He stood tall at the railing as the ship approached the quay, calm and proud. Weary he may be, full of grief for both beloved kin and land, but he would not have his first appearance before the people of Valinor — his Lady’s own family — be that of a ragged beggar. Lord of Lórien had he been, kin of Elu Thingol, scion of long-ago Doriath. Across the ages he had battled the minions of Morgoth, and of Sauron, and of Saruman. Wise, he had been called — and though he doubted his own wisdom often enough, he well understood now that such names and deeds would not avail him here. The Noldor, the Vanyar, perhaps even the Teleri his kin — the Calaquendi (he snorted softly) — would see him as little more than the husband of his Lady, favored beyond understanding (both theirs and his) by her condescension in becoming his wife.

Proud he was to be her husband, but he would not be her appendage.

His grandsons, before their departure — and his granddaughter, before her own infinitely more permanent leave taking — had expressed doubt and even amusement at such musings. So many from Middle-Earth had sailed West. Things would be different now.

Perhaps. Perhaps … yet he could not entirely trust such assurances. They had not known the Noldor who had come into Beleriand from across the sea. They had not known the Elves of the three kindreds who had come to battle the hordes of Morgoth in the War of Wrath. 

They had not known their own grandmother, for many long years of her life. Great was the love between him and his Lady, yet even so her Noldor pride had nearly driven them apart many times. Had driven them apart, sometimes for centuries.

His own pride, of course, had nothing to do with it.

They had grown along the way in spite of themselves. Children and grandchildren had anchored them, humbled them — taught them to consider others before themselves. The long defeat, as his wife so aptly named it, had forced upon them patience and bitter reality. Their years in Ring-protected Lórien, without the entirety of Middle-Earth open as a buffer should contention spring between them, had smoothed sharp edges and sweetened sharp tongues.

His pride at her refusal of the One Ring was not only fierce and passionate and relieved, but full of hope. His Lady had indeed passed her test.

Perhaps he might also pass his own, whatever it may be.

Perhaps, indeed, this was it — arrival unto a land and a people not his own, to stand before them with naught but empty hands and weary heart.

Voices rose around him, calling, singing, sobbing, laughing. The ship settled, the mooring ropes caught and tied. He sought her and found her easily, tall and golden amidst the waiting throng. None of the others resembled her — all could easily be counted as relatives and friends of his shipmates, mostly Thranduil’s people who had been sailing in ever greater numbers over the past decade. It mattered not. His eyes drank in his Lady, and her own met his, and the world about him faded.

Her lips upon his own roused him. He did not stop to wonder where his attention had fled, only met her embrace with equal fervor. Let the others watch, if they cared to do so. What did it matter to him?

“Galadriel,” he murmured against her lips, then pulled back. His heart twisted within him. No longer were they in Middle-Earth … “Or do you prefer some other name here, my Lady?”

She captured his lips again. “None other, my Lord. Ever.” Then his wife took his face gently into her hands, and the affection and love and shared purpose shining from her was a balm to his aching fëa. “I have prepared a place for you. Will you come?”

“Gladly.” He placed his hand within hers and himself in her keeping, as he had done so many times throughout their long years. Her smile was as the sun, and as a secret promise. Turning, she led the way across the crowded deck. He looked out upon the crowd, noting again the lack of familiar faces — not even his daughter and her family, not even those of his wife’s kin he had known before. “Did no others come?”

Her long, cool fingers tightened upon his. “I have known enough of my husband and of refugees both to think better of an overwhelming public welcome. Our daughter and her family are in the city. They await you most eagerly, and we shall overnight with them ere we depart.”

“So soon?”

“For a time, yes.”

He had given himself over to her, and it would not do to question her plans now. Indeed, he had no wish to do so.

“And your own family? Often you have warned me they would be quite anxious to meet the Elf brave enough to wed you.” His attempt at a teasing tone was perhaps lacking, but the gaze she turned on him held humor nevertheless.

