but it was no sand. It was the dust of diamonds.

Too soon the laugh died. Eärendil turned back, to the deck of Vingilot, from where his wife and the three sailors followed him. He remembered his task, and all the sorrows of Middle-earth. He reached the shores of Valinor, but did not succeed yet. He looked into the eyes of each of the sailors in turn. Fallatar, Erellont and Aerandir, trusted friends and companions in the dangerous journey. And at last, he looked into the eyes of his wife, and held her sight for a while. "Here none but myself shall set foot," he spoke, "lest you fall under the wrath of the Valar. But that peril I will take on myself alone, for the sake of the Two Kindreds..."

White are the walls of Minas Tirith, reflecting the light of stars like the dust of diamonds on the shores of Valinor. You do not look to the West, though. You look to the North. There, in a hidden valley, blossoms a fair flower of twilight that you left for the sake of all free folk of Middle-earth, not knowing if you will see her again. You took the peril of that fight on your shoulders, and you were victorious! But where is she? I see the longing in your eyes. Does the flower blossom for you still?

But Elwing answered: "Then would our paths be sundered for ever; but all thy perils I will take on myself also..." and she leaped into the white foam and ran towards him.

In Rivendell, many lights are lit. Horses wait in the courtyard, and riders in cloaks of grey silk, like cobwebs glistening with dew in the morning, standing as silent as statues, each holding a lantern that casts flickering shadows on the arches and balconies of the Last Homely House. In the door, a maiden stands, with hair like the wings of night. She has no lantern, and yet she shines in the dusk, an Evenstar rising in the sky. My granddaughter.

She looks at the house once more. A long, wistful look – the last one. Then she turns, and closes her eyes. Two tears roll down her cheeks like pearls. But then she smiles, and opens her eyes. She looks forwards, and her look is full of hope and expectation – a bride taking leave of her parents' house. Elrond approaches her quietly, and she slips her hand into his. He leads her slowly; his step almost ceremonial, and helps her to mount a white mare. Then the entire company mounts, and they ride into the night, leaving the Last Homely House behind. She does not look back.

And I smile like one who knows about a secret surprise. The groom stands on the walls of Minas Tirith, looking to the North with a wistful expression while behind him, a celebration is going on. The music sounds and calls to dance, and in the light of torches mead shines in the goblets like liquid gold, and wine is a ruby with flickering reflections. He sighs, and tears his sight away from the long miles dividing him from his Evenstar, not knowing that with every moment, they are shortening.

Then he turns back to the city – to his people, and smiles again. Still the City bears the scars of war, and the tears of widows have not dried yet. But today, all horrors are forgotten. This night is the night of celebration, for today, the King returned! Suddenly flowers of light blossom over the city. Fireworks! Blue, and green, and red, and yellow, they rain in thousands of sparkles on the astonished people. And at the end, a white light blossoms, and there, the White Tree shines in the sky, with seven stars and a winged crown. The picture imprints deeply in my mind, and for a moment, I see nothing for the bright lights. But when it abates, there are two figures on the walls. Olórin's white robes are smeared by soot in places, but he smiles broadly, and Aragorn laughs.

Then they walk down together, and join the crowd. Aragorn talks to the people, and soon, as if from nowhere, a glass of wine appears in his hand. He toasts with soldiers, and peasants and nobles, and smiles. That smile even broadens, when he toasts with the hobbits, and watches them alternately dance and teach the minstrels the "proper Shire music". It is the night of celebration...

I should have a bottle of wine somewhere on my ship, too... It was untouched, since Arathorn died. To too many of my descendants I have toasted on their last journey, the bitter wine thorough tears. But now, it is a toast to a new beginning. Cheers!

I sip the wine slowly, and follow the dance and music below. Only one thing bothers me. Aragorn, my son, tell me, why the coronations are always held in the mornings? Ah yes, evenings are for celebrations, I know... But I wished to see the moment when the winged crown was laid on your brow. I wished to see it, like a proud father – like I wished to see Elros' coronation. Two ages are between you, and yet you stand next to each other in my mind: two tall men, dark-haired and keen-sighted. Is it that spark in your eyes that reminds me on him? A light of command and kindness, in eyes grey like the sea after a storm.

I didn't see the coronation, the moment when all the years of hard work came to fulfilment. But I saw those years, the tireless labour whose goal seemed so far and uncertain. I didn't see the coronation, but I saw the king. The crown does not change much. It is heavy with responsibility, like a marriage with the land that you will rule. The responsibility that you lived for almost all your life, expressed in a white crown. The title changes - how many names and titles did you have during the years! – but the man does not. No ceremony can change who you are, it just shows it. You are a king, like you have always been...

Out of the Great Sea, from Middle-earth I am come. That is the place I left behind, for my heirs, unto the ending of the world...

J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King, Book VI, Chapter 5: The Steward and the King

“At last I understand why we have waited! This is the ending. Now not day only shall be beloved, but night too shall be beautiful and blessed and all its fear pass away!”

A procession nears the White City. The horses have ribbons and little bells in their manes, and walk with a light step, their heads lifted proudly. They are elven horses, and the riders are elves. For a long time these lands have not seen such aprocession, and the very stones of the road sing under the hooves of the horses, and the flowers open in the evening to welcome them. The elves ride – kings and queens and princes, like from the pages of some old, noble tale. The land welcomes them, their arrival like a sign of healing after the long war.

