A/N:  I own nothing – not even the original characters in this story, who belong to daw the minstrel and are used here with her gracious permission.  I dearly love her stories and characters, and am happy to have been able to contribute to their lives. :-)

Arda was changing.

Eilian stretched out on the rough flooring of the old flet, folded his hands behind his head, and stared into the canopy of leaves above.  A warm breeze played across his face and the leaves rustled soothingly, but the tree itself was silent.

They were all for the most part silent now, even those here, so close to the heart of the Elvenking’s domain.  The forest had flourished since the beginning of the Fourth Age, spreading and growing and bursting with new life, but the trees slept ever more deeply, and it was difficult now to rouse them.  A hand placed on this great oak before Eilian had climbed to the flet had revealed nothing but the low hum of life, no response or even acknowledgement of the presence of the wood elf that now rested in its branches.  His adar was still able to feel and hear their response to his presence, but Thranduil was the king of Eryn Lasgalen—and although he had not said, Eilian suspected that even Thranduil was beginning to have difficulty hearing the trees on the outer edges of the wood.

The change was unsettling, and he was restless.

Eilian rolled onto his side, caught site of the nearby glade, and suppressed a sigh.  In truth, the change in the forest wasn’t the only reason for his restlessness.

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering Legolas’s indignation when he had finally realized that Thranduil posted a warrior in the glade when his youngest son spent the night in the flet—not this one, of course, but the original, in the same tree which now sheltered him—with his friends. “We’re not elflings anymore, Adar!  We don’t need someone looking after us every moment!”  The memory brought a smile.  Not elflings, brat, but younglings with a bad habit of disappearing and making mischief during the nighttime hours...  Of course, he couldn’t talk.

Eilian sighed and rubbed at his face.  He had thought, when Legolas sailed, that the loss would eventually fade, but it hadn’t really.  In fact, it seemed to grow stronger as the years passed, and the trees slept, and Thranduil’s people chose in greater numbers to forsake the woods for the unknown promise of Valinor.  He still missed his little brother keenly, and he wondered often how Legolas fared.  He understood, in theory at least, why Legolas had gone.  There had been something in his brother’s eyes when he had returned from the Ring War—something that had not been there before, even after hundreds of years of defending Mirkwood from spider and Shadow—and Eilian was as certain now as he had been then that Legolas’s desire for the sea stemmed from an unrealized need for healing from the horrors that he had endured rather than a frivolous newfound love of adventure, as some had suggested (though not in Thranduil’s presence, if they valued their life or their place).  He wondered if Legolas had found that healing and peace.  He hoped that he had, and trusted that it was so.

He wanted to know, though.  More often of late, Eilian realized a need to see it for himself—to hold his little brother in his arms again, to hear his surprised laughter, and to look into familiar eyes unshadowed by pain and fear and loss.  There was still too much big brother in him, he supposed, to easily leave such things to chance or any other means.

It was a dangerous thought, one that had grown in strength since he had first admitted it only a handful of years ago, and he suppressed it quickly.  Even if Legolas was gone, and the population of the stronghold dwindled around them, and the forest grew sluggish and silent, his priorities were here.  Celuwen remained—from whom he could not be parted—and Loriel—though his daughter had been long bonded and gone from the wood—and the rest of his family.  He had duties still, even if those duties were routine and cumbersome.  No, he could not speak of this.

Not yet, a little voice urged.  But maybe someday.

He pushed it away.

“Eilian?”

He sat, and was leaning against the oak’s trunk when his wife joined him on the flet.  Celuwen snuggled gratefully beneath his arm and sighed.  He kissed the top of her head.

“How goes the battle?”

Her response was an interesting combination of laugh and snort and sob.  “The pair of them get more stubborn as the years pass, not less.  Suffice it to say, my father refuses to bend an inch, and your father does likewise.  It is possible that they will both still be standing there in the hall staring at each other when next Mid-summer’s day arrives.”

He laughed softly and leaned his head back against the oak.  “As well that I was excused from the proceedings, then.  My presence could only have entrenched their positions.”