“Indeed they are. Quite anxious. Do you think me so heartless, however, as to deliver you up to them before you have regained yourself and your strength?” One glorious golden eyebrow rose. “You are my partner, my Lord, not they.”

Relief flooded him, and weariness, and a heartfelt joy in her presence. He stopped, and pulled her to him, and simply held her, golden hair mingling with silver in the salty wind, there upon the gangplank among the moving bodies and luggage and unfamiliar scents of Valinor.

“I have very greatly missed you, my Lady.”

“And I you, my husband.”

His own test, it seemed, was put off for another day. He could wait.

Long had it been since he had taken his rest in a shared bed, but he was pleased to discover he had retained the ability to leave it without disturbing his wife. The day had been full to the point of overwhelming, yet despite the now ever-present exhaustion he could not sleep. A small inner court in the family’s rented home boasted a single tall, slender tree. He made his way there now, bare feet padding noiseless in the night-drenched hallways upon the warm rugs and smooth stone.

Few were the trees he had seen upon arrival, merely decorative in a way he had never imagined trees to be, and of course none had been upon the long journey across the Sea. He was anxious to reacquaint himself with the feel of living wood beneath his hands.

The moon was dark at this time, but the stars were bright in a way he had not known since his days in Doriath before the first rising of the sun. Their brilliance loosened the knot within his heart, taking him back to another time and place. How many of those lost to him would he meet again within the Undying Lands? Strange was the thought, and unsettling.

The tree welcomed him, inviting his touch and offering succor in a manner which led him to suspect he was not the first disoriented Elf to seek shelter beneath it. He appreciated the effort, and hid from it his shock of disappointment at its strangeness. It was … so very alive. It vibrated beneath his touch in a way even the long-drowned trees of his homeland had never done, and he very nearly resented the poor friendly tree because of it.

Everything here seemed more alive. More solid. More whole. The eyes of those who had seen the light of the Trees shone for all to see, irresistible yet nearly too terrible to look upon. He had thought, in Middle-Earth, that his wife’s eyes had not dimmed throughout the Ages. Seeing now their brilliance rekindled, he wondered how he could truly have made such an error. His daughter had not seen the trees, had been worn and wounded when she had sailed, yet long had she lived in Valinor and she was present in a way he could not describe even now to himself. He was quite pathetically glad for Elrond and his grandsons, who although limned with vibrance he could still look upon without discomfort.

He kept his hand upon the slender white tree, breathing deeply, reaching tentatively his mind and heart toward it and toward the solid earth beneath him. He would simply have to become accustomed to it all. This was what there was for him now.

Her footsteps did not sound, nor her skirt rustle upon the grass. Ever had his wife been the epitome of grace. Rapt in his attempted communion with the tree, he did not note her approach until she folded herself down smoothly before him.

“You try too hard too soon. This place is not like others you have known. You must rest from the journey and from your grief ere you test yourself.”

He pushed down irritation—she stated only fact, not judgement—and ventured a question which had lain long upon his heart. “What of Amroth?”

She blinked. “Amroth?”

His wife had several times since his arrival been taken often off-guard by his queries, even those which seemed utterly basic to him. Celebrían, he had noted, also showed that same tendency. The mindset of one who had lived long in Valinor (or had returned there after long sojourn), it seemed, began from some slightly foreign set of assumptions he did not understand. He wondered if he too would eventually find himself with such a mindset, and was not certain the possibility pleased him. Yet again he was selfishly grateful for Elrond and his grandsons, who at  least seemed to be still firmly grounded in his own reality.

“Our son.” One silver eyebrow arched. “Perhaps you remember bearing such a one? I certainly remember scouring the entire Western shore of Middle-Earth in the vain hope that the seed of some much-desired fruit tree of Valinor had blown its way across the Sundering Sea and taken root in—”

The indelicate snort was quite at odds with her rich tones and regal bearing. “Do not needle me, Galadhonion. You may not enjoy the consequences.”