High and proud are the first two riders, their raven hair adored with simple circlets. Elladan and Elrohir ride first, bearing a banner of silver. They have been here already, fighting in the battles of the war at the side of their mortal brother. They have been here, and so they lead the others, to many meetings and reunions... and to many partings, at the end, but nobody thinks of the partings now. The hooves clatter on the white road, and the wind spreads the silver banner under the silver stars of a sapphire sky, while the flame of Arien still lightens the western horizon like a golden crown.

The people stand on the walls of the White City, looking in awe and astonished silence. Before them, tales of legends unfold. The tales of a mighty Balrog-Slayer who returned from death, tales of a powerful queen of a secret forest, where the leaves do not fall, but turn to gold, and her king... They ride there, and with them many of their folk, fair elves from Rivendell and Lothlórien. And at the end of the procession, a lordly figure rides, bearing the sceptre of Annúminas. It is Elrond, the Master of Rivendell, and beside him upon a grey palfrey rides Arwen his daughter, Evenstar of her people.

The stars shine brightly on the sky, the silver blossoms sewn by Varda’s shining hand... and me – a wandering Mariner-star. But the King of Gondor does not look at them, because before the gates of Minas Tirith, Evenstar is rising.... No more shall the night be feared for its darkness. It would seem that my purpose is finished, for I am no more a single ray of hope in the night. No more shall it cover the creatures lurking in the shadows, for the lines of my two sons shall unite today, and from that union, hope shines like a star – the hand of the Evenstar her father will put into Estel’s....

Two kings meet before the gates of the White City, even if only one bears the crown, winged like the swan-prow of Vingilot, and I am proud on them both.... Elrond walks like the king of Noldor in Middle-earth, although he refused the title, a wise and kind ruler... and proud, also. I see the fatherly pride as he stands before his equal – the king of Men, his son...

He smiles as he puts the sceptre of Annúminas into Aragorn’s hands. Arnor has a king again, and the two kingdoms of Elendil’s sons are united under one crown today. The two kingdoms of Men have a king... and a queen. A smile is still on Elrond’s face as he takes a treasure greater than the ancient sceptre – his daughter’s hand.

With one gesture, he unites the hands of his children – the one strong and weather-beaten, calloused by sword and yet gentle and healing, and the delicate one, with slender fingers and alabaster skin, like the opening petals of white roses. They connect in perfect harmony, as if they would be incomplete without each other....

“Ouch!” Eärendil put the bleeding finger into his mouth. He blushed as the girl chuckled, not knowing that she was the reason for his clumsiness, as he had been looking at her instead of the ship he had been repairing.

She had grown up, and it was only now, upon his return from his first long sea voyage, that he realised it. No more was she the little girl with big, frightened eyes, playing with the blue-eyed boy from a city that was no more. She reminded him of a little bird, lost from its nest, and he was the only one she told about her fears, about the bad men with bloody swords that haunted her dreams. To her, he could tell about his nightmares of dragons and a burning city, even when he wanted to look like a brave boy before the others. He knew she would understand....

But she was not that girl any longer, and he felt his heartbeat quicken as she approached him with a graceful step, revealing a budding womanhood.

“Show me your finger...” she said, and he found himself unable to do anything than obey. Their hands touched, and in that moment he knew they belong together....

And yet he had left her.... The happiness of one man was less important than the fate of Middle-earth, however uncertain the success. He stood at the rail of his ship and looked back, at the thin white lace of waves breaking on the shore that washed the feet of his wife and two little sons, the blue water like the last connection between them, holding long after the three figures disappeared on the horizon.

I saw your face, when you were leaving Rivendell a few month ago, Aragorn, so many trials and fights behind you, and even more ahead.... I knew that expression of forced calm, when the heart wants to scream and stop time, freeze it in one moment where she is forever near.... I knew the desperate attempts to catch one more glimpse of the beloved face without anyone else noticing, to catch a glimpse of the life that will never be the same again, I knew them, because they were my own....

He opened his eyes onto a new day. The sky was bright, and the sea calm. The light was still there, its reflections dancing on the waves like diamonds on blue silk. The light of hope, the Silmaril carried by a white bird out of the grey clouds. But it was not a bird any more.... With bated breath he traced the features of her face with his eyes. The tender mouth, the big, almond-shaped eyes, covered with dark eyelashes in the rest of an exhausted sleep.... The eyes opened, and met his.

They are alone. The people of Gondor welcomed their queen, and the street winding its way through the seven gates of the city was lined with flowers. Still the songs sound there and the sound of music and dancing feet. But on the balcony of the King’s House, turned to the square where the sapling of the White Tree grows, it is quiet.

He touches her face with his fingertips, as if not believing that this moment is true.

She smiles, and as the light of the Silmaril falls on her face, she resembles her grandmother Elwing so much....

In my light, their lips connect. Like a dream came true, like two parts of one whole uniting after a painful separation, two voices singing one song that is sad and longing when sounding alone....

Your fate is decided, my granddaughter. It is a good fate, and a good decision – believe the one who has made his own decision out of love. I too have chosen to stay with my beloved one, bound to the fate of Arda for all her Ages. But I don’t regret. You will know what’s hidden from me, know what’s beyond the circles of the world, and know it hand in hand with the man you love. You will not regret either.