Celuwen’s wry hum did nothing to combat the notion.  Centuries had not eased Solith’s dislike for him, and in truth both he and Celuwen had been finding the antagonism ever more wearisome.  He had been surprised when his wife recently suggested an extended stay in Thranduil’s hold, away from their settlement home, but not overly.  Frustration sharpened for an instant to anger.  Solith must know that his attitude hurt Celuwen as well as Eilian.  Eilian thought for an instant of knowingly causing Loriel such pain and immediately dismissed the image.  He could not imagine it.

“You have been thinking of Legolas again.”  Her observation broke through his reverie, statement rather than question.  He glanced down at her, then quickly away.  Celuwen laughed and leaned her head into his neck.  “You thought I did not know?  You surely know better than that by now, husband.”

Eilian grinned and pressed her against him.  “One would think.”  He sighed, reveling as always in the feel of her warm body against his.  Indeed, he should have known.  Even aside from his inability to completely hide these feelings from their bond, Celuwen could not have failed to observe the significance of his most common haunt since their return.  “I wonder how he is.  I hope he is happy.”  Her gaze left the forest and moved to his face.  “I know he must be,” Eilian amended quickly.  “He is in Valinor.  He has surely healed from whatever hurts his quest inflicted.  But … it is just not the same as seeing it for myself.”

It was freeing, admitting this thing that he had tried to keep from her.  They sat in silence, and his attention drifted, and he nearly missed her soft words.

“Perhaps we should go and do so, then.”

He pulled away and stared at her, shock thrumming through him.  Celuwen returned his gaze steadily, and neither in her face nor through their bond could he detect any hesitation or regret for the words that she had spoken.

“Celuwen …”

“Do not attempt to tell me that you have not been thinking of it.”

“I … no.  I will not.”  Eilian folded his legs beneath him and reached for her hands.  She turned to face him, her posture earnest, her fingers warm in his.  He took a long breath, attempting to calm his roiling thoughts.  “Do you know what you are saying?”

She snorted.  “Of course I know.  Do you think me a fool?”

“Of course not.”  He flickered an annoyed eyebrow before returning to the discussion at hand.  “But, our home.  Our duties …”

“We are not the only ones who could easily fulfill such duties.  The kingdom runs smoothly, and your adar needs far less counsel now than in times past.”

“The guard …”

Celuwen sighed and ran a light thumb over his palm.  Eilian shivered.  “You know as well as I that the guard is mere formality.  Eryn Lasgalen has little need now for warriors.  The Shadow is gone, the spiders are gone, the orcs are gone—from these woods, at least.  Men come, but we cannot stop them and indeed, they are not our enemies.  This is their age.  They are only spreading as has been foreseen.”  She pressed his hands tightly.  “Your presence in the guard is desired, my love, but not needed.”

Not needed.  No, it was not.  Eilian had known it for some time now, felt the impatience of ceremony and boredom where once there had been purpose and danger and death.  He thought of what Thranduil would say, and realized with something bordering on panic that his adar was not likely to object if he and Celuwen decided to sail.  The king was not yet ready to leave the forest, and he would certainly feel the loss of another son, but he understood that his people could not stay indefinitely.  Thranduil accepted their departure with dignity and grace, and he would offer no less to his own flesh and blood.

We could really do this.

“What about you?”  Eilian raised her chin, and drew her eyes away from their entwined fingers.  “Could you leave your parents?”

“I must, eventually.”  Celuwen smiled sadly and looked out into the trees.  “My parents will never leave this place.  Even after your adar goes, even after the kingdom is no more, they will not depart.”  Her slender fingers tightened in his own.  “Whatever is the fate of these woods will be their fate as well.  I do not intend to share it.”

He had never spent a great deal of time considering what Celuwen’s parents might decide for their future, but he could not argue now with his wife.  He recognized the truth of her words.  Solith and Isiwen had fought too long and hard for their life in the forest.  They would never leave it.  Eilian drew Celuwen to him and rested his forehead on hers.

“I will grieve for your pain over such a parting, my love, but I cannot be sorry that you do not choose to remain with them.”

She kissed him lightly and sat back.  Eilian hesitated, then gently raised his greatest objection—the one that he had avoided even in his own mind, the one he felt would surely bring an end to such wild speculation.  “How could we leave Loriel?”

He was surprised when Celuwen smiled, her eyes lit from within.  “It would not be for long.”

“What?”  Eilian sat back.  “Do you know something I do not?”