A spark stirred sluggishly within, rising to that challenge. He rolled forward, swift and smooth, capturing her head in his hands and her lips in his own. Her breath hitched as he stretched himself upon her, lean and warm in the cool night air. “Oh, but I will,” he murmured against her lips. His wife gasped once, then pulled back.

“Amroth,” she murmured.

Indeed, they were out of doors for all to see. He rolled from atop her, yet kept one long-fingered hand upon her abdomen. She did not remove it.

“Amroth is rehoused and well.” Irritation flickered across her features. “To my knowledge he is well.”

So very many years had passed since word of his son, and he was used to thinking of the dead as forever sundered from him. The reality of the rehoused was still new and strange.

“You do not … see him?”

She sighed. “Now and again he manages to remember I exist. Not as often as I might wish, but I suppose one cannot expect him to often stir himself from the perpetual contemplation of fair Nimrodel’s eyes.”

The familiar exasperation, both hers and his own, grounded him as had little else since setting foot upon Tol Eressëa.

“Still?”

“It is as if they met yesterday.”

His head thudded back against the cool grass. “I suppose they at least can’t get themselves killed this time.”

“You give the Undying Lands perhaps too much credit, my Lord.”

He rubbed at his suddenly-aching brow. “It seems Ilúvatar really does guide the paths of lovelorn fools. How long have they been … rehoused?”

“Amroth has been released for nearly an Age. He was not, I have been told, long in the Halls of Mandos.” The rich, deep voice turned wry. “Perhaps the Lord Námo could no longer bear his tortured sighs.”

“And Nimrodel?” His son’s love was perhaps a bit vague, but always kind and well-intentioned. He could not imagine she had dwelt in the Halls for—

“Nay, my Lord. She did not die.”

That was a surprise. He rolled abruptly to face her. “You say she actually found a ship? How?” His memory returned to those days—to the stark, abandoned lands and harbor which had met him when he went in search of the truth behind the tales. “Where?”

“The Grey Havens.”

For a moment, the words would not register. Then, he sat bolt upright.

“Círdan?”

She too sat, straightening her sleeping gown with sharper movements than were strictly necessary. “So it would seem.”

“But … why would he not tell us of this?”

“Indeed, my husband, I intend to be waiting at the quay with that very question when the Shipwright arrives upon these shores.” Some small amount of the sharpness bled from his wife’s tone. “To be strictly fair, it is not certain that he knew. He cannot have personally seen to the boarding of every Elf who took sail from the Havens, especially in those days. They had, of course, no previous acquaintance, and as she arrived with others—”

“What others?” Even knowing that Amroth and his love were now reunited and (apparently) lost in bliss, anger stirred. “Had she no real intention of meeting him, then? Did he waste his time and his life in waiting for—”

“Peace, my husband.” Cool fingers fell upon his knee. Her countenance was amused and understanding. “You know that Nimrodel loves our son. She would not harm him purposely. She simply became … distracted.”

“They were fleeing for the coast.”

One exquisite shoulder shrugged. “It does not always take much.” She sighed. “In all honesty, can you not say a part of you might have wished for some distraction that would have kept you upon your beloved shores rather than sailing for a land not your own?”

“Aye.” Her words struck him, and he felt suddenly a stronger kinship for his daughter-in-law. “And not a small part.”

The fingers upon his knee tightened. “I rejoice that you came to me, in the end.”

His own hand found hers. “I know you do not see it, but that was never in doubt.” Not in this Age, at least, much as his soul ached with the parting from Middle-Earth’s shores.

“Well.” Her voice was again brisk. “Nimrodel apparently became separated from her companions as well as from Amroth and wandered alone for quite some time. She arrived at the river and dallied there for a number of days, uncertain of the way, and when she finally crossed was struck by driftwood and nearly drowned. She made her way to shore and slept long in her exhaustion, during which time a group of Círdan’s people returning to Mithlond found her.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “The deep sleep.” That part of the tale had always struck him as more bard’s embellishment than truth.

“Indeed.”

“What were Círdan’s people doing so far afield?”

