Chapter 11. …Where the heart is.

Thranduil's stronghold. Late summer, year 402 of the Fourth Age.

“…And lands cleared for tilth or pasture. The swamps are desiccated by now, and a whole new city has been built at the end of the Old Forest Road. We have been unable to stop them from felling ennin-old oaks there for their mighty buildings and bridges, and they have occupied great stretches of land. Poaching is a growing problem throughout the forest, and trade is more difficult than ever. We are lucky that we do not need a steady supply of iron for our forges, for its price is already out of our reach…”  

“So, all things considered, I am not wrong...”  

“You never are, as you well know. It is only that insufferable pride of yours, that loves to be petted from time to time…”  

“Well, sometimes I am…Wrong, I mean. See? I was sure you would not be convinced to climb this high…”  

Thranduil and Brethil were perched on the tallest branch of a powerful yew tree on the hill that protected the back of the stronghold. They had climbed there at the king’s urging and had spent all morning in serious conversation, as their keen eyes took in the changes and damages in their forest and Brethil summed up the situation.  

“I only agreed because it would have been unbecoming for the King to be heard holding a secret council with his secretary while shouting from top of a yew tree.”  

“Indeed…”  

“Yet I would suggest that we ended this conversation upon the forest floor, Your Majesty,” Brethil added with a sudden glint of mischief that Thranduil missed, his eyes still trained on the lands around them. The grazing lands and homesteads of the Men of Dale were each day closer to the forest rim. “Last to touch ground shares his wine!” the secretary shouted as he began climbing down at full speed. Thranduil let escape an aggravated growl and started after him, yet despite his own reckless descent the few moments that Brethil had managed to snatch proved enough in the end for his secretary to beat him thoroughly. 

“You traitorous orc spit…”  

“That is quite an honourable form of address in these times, my lord, yet not one that will save you from sharing your wineskin,” Brethil warned as they both walked to the place where they had left their light packs and took seat by the trees.  

“An honourable form of address?” Thranduil raised a puzzled brow as they unpacked a light refreshment.  

“Well, at least one the new generation does not fully comprehend, if there is actually something like a `new generation´ Brethil explained, lifting his friend’s wineskin to his mouth with a victorious grin. “Dorwinion?” he asked in surprise after the first swig.  

“From the King’s private cellars,” Thranduil confirmed seriously. “Galion and I agreed that curbing Mallereg’s access was a priority, if we wanted our supplies to last long enough…”  

“The old lord of Dorwinion died past spring, I heard,” Brethil nodded with a knowing smile.  

“You heard rightly. I am awaiting the right occasion to bring forth the issue again with his heir…I expect it was clear to them that their wine is not worth unrestricted access to our woods and wildlife,” Thranduil said dryly, savouring his cherished wine with a sigh. They sat in silence, sharing the tasty salmon cakes and enjoying the peace around them despite their worries.  

“Men are strange creatures,” Brethil said after a long pause. “They have dislodged the Beornings from the Carrock. The once wild Forest Men now bow to a foreign master who is turning them into farmers, and are burning down the woods that once sheltered and fed them…Orcs would not make a better job.”  

“Men tend to become restless in peace and prosperity, my friend,” Thranduil reminded him with mild scorn.  

“The forest is besieged on all sides, and the trees are retreating slowly but definitely, even if our numbers are not growing…”  

“I did not get to see those things from up there,” Thranduil observed wryly between mouthfuls. “Your sight is keen, my friend.”  

“It must be, since I am forced to make sense out of your grandson’s scribbles…”  

“So…What do you think?” Thranduil spied his long-time friend’s face, trying to mask his own anticipation. Brethil took a deep breath and cast him a long, considering stare.  

“It was about time, Thranduil; you know it was,“ he finally said with an apologetic smile. “You have known since Legolas came home, since Celeborn left Lórien, since the Galadhrim sailed… It is the Age of Men, and soon there will be no place left for us here…”  

“It has not been easy to accept, though…”  

“Of course not,” Brethil agreed, and Thranduil knew that he understood his struggle. “Am I right in assuming that Lord Celeborn’s defeat helped, though?” They both let escape amused laughs.  