“You surely cannot have missed it.”  Celuwen eyed him thoughtfully, then laughed and kissed him again.  “Oh, my poor husband.  Males do see the world differently, don’t they?”  She continued before he could decide whether he should be offended.  “Aragorn and Arwen are gone, my love.  Eldarion is gone.  The twins have very little to hold them here any longer.”  Her hands captured his again.  “Loriel and Elladan will not be far behind us, I think.”

Elladan.  For a brief moment, he was distracted yet again by the knowledge that Elladan, son of Elrond Half-Elven, was his son-in-law.  It was … odd.  Surreal.  Also a bit ridiculous, really—the other Elf was thousands of years older than he. 

It had been a point of real concern during those first bewildering days after his daughter and Elladan had announced their intention to bond—one of many concerns, in truth, the first of which had been the suddenness of the decision.  The twins had arrived in Eryn Lasgalen some years after the Ring War, serving as messengers from their brother-by-marriage, King Elessar, regarding some minor point that Eilian had long forgotten.  The sons of Elrond had dined with Thranduil and his family, and by the next evening Loriel had approached Eilian and Celuwen with Elladan in tow, announcing her choice and requesting their blessing.  It had been very sudden, and all that Eilian could do to remind himself throughout the initial tumult that his adar and naneth had recognized their connection almost instantly, as had Legolas and Tuillin, his brother’s lost love.

The knowledge helped very little, nor did Thranduil’s obvious amusement over the whole affair.  The king was, Eilian felt, far too outspoken in his enjoyment of his children’s parental difficulties.  He seemed to feel it his due for his own long years of aggravation.

Entertainment notwithstanding, Thranduil had shared Elian’s concern over the match for other reasons.  Loriel was very much grown, but still young and sheltered, having never experienced life outside the Greenwood.  Elladan and his brother had been making war upon the forces of evil for millennia, and Eilian knew only too well the darkness such battles forced upon the mind and heart and fea.  He feared for the things that his daughter would learn and feel through such a bond.  Loriel’s mind was set, however, and remembering well the pain that they had born from anger and disapproval, Eilian and Celuwen had offered their blessing.  He had no doubt that his daughter would be cherished and vigilantly protected.  Of the other concerns, only time would tell.

Time did tell.  Over the years Eilian saw his daughter’s beauty and joy and vitality continue undiminished, while the grim visage of her husband lightened and softened, to be replaced with a calm and a content that Eilian had never thought to see from one of the warrior sons of Elrond.  And more than that, Loriel’s influence had not remained confined only to her husband.  Elrohir, always sensitive to his brother’s moods and thoughts, had been greatly affected by the change in his twin.  Before a century had passed, Eilian had been forced to conclude that his beloved daughter had been responsible—if not solely, at least in great part—for bringing peace to the hearts of Elves who had never expected to know it this side of Valinor.

He was inexpressibly proud of her.

“They wait only for the elflings to arrive.”  Celuwen returned his attention to her and rose to her knees, moving toward him.  “We could be there to greet them.”  She kissed him again, and this time her touch was not so light.  “To prepare temporary lodgings, to alert Elrond and Celebrian to their coming.”  Her lips traced a path to his ear.  “And in the meanwhile,” her hand caressed his jaw, “you can renew your ties with your brother, see to his well-being for yourself.”  Her lips traced a fiery path down his neck, and he bit back a groan.  “What say you, my husband?”

He captured her mouth with his own, and bore her down to the flet beneath him.  “I could never deny your good sense, my love.”

Celuwen’s laughter echoed around them.  “It is well that you do not try.”

Then there was no more time for talk, as Eilian loved his wife beneath the silent trees.

The wind gusted in from the sea, carrying the sharp scent of brine and fish, whipping through the leaves of the birch forest that approached its shores.  Eilian took a long breath, testing the difference between the sea scent here and that which had surrounded them on the ship which had been their home since they had left the Havens.  It seemed fresher, more bracing—tingling with a life that had only slowly made itself known as the ship approached the ports of Valinor.  In his hand, Celuwen’s fingers tightened.  He looked around and smiled at her, then laid his hand once again against one of the great gray trunks that loomed over them.