“They came from the havens at Belfalas, in truth. Círdan wished to convince the Elves left upon that shore to relocate to Mithlond rather than remain alone in an increasingly abandoned port. His people witnessed the storm which blew the last ship out to sea, and knew at least one sailor had drowned, though they knew not who. When Nimrodel learned she would find no passage at that destination, she determined the best course of action would be to sail for Valinor from the Grey Havens, assuming Amroth would meet her at their destination.”

“That was good thinking.”

A far better idea, indeed, than casting oneself into a stormy sea in hopes of finding a single Elf maiden amongst all the wilds of Middle-Earth …

His wife nodded once. “Quite well done. She sailed from Mithlond–with or without Círdan’s aid I have, as you know, yet to determine–and learned news of Amroth from his fellow sailors upon arrival.” An unmistakably fond smile played at the edges of her lips. “From Eressëa she traveled immediately to the Halls of Mandos, sat outside the Gates, and … waited.”

A smile of his own began to form. “Just sat there and waited for him?”

“Indeed.” Warm mirth suffused her tone. “She did not, it seems, abandon her post for the entirety of his sojourn in the Halls.”

For the first time since his arrival, he felt an urge to laugh. “They deserve each other, those two.” He wished his daughter-in-law present at that very moment, that he might bestow a kiss and his most fervent affection.

“Indeed. I have been reliably told that the Lady Vairë organized food to be brought to her until Amroth’s release.” His chuckles burst forth, and he drew her to him. She laid her head upon his breast, pondering. “Perhaps it was more his wife’s compassion for Nimrodel than our son’s laments which convinced Mandos to so quickly rehouse him.”

“And after he was rehoused?”

“They say he looked neither left nor right, but made his way straight into his lover’s arms. They fell into each other’s eyes, and have been apart not a moment in the Ages since that day.”

“That seems … excessive.”

“It is a very popular tale. Legions of the maidens of Valinor pine after a love such as theirs.”

He snorted softly, and settled cautiously against the tree with his wife in his arms. Finally, he felt drowsy and able to contemplate rest.

“How did the two of us ever manage to raise–”

“I know not.” She hummed softly. “A gift of Ilúvatar, surely.”

A gift of Ilúvatar, indeed. Such was this strange new world.

The sun was high overhead when a hand upon his shoulder woke him. He blinked for a moment, regaining his bearings – a necessity upon waking in the months since he had set foot upon ship at the Grey Havens – then looked up into his wife’s eyes.

“You should have wakened me. Did you not wish to set out in the early morning hours?”

“I thought better of it, upon seeing the extent of your weariness.” He sat, intending to protest, but she held forth a hand. “Indeed, it is as well, for we have received a dinner invitation.”

A dinner invitation? He leaned back against the slender white tree, more familiar now with its rushing energy and glad for its support. Last night’s small gathering with his daughter, son-in-law, and grandsons had been nearly enough to send him in search of a private corner within which to collect himself. A dinner invitation …

It seemed, though he did not know why such a thing should be, that the journey itself had compounded his sense of grief and fatigue at leaving Middle-Earth. Perhaps he would ask his wife for an explanation at some future time, but for now he could not stir even irritation at the shell it had left him, much less curiosity at how it had come to pass. Her words upon arriving had relieved him, so he had thought, of the need to maintain a strong façade, and he had let go its last threads. That he would be required to scramble now to retrieve them stirred a sluggish annoyance. His wife only smiled, the light of deep affection in her glorious eyes.

“Fear not, my husband.” She took his hands in her own and rose, drawing him with her. “You will not, I think, regret it. Our hosts are both impeccable and understanding – none present shall require anything of you that you do not wish to offer. If you do nothing but sit in a chair beneath the trees of the garden, no one will think anything of it.”

He had put himself into her hands...

“Very well. Do I have aught to wear that is fit to attend upon the residents of these shores? I have seen that the formal fashion is not as our own.”

“But it is not a formal event. I myself shall attend as you see me.”