Maybe it will look like a short time to you, a mere wink of an eye compared to the ages given to the Firstborn. But those ages... they would be infinite and empty without love. I faced them once, in the moment when the shore of Middle-earth disappeared in the blue waters of the sea. Maybe they were just mortal years, maybe just days if the wrath of Valar falls on the fragile ship and severs the line between life and death in the cold depths, and yet they seemed infinite when my wife and sons remained on the distant shore.

Yours is the choice of Lúthien. Did the Valar know it when they had given that choice to me and Elwing? Blood both mortal and immortal circled in our veins, and we entered a realm where mortals were forbidden to walk, and the Noldor forbidden to return. We contravened both, and yet we were given the choice, we and all descendants from our body.

That choice has given Elrond the long and patient years of a Firstborn, and to Elros a short but full mortal life, and a line of heirs leading to the one who stands in my light now. And to you, it has given a union that willlast beyond death....

You both bear the reminder of me in your name, Estel and Evenstar, and once again I am glad I decided to sail against the winds of the wrath, for the choice given to me made that union possible to you.

The kiss lasts, and hands are searching... no, I will not look anymore. I will leave you to your privacy, my children. Instead, my sight stops on a lonely figure in another window. Elrond needs my light tonight....

You are losing your child, my son, and I know how it hurts. It would seem that this choice has brought you only pain. It separated you from your brother, and now you have to take leave of your daughter, to not see her until the end of time when the last age of Arda comes to fulfilment like the final chord of a magnificent song.

And yet a slight smile plays on your lips. Sometimes I watched you in the long evenings in the fresh air in Rivendell, carrying the sound of waterfalls with the gusts of wind. I saw the pain in your face when you were looking in the direction where the travels have led your son, sometimes not even sure what the correct direction was. I could almost hear the inner voice accusing you that you have been too cruel to him, that it will be your fault if the line of kings remains heirless. I know you always wanted them to be happy, even for the price of your own happiness.

It was not just the hand of your daughter, worthy only of a king. He was a king long before the crown was put on his head, and we both know it, my son. But he was a mortal. You knew you will lose him like Elros, and it hurt. The thought of losing two of your children hurt even more, but it was not only the pain that made you stand in the way of their union. It was also a debt to the brother you have lost...

Elros wanted to lead Men to greatness and nobility, and great was the glory of Númenor. Maybe even too great, and it became too proud. But always there have been those who remained faithful to his message and to the old honour. Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth they came. Great were the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor in their times, but now, only a despised handful of the Dúnedain remained from the noble kingdom of Elros.

And you, you could not see the memory of your brother forgotten and obliterated. You gave their chieftains shelter, taught them the old lore, and maybe you have seen the face of your brother in their faces, and a hope for renewing the greatness that has been once. That hope came after many centuries, and you named him Estel....

But he became more to you. He found his place in your heart, and became dear to you like your own son. For Elros, and for himself, you hoped for that, what you have seen fulfilled today, for the sight the greeted you at the gates of the White City: Elros’ heir bearing the crown of the Sea-kings again, the White Tree blowing from the top of Ecthelion’s tower, and the one flowering on the Fountain square, from the line of the fair Nimloth growing in the gardens of Númenor. That was your hope, your Estel. You would not set such a hard condition if you did not believe that it was in his power to fulfil it. And he did! Gondor and Arnor have a king again, and your children found their happiness together. But you are losing them....

“Our sons?” he asked after he overcame the astonishment of having his wife in his arms again, the miracle of feeling her skin under his finger, and tasting her sweetness with his lips. But that moment passed, and the question came, grave and uncertain.

She disentangled herself from his embrace, and leaned on the rail at the stern, looking to the east. For a long while, she stood there unmoving, a statue of a mother mourning her children. Then she sighed, and turned to him.

Then she told him about the kinslaying in the Havens of Sirion, and he joined her at the rail, mourning the uncertain fate of their sons that they will never see again. Long they stood there, and the Silmaril enlightened their journey to the West, while their hearts remained in the East....

Now I know that you both survived, thanks to the kindness of Maglor son of Fëanor. I could even watch you grow and mature, and have your own children. A watcher I could be, but nothing more. A watcher, not a father.... Yet now that the war is ended, and the calling of the Sea is strong in all elven souls, I hope that finally, finally I will be able to embrace you and soothe the pain of your loss. I await you, my son....

10. A hope fulfilled

Autumn 3021 T. A. / 1 F. A.

Back and forth. Back and forth. The waves reach the shore with a steady rhythm, white crests of foam breaking on the white sand. I wait. It seems the longest waiting in my life. Not even in the moments when I waited before the gates of Ilmarin to look into the faces of the Powers, did I feel thus. Back and forth. Back and forth. The waves sing their song. And with every tone the ship carrying my son is nearer to the shores of Eldamar. Elwing has flown ahead already, a white gull hurrying to greet the arriving ship. But I wait. For once I am the one who is waiting in the harbour for a ship to arrive, and suddenly I understand all the wives and mothers of mariners. Back and forth. Waiting in the rhythm of waves. Soon I will see my son...

-oOo-

The light of Gil-Estel was dimmed that night. Slowly, the waves of the sea quieted their wrath, but the island of Númenor was no more. Long had Eärendil looked down on the place where the white streets and singing fountains used to be, and gardens full of flowers. He had led the ships to Elenna himself, showing them the way to the island with his light... Now the blue depths swallowed everything, the vast horizons of his beloved sea. Cruel, cruel sea... He looked down and wept.