These trees felt alien, in some ways—shimmering and aware in a manner that even the trees of Eryn Lasgalen had never been—but they were alive, and energetically responsive, and his wood elf fea rejoiced in this new communion.  Celuwen, too, rested in close contact with one of the massive trunks, stroking the bark lightly, breathing in the odd, heady mixture of sea and forest that surrounded them.  At any other time he might have been content for hours here, but he was too anxious to linger even in this pleasure for long.  Celuwen smiled at him, and kissed his fingers.

“Let us go.”

“You are ready?”

“You are past ready.”  She stepped out of the shade, pulling him behind her.  “We will be back.”

Eilian followed his wife eagerly, casting a single glance back at the looming wood before leaping lightly onto the worn path.  They had started to see cottages dotting the hillside and tucked into the trees, small homes that banished the out-of-place feeling that they had both known upon disembarking and looking upon the high, bold, bejeweled structures of thousands of years, the homes of the wise and the great who had governed in not only Valinor but also in the Elven dominions of Middle-Earth for time untold.  Son of a king he might be, and impressed by the magnificence and splendor before him, but he could not imagine living in such a place, and his settlement-loving wife had viewed the glory of Valinor with even less enthusiasm than he.

Elrond and Celebrian had welcomed them, offering the comforts of their home.  The older Elves had rejoiced in the news that they would soon share grandchildren, and further in the prospect of a reunion with their sons.  “These are indeed joyous tidings,” Celebrian declared, drawing Celuwen into a firm embrace, and in her eyes Eilian saw nothing of the pain and horror that had driven her to Valinor from her home in Imladris. 

It is true, he realized, feeling something far within himself begin to uncoil.  He wondered if indeed some long-forgotten trace of Shadow still touched his own fea, which might even now be slowly disappearing.  It is just as the tales say.

They would have been welcome to stay indefinitely, but Elrond and Celebrian understood their haste and had provided direction which would lead them to the place where the greater part of Thranduil’s people had settled.  Even now, as they moved along the track and into a more populated area, their arrival was beginning to draw attention.  Cries drifted from every side, waves, calls of welcome.  The familiar faces of years past appeared from homes and over hills, drifted from beneath the trees, and he felt Celuwen’s hand trembling in his own.  When he looked down at her, however, nothing but a fierce joy shone from her eyes.

He had inquired after the placement of his brother’s home before leaving Elrond’s house, but that effort turned out to be largely unnecessary.  They split from the main path and started down the grassy hill toward a row of cottages near the shore, only to walk directly into a fair-haired Elf as he rounded a smoothed-off boulder in the path.

For a moment Eilian simply stared, and Legolas managed nothing better.  His little brother was … yes, he was whole and unshadowed, straight and tall and radiating a peace that Eilian had rarely seen from him in Mirkwood.  He grinned suddenly, his joy overflowing, and seized Legolas’s shoulders.

“Mae govannen, brat.”

“Eilian!”  Legolas flung himself into Eilian’s arms, and pounded his back, and laughed, the sound drifting away to mix with the crash of the waves and the cry of the gulls.  They parted reluctantly and Legolas seized Celuwen in a fierce embrace, then returned to Eilian once more.  Finally, they stepped away, and Legolas ran a hand over his tightly braided hair.  “You’re here.”

“Very observant.”

His brother laughed again.  “Some things haven’t changed, I hope.”  Legolas looked beyond them.  “Is Adar …?”

“Still in Eryn Lasgalen.”  Eilian pressed Legolas’s shoulder.  “But he will not be much longer, I think.”

Legolas nodded, and squeezed Eilian’s hand.  “But you’re here.”  The broad grin spread across his face, and he swept his arm toward the path.  “Come.  Come see my home.  We have … so many years to cover.  I have wine and cheese and bread, are you hungry?”

“Starving.”  Eilian glanced back up the path.  “But were you not going somewhere?”

“Nothing I cannot miss.”  Legolas turned down toward the sea.  “Anyway, Annael will know you have come and will not be expecting me.”  He chuckled.  “It is difficult to keep any arrival a secret here.”

“Much like home.”  Celuwen grinned, and Legolas ducked his head.

“Exactly like home.”

“That is good.  Because this is home now.”  Eilian put an arm around Celuwen’s waist, and slung his other across Legolas’s shoulders, and pulled them both down the path toward his brother’s home.  They had years to cover, indeed, and all the time on Valinor in which to do it.