Her raiment was indeed informal – elegant as were all his wife’s gowns, but the soft blue sheath had clearly been crafted with comfort foremost in mind. The news that his own clothing would be sufficient calmed him more than had her reassurances. He laid a last grateful touch upon the tree, then followed her into the rented house.

“And who shall be present?”

“Our hosts, Celebrían, Elrond, and we two. No more.”

He noted that she did not reveal the identity of their hosts, and assumed this was done on purpose – not often did his wife misspeak. He did not, however, intend to fall into her trap and beg for their identity.

“Not our grandsons?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly – she had caught on that he had caught on, then – but she merely shook her head. “We did not wish to overwhelm you. They will visit us often, and they see our hosts quite often as well. They received an invitation, but declined.”

“And this will not offend … our hosts?”

Golden laughter was his wife’s only response as she steered him gently into their dressing room, touched her lips briefly to his, then left him alone to prepare.

He was surprised to find that their daughter and her husband had already joined their hosts, but not displeased for an opportunity to walk alone through Avallonë with his wife. Long had been their parting – not so long as some of their others, in truth, but keenly had he felt her absence during these last centuries and he was content now in her silent company. She, too, seemed glad in his presence, for her grip upon his arm was warm and tight as they wound through the wide stone streets. She did not attempt to orient him or explain their surroundings, and he was grateful for his wife’s understanding. He would not now have retained the information, and their silence amid the bustle of the city was a balm.

Most of their journey was spent in an attempt not to gawk like an Elfling at the splendor of this port city of Eressëa – not even a part of Valinor proper, yet still magnificent in a way he had never seen upon Middle-Earth – for he could feel the eyes upon them. He was no one here, but his wife was both the daughter of the Noldorin High King and well-known in her own right. He would be weighed, judged, wherever he went upon these shores.

Her fingers pressed his arm, though she did not look upon him. “Many of the peoples upon this isle are of our own lands. They will rejoice upon your arrival. As for those who are not … Celeborn the Wise has distinguished himself in counsel and in blood against far greater foes than most of these will ever see. He need court the favor of none here.”

He chuckled, sighing upon the same breath. “Ever you know my thoughts.” 

“I can be none other than who I am.”

His wife’s clear-sightedness had been as often bane to him as blessing, yet its depth and discernment was now far greater than it had once been. Long had she labored in that achievement, against kin and friend and foe and herself. Indeed, he was more thankful for it than even she knew, for the question of what he would have done faced with a Dark Queen, fair and dreadful and utterly beyond the reach of both wisdom and love, still at times came to him in his nightmares. And here she was now—come through the dangers of Morgoth and Sauron and Saruman, war and pride and the Ring—standing real and solid and with him to face this new battle.

“I could not have been content with another.”

He drew her around and kissed her in the street for all of Avallonë to witness. Let them think of him what they would.

Let them talk about that.

She rested in his arms for a moment after he had pulled away, then touched his cheek with gentle fingers. “We have arrived, my Lord husband.”

He followed his wife’s gaze, and stared in wonder.

Within the slope of the manicured hill which rose across the way sat a door – and not just any door. It was a round door, painted green with a golden knob in the center. Around it, in workings of stone and gold, ran a narrow frame which depicted scenes so familiar to him that he need not guess at what the figures represented. Well did he know this tale. Upon either side of the door was sunk a round window, and each was boxed with a riot of flowers far nearer to his mind and heart than any he had yet seen upon these shores – daffodils and hyacinths and bluebells and, scattered all throughout, the bright starburst of elanor.

Hardly had he taken in this incongruous scene when the door opened and a voice, warm and welcoming and amused, bid him enter. “Lord Celeborn! Lady. Please, our hole is yours.”

Frodo Baggins stood in the doorway.

Frodo Baggins. But how …

“Come, my Lord husband. Let us not stand gawping as though a mûmak itself had invited us to dine.” His wife’s voice, trembling with suppressed laughter, jolted him from his reverie. He cast her a quelling scowl which redoubled her mirth, then strode across the wide paved way. He dropped gracefully to one knee as he approached the doorway, reluctant to tower above his host during this most unexpected meeting.