The shape of the world had changed, and he watched with horrified fascination as the sea beneath him receded and circled into itself, while the land of Valar remained where it had ever been, distant and unreachable. But his ship did not sail the earthly seas, but followed the direct way and landed in Valinor, at the place where the fleet of Ar-Pharazôn had landed not even a day before. Now, a new hill stood there, a quiet mass that looked like it had been standing since the beginning of time. But beneath the hill, the last king of Númenor with his army slept a dreamless sleep until the end of ages. Or did they dream? Nobody would know. And nobody would ask them any more.

Eärendil went ashore and knelt in the white sand. While Arien was rising on the sky, he remained there, unmoving, while the waves behind him sang their song, so peaceful now after the horror that they had caused. Back and forth... He stood up, and walked without looking back. He did not stop, nor slow under the hot summer sun. Only at the gates of Ulmo's palace in Valmar did he stop, refusing to acknowledge that the Vala only seldom dwelt there. He knocked mightily at the pearl gate, just one question burning in his mind.

"How could you?" he cried out, and hammered at the gate with his fists. "How could you?" He repeated the question over and over, accompanying every blow. "How could you?" The gate yielded, and it was something else that he was striking now, but he did not stop, not even when he realized that it felt like fish scales... Somebody was holding him, but he refused to look up and acknowledge the presence, lost in his own world of blind grief.

"How could you?" the question became a sob, and the punches weakened and died. He found himself in an embrace, calm and strong like the Sea.

No answer came, just a soothing presence, reminding him of the calling of the endless blue horizon... and suddenly he realized just who it was he had punched. His head spun, and then things became muddled and he was sinking, sinking into the cold depths where strange things live and the pressure crushes everything that dares to dive so deep... it was dark and calm there... timeless... he was so tired... sinking… sinking deeper and deeper, but he did not struggle. All feelings seeped into the dark waters, leaving only emptiness inside. Calm and dark nothingness, like in a mother's womb – no colours, no memories, no names...

Light seeped through his closed eyelids, painting them red. He was lying on something soft, and there was no pressure but fresh air around him. He did not want to open his eyes; just stay in the tempting nothingness. But the memories already hovered on the edge of his mind, returning inevitably like a stone thrown up after reaching the highest point of its ascent. With a sigh, he opened his eyes. Someone was leaning over him, an ageless face, rough but kind...

"L...L-l-lord Ulmo..." he stuttered as he remembered everything. Everything... The island, the Sea, the people... He sat up wildly, and ignored the spinning world. "How could you?" he asked again, clearly and with a trace of accusation. "There were people..."

The Vala sighed, and he looked just like any Man or Elf in that moment. He did not say anything, offered no explanation, no apology.

Eärendil was shaking, but he did not avert his eyes, blue like the sea that was Ulmo's realm. The silence stretched, and the tension between them grew. Surprisingly, the Vala was the one who averted his eyes first.

"We did not want this..." Ulmo whispered, and Eärendil took a sharp intake of breath at the helplessness of those words. We did not want this... But it happened. The proud island of Númenor was no more, and Valinor was taken from the circles of the world, out of mortal reach and temptation. We did not want this, but there was no other way...

Eärendil hid his face in his palms. Suddenly he realized that he does not feel anger any more. It was gone from his heart, washed away by the dark and cold waters. Just the memory of it lingered in his mind, made him accuse the Valar. But there was nobody to accuse. Just the pride of Men... Why did he come here? Once he followed Ulmo's voice. He trusted him when he crossed the vast seas. He always heard the song of the sea in his veins, rising and ebbing like a tide in his blood. Yet this was the first time that he had come here. Even now, he was still in awe of the Valar, and did not seek them willingly, not even the one who had been always kind to Men, and a guide to the sailors...

"You have never come here..." Ulmo's quiet words echoed his thoughts, but there was no accusation in them, just sadness.

Eärendil kept his gaze on his own hands.

"I awaited you..." the Vala sighed. "Someone else awaits you also..."

Someone else? Eärendil looked up in confusion. Who else could await him?

Ulmo did not say anything more, but he gestured to the door in the corner of the room. As if of their own will, they opened, and revealed a corridor.

Eärendil looked at the door and at the Vala, but he received no further explanation. He stood up tentatively, and walked to the door. The corridor behind them was short, just a few steps, and behind the corner, another room opened.

Eärendil froze in place. He recognized that room. It did not seem to belong to Ulmo's palace. It looked too ordinary, but in the same time, so very familiar. Just like the rooms in the house of his parents in the Havens of Sirion. And it was not empty...

"Mother?" he asked when he found his voice. Those golden curls could not belong to anyone else, and yet he could not believe it.

She stood up, and turned, an expression of disbelief on her face. "Eärendil!" she cried out with joy. In the next moment he found himself in her embrace, and it was just like he remembered it, as if not centuries, but mere day were between this moment and the one when she had given him her farewells together with the green stone.

"I asked for you, but nobody told me anything..." he explained to her shakily. "Lady Yavanna said that I ask too much, and the purpose of my journey was to deliver a plea for help, not to find my parents..."

She held him gently, and there was an echo of a sigh in her voice. "You never came here..."