“Well met, Ringbearer, and please forgive me. I fear I am not myself.”

“There is no need, my Lord.”  Frodo’s lips curled with gentle amusement, and the profound understanding he saw upon the Hobbit’s countenance put him immediately at ease. “Arrival upon Tol Eressëa is an overwhelming time. Even your lady wife,” and here the bright eyes twinkled, “required more time to adjust than she might perhaps admit.”

“Frodo Baggins,” his wife chided, sweeping around them toward the round doorway. “There is surely no need to tell tales.”

The Hobbit’s eyes lowered in plainly feigned submission. “Apologies, dear Lady.”

His wife’s friendship with the Ringbearer was obviously warm and longstanding. The thought cheered him, as did the thought of this little enclave of the Shire within the Undying Lands. He rose, bowing slightly to his host. “I thank you for your generous invitation. I am weary, as you see, but would not have missed this visit for an entire month of slumber.” He hesitated, then decided that the Hobbit would not take his next words amiss. “I admit that I had not expected to find you yet abiding upon these shores. I have been nearly two centuries in coming.” Frodo began to nod, but another voice just inside the doorway quelled any response the Ringbearer might have made.

“I wouldn’t never speak no word against the Valar – they’ve been that good to us – but they do like to muck about with people’s years, don’t they?” Samwise Gamgee Gardner appeared upon the stoop, shaking his head. “Not that I mind it too much, this is a grand place and no mistake, but they might ask first next time.”

He very nearly laughed in the face of the Ringbearer’s companion, so practical and welcome and patently absurd (next time?) were the words and tone. This, truly, he had feared to lose in a place filled with naught but divine and immortal beings. He had not spent so very many years in company with mortals, but in the time since his granddaughter had wed Elessar, he had come to appreciate much about their outlook.

“Samwise.” He had known this Hobbit far longer than Frodo, even if they had not often had opportunity to converse on a personal level, and offered now the nod of one friend to another. “I find I cannot regret the Valar’s generosity, as it has provided me an opportunity to meet with you both again here on the other side of our troubles.”

“And he does not regret it either, much as he grouses.” That voice, too, was familiar, though he could locate no wizard to match it. “Our dear Frodo needed the time, and Sam would not be parted from him now that they have been reunited, given the choice or no.”

Sam snorted toward the rock bed at one side of the entrance, where a blur and rush of color was beginning to stir, wrapping itself out and around and back together in a way that left the newcomer gaping anew. “Eavesdroppin’ again?”

The rushing colors solidified into the form of the white wizard, leaning against the bulk of the hill behind him. He had seen much throughout his long life, but he had not seen this. It was Mithrandir as he remembered, and yet … somehow not. The form before them appeared more raiment than solid flesh.

“A maia does not eavesdrop, Samwise Gamgee. Especially in a place without eaves.”

The Hobbit crossed his arms, grumbling. “You didn’t think much of that answer from me, if I remember right.”

The wizard (maia – though he had long known Mithrandir’s origins, knowing was utterly different than seeing the form of a Man build itself from the air before him) laughed suddenly. “I didn’t, did I?” Mithrandir pushed away from the hill, sketching a bow, and it seemed that his movements were easier than they had been for many long years in Middle-Earth. “Very well, Samwise. Your rebuke is well taken, though in my own defense I will protest that I have been here only a few scant minutes.” The ancient eyes turned then toward the newcomer, studying him with startling speed and depth. “Apologies, my Lord Celeborn. I have no wish to add to these days of initial confusion. I only wished to greet you and assure myself of your well-being.”

“Mithrandir.” He began to nod, then stopped himself. “Or …”

The white head shook firmly. “You need not fumble for some other name – Mithrandir and Gandalf belong to me as well, and they are sweet from the lips of those I call friend.”

Friend. He had known that his family would await him upon arrival, but he had not truly managed to think beyond that. The wizard’s – maia’s – concern touched him deeply. “Very well, and I thank you. It is good to see you, Mithrandir.”

And it was. Indeed, it was. His wife’s hand slid into his elbow, her touch encouraging and supporting.  Yes. Perhaps with such solid memories of his beloved homeland as these around him, the transition would not be quite so painful or long as he had feared.

Samwise was fading back into the hole. “Well, as long as you’re here, Gandalf, you may as well stay. There’s plenty enough for another. Come on through to the back, we’re set up in the garden.”

“I would not wish to intrude.”

Mithrandir was already halfway to the stoop. Frodo snickered.

“Nor would you wish to miss an old-fashioned Hobbit feast, I’ll wager.”

Mithrandir winked, and pulled a pipe out from somewhere in the folds of his robe – apparently, the wizard’s (maia’s) form was more solid than he had thought – and disappeared through the door. Frodo turned back to them.

“I know it’s one more, Lord Celeborn. Lady. I hope–”

“Think nothing of it, Ringbearer. Indeed, I am glad he showed himself.”

Frodo smiled, gesturing for them to enter. He gripped his wife’s hand, offered her a smile of genuine pleasure, and drew them both toward the round green door, comforted and cheered by the unique company which awaited them inside.

The tree in the back garden startled him.

It should not have. He knew as well as any other the origin of mallorns—his wife, for one, had never allowed him to forget—but somehow in his short time on Tol Eressëa the familiar had become more disorienting than the strange. The rapidly shifting perspectives within left him feeling somewhat dizzy, but without the fear of falling flat on his face.

Physically, at least.

The Ringbearer saw the direction of his gaze and nodded, smiling. “I thought you might enjoy our little tree.” The smooth trunk towered above them, summer silver sparkling down at them from beneath the rustling leaves. He wondered briefly how he had missed it from the street, then remembered that he had not paid much attention to anything beyond the front door.  “It is the only one in the city,” Frodo added. “There are plenty in the more rural areas of the island, but they don’t generally grow this near to the harbor.” He gazed across the garden toward his old friend, an affectionate smile playing across his lips. “Sam brought the seed all the way from the Shire. It comes from the Shire mallorn–from the seed your Lady wife gave him as we left Lothlorien.”

He had seen that tree as he traveled West to sail, though none of the Hobbits had known him to be passing through. It was tall and strong and beautiful, festooned with ribbons and lights, stately as the most venerable of Elves and playful as the youngest Hobbit child. It had truly been a gift well given. He would have to remember to tell his wife.

“It is a welcome sight, Ringbearer.”

Indeed, it was more of a distraction than he had expected as they gathered for their meal. The offering was bountiful, the table all but groaning beneath the weight of various roasted and stuffed birds, sauces, cheeses, fruits, and pastries. He ate until he was overfull–though that did not require as much as in the days before he had sailed–saying very little and listening only slightly more. His companions seemed to take this state for granted, including him by glance and touch (his wife on one side and his daughter on the other) but only rarely addressing him directly. He was grateful, and began to understand that truly his fatigue and disorientation were not unique to him at all but in some way afflicted all who arrived upon these shores. The realization was a relief and he settled into it, sipping the velvety wine and allowing his eyes to roam blindly the contours of the young mallorn which shaded them. 

The meal stretched into the late afternoon, Samwise and his daughter clearing the food and dishes at some point only to replace them with coffee, tea, and raspberry cream tarts. They laughed and bickered gently as they worked, and he chuckled softly at the sight. His wife laid her head upon his shoulder, humming softly.

“They are fast friends, those two. I would not have guessed it, and yet they share so many interests that I feel it should have been immediately obvious to me.”

It was good–so good–to see Celebrían well and whole.

“I am glad for it.”

“They take the harbor market by storm together every third morning or so–it is quite a thing to behold. Half of the vendors take them as some manner of challenge, and the other half all but run from them.” His laughter grew louder, and his daughter flashed him a pleased smile from the doorway of the house. His wife sighed. “It is good to be with her again.” 