Another hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up in surprise. His eyes met another, just as blue as his.

"We dwelt with our Lord since we reached the Blessed Realm. We heard rumours about your journey, and expected to see you when you come to pay tribute to him. I was allowed to live only in his dwelling," said Tuor.

"Father..." Eärendil breathed out in awe. "But... I thought you are dead..."

"When we reached Valinor, I was counted with the Firstborn, at a request of my lord Ulmo, but only as long as I remain in his halls..."

Eärendil closed his eyes, unable to speak. All the time they have been here... If he had just come... But it had taken the drowning of the entire island to force him to seek out lord Ulmo in anger – and receive pity in return, and a gift, delayed for his own stubbornness. He blamed the Valar for hiding the fate of his parents from him – but for the entire time, it was he who just had to reach out, and come to them to learn about it. Did he learn nothing from his journey? He did not come for himself, but to ask for help for all Ilúvatar's children dwelling in Middle-earth. That was the reason that moved the hosts of Valar. And so he had to find his parents also – not coming for the desire of his own heart, but for another, unselfish reason. If he would ever come to pay tribute to the Vala who has guided him and his father so often, he would find them. But in his awe and fear to bother the Powers, he did not come. Today, finally, he came – not for himself, but for the people of Númenor, however proud and overbearing – and so he found what he longed for.

He had parents again...

-oOo-

Back and forth. The waves sing on the sand, and with every rhythm of the song the white ship is nearing. It can already be seen in the bay, the sails just as big as the gulls crying in the port. It is growing, coming nearer and nearer, carried by the blue waves of Ulmo's sea. Soon it will land. Soon I will see my son. Soon...

Ropes are thrown from the ship to the pier, and secured safely. This time, I am not the one to throw the rope, nor secure it. The movements are so familiar, the smells, the feelings – the salty breeze, and the slight roll of the ship on the waves when the ropes are being tightened, the first step on the firm ground... Yet this time, I am not the one experiencing them. I just watch and wait. Just watch and wait, as the plank is lowered from the ship, and all hold their breath, expecting who will be the first to set foot on the soil of the Undying Lands. Watch and wait...

White light shimmers on the water. For a moment, I see a powerful flame, burning like an encouraging light in the hearts of those who look at it. Then the light abates, and there is a figure in white robes, old and yet not old, looking at the beauty of the Undying land with the eyes of one who has seen death. Tears are in his eyes, as he lifts his face to feel the wind from Taniquetil on it. Olórin returned home...

He turns, and smiles at the two figures following him, to encourage them. They are small like children, and their step is as light as the leaves of wheat stroking the warm soil as their bare feet touch the white sand, stumbling slightly on the firm ground after spending weeks on the Sea. I do not see this time, but I feel it – the light that one of them bears in him, that one that remains from a pure spirit when everything else is swallowed by darkness. It resonates with the light in the phial he is bearing, hidden now, but I sense it, because it's the light of hope – my light... I am honoured that I could be a part of this tale. He would not recognize me, but I smile at him as our eyes meet. I smile, and I bow to the Ringbearer. Praise them with great prise!

The air shimmers, and I feel a Presence. The Valar are here... Unclad they came to greet the ones arriving, not receiving honours, but giving them with their presence. From a gust of wind, a tall figure steps out, like from a door, and a next one appears as a shining point in the air - a living star whose rays give shape to the figure of a beautiful woman. The Elder King came with his Queen to greet those who saved Middle-earth, but found no place for themselves in it any more.

"Welcome, Frodo and Bilbo Baggins," the Queen of Stars speaks with a voice like silver bells.

For a moment, they just look at the kingly pair, at a loss for words. But then the older one – Bilbo - bows hastily, nudging the younger one to do the same. "At the service of yours and your family, my lord and lady," he answers, and Frodo echoes him with "At your service..."

The Lord of Winds smiles warmly. "Welcome home..." he says, and then he turns to all who stand before him, and to all those on the ship. To them all belong his words…

Olórin bows his head gratefully, looking with love at his lord. It lasts only for a moment, and there are no words, but I know they are speaking together, telling more in a blink of an eye than with days of words. And then I see Manwë, the lord of Valar, embracing his returning Maia. In the next moment I must wonder if what I saw was real, for the Valar faded into the clean air just as they appeared, and Olórin leads to hobbits to their new home. A great white horse follows him, trotting with his head lifted proudly, clearly glad to have stable ground under the hooves again.

But I turn to the ship again, because the one I'm expecting has not entered the pier yet. Another passenger leaves the ship, walking with a slow step. I see white again, but it is not a proud, radiant white. It is a simple colour, humble, and yet solemn, like the colour of wisdom. An elven woman walks down the pier, looking uncertain, as if she is not sure if someone will be expecting her. I have been told about her departure, nearly three ages ago. She had been proud then, looking for a realm where she could rule herself, away from anyone who would tell her what to do – a queen she wanted to be, powerful and magnificent.

It was Artanis Nerwen who entered a ship to Middle-earth. It is Galadriel who returns. She passed the test of her own pride, and remained herself – and so she returns: not a queen, but a simple woman who knew both suffering and love, who knew that ruling means serving and protecting, knew grief for a land caught in a stream of time. She did not find power in Middle-earth. She found herself.

Now she looks around at the shores of her home, dignified and solemn as her bare feet touch the white sand, and yet there is uncertainty in her. Slow steps sound behind me, and from her look, I know it is the one whom she long and yet feared to see. Her father...

Finarfin walks forwards slowly, and stops before her. They are looking at each other for a few moments, without a movement, without a word. I know he has been waiting for this while too, waiting with hope and a little anxiety for the meeting with his daughter. How much did she change? Will he recognize her? Now they stand near each other, but the Sea is still between them, and they have to cross it themselves.

She takes a shaky breath, and bows deeply. "Forgive me, father..." she whispers.

Finarfin doesn't move for a moment yet, but compassion is in his eyes, imagining what his daughter had to go through to become what she is now. He lifts her up. "My child..." he breathes out, and embraces her tightly. "You returned..."

She smiles through tears. "Yes, father... I'm home again..."

Oh, how I long to hear that word from my own son... How long have I waited for this moment... But I am even more anxious than Finarfin. It was me who left, and my sons were just little boys in that time. Will he know me? But how could he? The only sight of his father he could have when growing up was a distant light in the dark sky. I watched him every night, but I am a stranger to him. Now, finally, I will be able to speak to him, to touch him... but will he allow it to me? For a moment I almost want it to be like before – to watch and hope. Now, after all the centuries, one short moment can crush that hope, and I'm suddenly afraid. If I lose that hope now, what will be left for me? What will be left of me, of Gil-Estel? Mere moments divide me from seeing my son, and I don't know if I would like them to be over already, or if I would rather stop the time, and remain with hope, but nothing more.

But the time does not stop. You are here. You stand on the pier, looking just like I know you from my lonely watches, and yet different, because this time, I'm not just a watcher. I can reach to you. Just a few steps divide us, but you are the one who has to make them. I have no right to that any more. You have to decide, if I will remain just a watcher forever... Oh Eru, give me strength in this moment...

You make a few steps, and then stop. Your eyes are searching the small crowd on the shore. Behind you, I see Elwing, but she remains quiet, and gives you no clue. Your sight stops at me for a moment, but then it wanders further without recognition. Oh, my son…. I knew you will not recognize me... And yet it feels like a dagger in my heart. I stand still, but inside, I feel my light dying.

Ah... Suddenly I realize. The decision did not fall yet. It is not me who you are looking for... Of course it is not me! The distance I cannot cross, someone else can. Celebrían runs to meet you! She laughs happily, and the laughter is in her eyes also – what a difference to the broken woman, with hair like weeping silver, that arrived on a grey ship years ago. But in this moment, her healing is complete, and what was separated is whole again.

Long you stay in each other's embrace. Every moment prolongs my uncertainty, but I am happy for you both. Finally, you separate, with a promise of all the remaining ages of the world together that I can read in your eyes. Slowly you let go of her hand, searching through the crowd again. Will you miss me, or will your look stop? And if you recognize me, what then? Am I your father still?

The time stretches. And then... your eyes turn to me. You make a step. Another...

You stand before me. If I would reach my hand, I could touch you, feel you with my fingers. My hands are shaking, but still I do not move. I wait. I wait just for one word...

"Father..." you say.

I close my eyes, while the sound of the word echoes in my mind, wanting to remember this while forever.

"My son…" The words almost get stuck in my throat with emotion, but I say them. I can't stay quiet now. Oh my son…. How long have I dreamed of this moment…. And now it has come true, and I'm almost overwhelmed by it.

"Thank you for the hope, father…" you say quietly, and I have no words for a reply, for I want to laugh and weep in the same time. I thank you for hope, my son… for the hope that just fulfilled….

Can I embrace you now? I don't know and I don't care any more. I just do it, do what I wanted to do for all those years. And you return the embrace…. Oh, behold, Valinor! I hold my son in my arms! I can touch him, I can speak to him!

I am a father again!

A/N: Thank you very much for reading and for all reviews, and special thanks to Cairistiona for the beta! This is not the end yet - there is still one more chapter to come.

11. Birthdays and surprises again

March 1st, F. A.

My son will come for dinner tonight. Elwing will cook a fish with herbs, and her special cake. (I would prefer a chicken for once, but I can't tell her – we don't eat birds...) Elrond and Celebrían are a frequent guests in our house – actually tower – in the last years. I thought it might become commonplace to me... But it didn't. Every time I see him walking the white path leading to our door, my heart leaps with joy, and I can't believe my luck to have my son with me, to be able to speak to him. The parents who were never apart from their children can not understand...

Maybe at time I am annoying in my care. I want to compensate for all the years I have missed. Just as I regret all those moments before my journey that I did not spend with my boys, I know there is a debt I cannot repay. I know he is not a boy anymore. Sometimes I feel like a boy myself when I ask him to go fishing or riding together. I know he has his own wife and friends here, but still I would selfishly try to steal as much time with him for myself as I can. We have so much to catch up on, and so much to get to know abouteach other...

At the beginning, it was not easy, but I value every moment like a gift. And I know you understand, my son... When you go with me to see me off on my nightly journey, I feel your glance on my back until Vingilot becomes a little point of light on the night sky. I know you think on those who remain on the far shores of Middle-earth. You understand my care, because you know the feeling of being apart from your children like no one else can.