She squeezed his hand and drew him up after her, leaving Elrond, Frodo, and Mithrandir deep in converse at the table. They crossed the garden and settled into a low seat situated at the base of the mallorn. His wife curled her legs beneath her and leaned upon his shoulder. He relaxed and closed his eyes, breathing in a riot of floral and green scents which seemed to be doing their best to cleanse any trace of salt and sea. He welcomed it. The sea longing had never been strong upon him, and the odors of his voyage were best quickly forgotten.

“I am glad for this invitation,” he murmured. “I am glad to see the Hobbits happy and well accepted here.”

“Accepted.” She sniffed. “Figures of legend, would be nearer to the truth. They are held in awe by many upon Eressëa–and not only those who lived during their time. All who have ever lived upon the shores of Middle Earth remember in some manner the malice of Sauron.”

He had expected that name to be jarring when spoken in this place, but instead it was dull and distant, so lacking in power that he felt it immediately begin to slip from his mind. He knew a rush of fierce satisfaction before easily returning his thoughts to their hosts.

“Do they often entertain, then?”

“Once a month they hold a feast for twenty. The waiting list to obtain an invitation, I am told, is years long.” Her fingers slipped into his. “They do have a close circle, of course–our family, Thranduilion, the son of Gloin–”

“He did sail, then. None were entirely certain.”

“He did.” His wife’s glorious eyes were affectionate and amused. “ His arrival caused quite the stir.”

Thousands of years of bloodshed and insults and enmity between his people and the Dwarves flitted through his memories. “I can only imagine.”

“It is well now, however.” She shook her head. “At least, those yet opposed to Gimli’s presence remain firmly upon the western side of the Isle, and the Dwarf has made it known that he is more than happy to offer an axe demonstration to any who stray onto the eastern shore with ill intent.”

“I do not doubt it.” He shook his head. “It is likely the best that can be hoped for.”

“It is good for everyone. The Undying Lands become stodgy very quickly.”

He snorted a laugh. “Where did you learn that word?” 

“Did I not tell you that Samwise spends a great deal of time with our daughter?”

“You did indeed.” He encircled her with one arm, and she settled more deeply into his side.

“But the Hobbits.”

“Yes, the Hobbits.”

“Finrod comes quite often.” At his glance of surprise, she shrugged one elegant shoulder. “He was ever fond of Men, if you remember.”

“I do.”

“He has been excessively delighted to meet Hobbits–of whom he had only heard in tales from the rehoused and those who had sailed, and even then only rarely–and to welcome mortals upon these shores for a time.” She sat up straight. “And Aegnor!”

He blinked. “Aegnor …?”

“My brother …” she paused, an overdramatic tendency that he had long noted in his Lady wife, “loved a mortal Woman before he died.”

He gaped, working to wrap his thoughts around such a momentous revelation. “Why have I never heard of this?”

“I only just learned of it myself after I arrived. I found him and Finrod here one afternoon, and Finrod told me the entire tale.” His wife shook her head. “It was apparently a great secret.”

“I … This explains a great many things.”

“Does it not?” She turned to face him fully, straightening her dress demurely over her crossed legs and leaning forward. “I had always thought that he–”

“My Lord? Lady?”

They turned as one to find Frodo Baggins approaching. He bowed diffidently. “I apologize for the interruption. I thought to come and visit for a time, but if you are–”

“Please!” His wife rose smoothly. “My Lord husband and I will have until the end of days to continue this dialogue.”

His mind reeled a bit, uncertain if that assurance was comforting or ominous. Despite the great length of his years, he was accustomed to the idea of endings–violent death had always been a possibility, and the death of even an Elf in Middle Earth had been final in a very real way. The removal of any concept of finality still greatly unsettled him. 

Caught up within these thoughts, he missed her departure. When he finally managed to focus upon his surroundings once more, he found only the Ringbearer’s understanding eyes upon him.