I know how often you have waited for the return of one of your sons to Imladris, looking into the cold rain behind the window and worrying over them. I know how then, after they finally arrived, drenched and exhausted, you cared for them tirelessly and treated their wounds – sometimes serious, but sometimes just scrapes – despite their protests. That's why you just smile at my little whims – and that's why my heart aches every time I see you looking to the East with a longing expression.

And in this part of the year, you look to the East more often, walking deep in thought, almost like dreaming, during the bright day. This is the day that is hardest for you – that you usually spend alone, sitting on the shore and listening to the waves of the Sea without truly hearing them. Today is Aragorn's birthday.

Your other children – my grandchildren – did not celebrate birthdays. The years for them were just ripples in a stream, washing the shore with a steady rhythm while it remains unchanged. But for your mortal son, it was different. And so the first day of the third month was always celebrated in Rivendell, even when he was not present...

Oh, I know how you miss them. Aragorn and Arwen, Elladan and Elrohir. You know the twins will arrive one day, in a white ship, just like you did. You will stand on the shore and wait until the ship is secured in the harbour, until your sons will step onthe soft soil of Valinor... and I will be at your side, because I know how hard such waiting is.

Back and forth. Back and forth will the waves wash the shore, while their ship will draw near – slowly, so tortuously slowly... But when the twins arrive, I will be there for you also,for another reason. I will be there to support you, because I know what their arrival will mean – that Aragorn and Arwen are gone forever, gone like Elros beyond the circles of the world where we can't follow, my son.

No, it is not this year yet. Aragorn's reign will be long, and his love with Arwen has many happy years ahead. There will be a celebration in Minas Tirith today, but you, you would sit on the shore, and raise a lonely glass of wine to the East when the Sun kisses the mountains of Pelóri at the end of day.

This year though, I insisted that you come to visit us. Without Galadriel, I don't think I would succeed. Maybe it was mean from me to ask your mother-in-law for help, but believe me, it is important that you are with me tonight.

-oOo-

And so you arrive. We exchange greetings, but your mind seems to be wandering somewhere else. I pretend I don't notice, and help Elwing to cover the table.

"Try the fish, Elrond." Elwing encourages you. "I caught it myself..." Oh yes, she is much better at fishing than me.

"And take a piece from the cake. It's the one you liked so last time..." I help her, and so, at least from politeness, you must eat something, although I know you have no taste for food tonight.

After the dinner, we sit at the fire, and speak. What a family picture! Well, it is mostly Elwing and Celebrían who speak, to tell the truth. You look absentminded again, and although Elwing tries to pull you into the conversation, she doesn't manage to get more then a few words inreply. You seem eager to leave already, but I can't allow that yet! You must stay until the dusk...

"Will you accompany me to the harbour tonight?" I ask. You bite your lip, but agree reluctantly. Oh yes, the years as Gil-Galad's herald have taught you courtly manners... And so we wait and look into the fire when the conversation dwindles. Finally the time comes. I need no clock to know that. I stand up, and you follow me.

"Take your cloak," I tell you. "It is cold outside tonight."

You look at me incredulously – it is a quite warm evening for spring, actually – but does not protest. I see he has no will to argue today.

Without a word, we reach the harbour. Vingilot dances on the waves, eager to sail. I can almost feel her sharing my suppressed excitement. You stand on the pier while I prepare everything for the journey. You give me your goodbye then, prepared to watch me leave and imagine the lands beyond the sea until my ship disappears among the stars. To watch me leave tonight... oh my son, do you really think I could be so cruel?

"Goodbye?" I ask, feigning surprise. "I thought you might accompany me a bit further tonight..."

Yes, that is my surprise, my birthday gift for you, although it is Aragorn's birthday today. "Didn't you guess why I insisted you came this very day? I spoke to Lady Varda, and for one night in the year, she will allow it." I remember how unthinkable it would be to consider speaking to the Valar for such a seemingly minor cause just some decades ago. But this matter is not minor to me, and now I know that with selfless intent, there is no reason to fear. She assured me that the cold and lack of air will not harm you because of the enchantment on the deck of Vingilot, and that for that one night you will see the world below just like me, with the sight of an eagle that Manwë gifted me with after the War of Wrath.

But my voice trails off as I watch your eyes, wide in mute astonishment. Suddenly I am unsure if the surprise will not bring you just more pain, a salt into the wound...

"Only if you want, of course..." I add uncertainly, waiting for his decision.

In a moment, it is not pain that I see in your face, but a cautious, disbelieving smile.

"Is that true? Can I really sail with you?"

I nod encouragingly.

You shake your head in awe, and walk the plank hesitantly, with a curious glance in the direction of Taníquetil. I extend my hand to help you, and soon Vingilot takes off into the air, leaving the white shores of Valinor behind. I follow your face, my son, and your expression reminds me of the feeling of my first flight. I was worried and anxious, not knowing what I would see below. But for a short moment, every fear was forgotten. The wind swept my hair, and the light of Silmaril reflected in the ocean below. Tilion greeted me, and Manwë's eagles flew at my side. I felt the smooth motion of Vingilot's wings as if they were my own. In the joy of flight, I laughed aloud.

I smile at the memory and guide my ship to the path of stars, effortlessly as if she were a part of me. And who knows, maybe she is... Then I let her fly alone, knowing that we have setthe right course. I join youat the rail then.

"We will sail above the Sea for some time now. You can sleep for a while if you want." I almost always do – that way I need just a few more hours in the morning, and can be with Elwing – no, with my entire family – for the rest of the day. The heavenly streams are safe now, unlike at the time after casting Morgoth out into the Void, when many dark creatures slipped past the open Door of Night. But that's another tale, about one reckless Maia and friendship. Now there is nothing to fear in Varda's night.

But Elrond shakes his head, not even taking his sight off the Sea below. You didn't think you will sail it in this direction, did you, my son? My ship is the only one that does in this Age of the world... No, I know you wouldn't sleep now – and neither will I.

Side by side we stand at the rail and look down at the endless ocean, the realm of Ulmo. Yet you do not see the blue waves. The joy of flight has passed in the calmness of the sky. I can almost see the faces of your children as your memories paint them on the canvas of the sea below.

You are holding Arwen in your arms for the first time, and she is the most beautiful thing in your world...

You are looking into the scared eyes of a small boy, and for something you see there, you name him Estel...

Your daughter is dancing among the birches, young and carefree like a bird in spring...

Estel returns from his first hunting trip, dirty but shining with pride at the pheasant he caught alone...

Arwen with tears in her eyes watches the ship carrying her mother towards the setting sun...

Aragorn returns home for a few days, a grim Chieftain of the Dúnedain with worries written deeply in his face...

A letter from Arwen, dwelling in the land of her grandmother in Lórien, letting you know that she is safe but avoiding any other topic...

The face of your son, unconscious and devoured with fever when you found him in the mountains at the very border of death...

The love in Arwen's eyes looking at the lonely ranger, driving away the shadows of her mother's departure...

Aragorn's last look, taking leave of the hidden valley as he left to fall or fulfil his destiny...

The hands of your children connected, and the winged crown on Aragorn's head...

The bittersweet leavetaking until the end of time...

I put my hand on your shoulder. "You will see them again tonight..."

You nod. Oh, my son... this is not a night for sadness. It is time to create some new memories, a happy ones... I embrace you. "You will see them soon..." I whisper.

Yes, there are the lights of Minas Tirith already! Many lights are shining– the city shines like a white jewel at the feet of the mountain. It is the King's birthday today... The scars of the city after the war are almost healed now, and the White Tree at the fountain square will have flowers soon. Down in the city, people dance and sing still, celebrating the King for giving them a reason to celebrate, as is the nature of Men.

"Third window from left at the second floor..." I murmur, knowing what your eyes are searching for. I can find that window by heart now. There retreated the kingly family from the noise of the celebrations. Aragorn sits in an armchair near the fireplace, and the flames dance on his face, solemn but relaxed.

After a long moment of emotion, you find your voice. "He looks content..." you say approvingly, in a very fatherly tone.

I smile. "He does..." I know his reign was not easy after the defeat of Sauron. Shadows remained on the East and South, numerous rebellions, and so much to rebuild after the war. Often have I seen him working long into the night, until I finished my journey. But the fruits of the hard labour can be already seen, and the worries are balanced with happy moments – like this one. "He does," I repeat quietly.

"Happy birthday, Estel..." you whisper.

Suddenly Aragorn turns as someone enters the room. I nudge you. I must assure you do not miss this moment!

Arwen enters the light of the fireplace, already dressed in a nightgown. Her dark hair cascades on her back like a veil of night, from which her eyes shine like stars. A smile is on her lips, and in her arms – oh Elrond! – in her arms she holds a baby...

"Your grandson, Elrond..."

You spend just a heartbeat to look at me in astonishment as your eyes return to the scene below, drinking the sight like precious wine.

"I have... a grandson..."

Yes, my son. You have. And I have a great-grandson! Is he not beautiful?

Aragorn's face lights up as he stands up and kisses Arwen. Then he takes their son into his arms, and walks to the window. With the little finger hidden in his strong hand, he points at the sky. Oh Aragorn, you are showing him the stars! You are showing him my light... If you only could know that his grandfather is looking at him tonight... The little hand waves, as if really knowing it! Do you see, Elrond? Your grandson is sending his greetings to you!

"His name is Eldarion..." I say quietly.

"Eldarion..." you repeat the name, tasting it on your tongue. "Son of Eldar..."

"And a scion of the houses of my both sons."

But you are not in a mood for philosophy tonight. "My grandson..." you smile proudly, and that title is more worthy than any other in that moment.

"Your grandson," I confirm.

-oOo-

Minas Tirith is long behind us already, and the sky on the East is getting brighter with the first rays of Arien's daily journey. But still you stand at the rail, replaying the pictures in your mind over and over to remember them forever.

I take two glasses and a goblet of the best Tirionian wine from the cabin – yes, I planned this journey for some time... I pour the glasses, and pass one to you.

"To Eldarion..."

You smile at me. For a long time I haven't seen such joy in your eyes.

"To my grandson... and my father."

The glasses clink. No words are needed... and that is good, because in this moment, I am at a loss for words...

A/N: And to you, my readers! Thank you for your support during this story, and for all feedback! *clink!* To you, Cairistiona, for being such a great and patient beta reader! *clink!*

This is the end of the "Eärendil saga" – Gil-Estel (Star of Hope) and Hope of a Star. But if you are curious about the "tale about one reckless Maia and friendship", and the "time after casting Morgoth out into the Void, when many dark creatures slipped past the open Door of Night," I will tell it to you... It's called A Hawk and a Star, and you can already read the prologue.

Hope of a Star by Mirach