“It helped,” Thranduil admitted, still chuckling. “And the forest has been giving warning signs too. And still…what will our people think?” he wondered in a quiet whisper.  

“They will think that our time has come indeed, since our King is forced to make this painful decision. Many will not follow, but none shall dare contest your wisdom. And many who would not sail on their own would most probably follow you. The forest speaks to you, even the Silvan have admitted that. And it has been talking to all of us,” he added with a sad sigh. “What does Gaildineth say?”  

“That it was about time,” Thranduil conceded ruefully, and both laughed again, the king’s confidence apparently restored by his friend’s support. “She wants me to make an announcement tonight, you know she has arranged dinner in the sward for the whole household and those who would join us, but I am not certain that I want to let it be known just right know, with Laerîniel and Mallereg still abroad…”  

“You did not read the reports from the Home Guard, did you?” Brethil inquired as he extended a hand and hauled his friend up on his feet. 

“That is Bôrgalas’ responsibility,” Thranduil shrugged as they picked up the remains of their meal. “Is there anything I should have been aware of?” he demanded as they took the path back.  

“I do not think so,” Brethil answered, biting his lips to hold back a chortle. “But you should have learnt to follow Gaildineth’s suggestions as commands after all these ennin, Thranduil.”  

“Well, at least I have learnt to expect anything when it comes to the two of you conspiring,” he retorted grumpily, as they entered the stronghold.  

“Innocent!” Brethil claimed later in the afternoon, when one of the queen’s maids summoned them to the Great Doors to welcome the new arrivals. Mallereg, Laerîniel and Thalaûr stood there, exchanging greetings with the family.  

“Your arrival is doubly welcome, my children!” Thranduil said with a wide smile, disentangling Laerîniel from her granddaughter, one of the few children that had been born in that age,  and embracing his daughter-in-law. “Unexpected but most timely,” he added casually, casting a curious glance at Mallereg.  

“I had promised to be home today, my lord, and I am told there is some kind of celebration tonight…” the prince tried fruitlessly to slip away with his wife. 

“You told me the King had summoned us!” Laerîniel advanced menacingly upon her nephew. 

“I owed you one, Aunt,” the irrepressible prince laughed, hiding behind his wife as a precaution.  

“And you allowed it!” Laerîniel turned then her anger to the impassive guard.  

“A nephew’s privilege, Laerîniel,” Thalaûr reminded her with a vindictive smile. “By your leave, my lord, I shall go home now,” he smiled, kissing his daughter and bowing to the king and the assembled company as he retraced his steps back to his cottage.

Later in the evening they met informally in the sward; the family, the whole household, the guards and the few residents that still spent the summer around the stronghold now that most of the inhabitants of Lasgalen had returned to their nomadic habits and the patrols had been drastically reduced.  

They all sat together at long tables and shared their meals; salmon and trout cakes, summer mushrooms with fresh leaves and onions, acorn bread and baked wild bulbs, and handfuls of berries; all washed down with a light, amber-coloured ale.  

“This will come not as a great surprise, my friends.” Thranduil began as the last honey-cakes disappeared in idle conversation and merry chatter. A sudden stillness received his words. He looked briefly at the expectant faces and continued after a deep intake.  

“We Elves are wanderers. Since our forefathers first awoke in Cuiviénen we have roamed these wide lands from East to West and back again, delighting in their wonders, joining our voices with those of the woods, healing and caring, and giving and taking, and in doing so fulfilling the role that we were appointed, as mere stewards of these lands before the Dominion of Men,” he said with mixed bitterness and resignation.  

He looked from his family to his friends and counsellors, the settlers and guards, the kitchen aids and stable hands, people he had known for many an ennin and who looked at him now in sympathy and understanding, in anticipation and deep trust. He felt Gaildineth’s hand slip into his and press comfortingly, and that gave him the final strength to pronounce the words he had been dreading to say.  

“We never stepped back in the face of danger or difficulty. We will not now. It is time to move ahead, as we have always done. We all hear the voices of the trees. They are weary, their numbers dwindling. There is little else than we can do for them; some of us departed to Ithilien, thus easing the pressure on the woods. Our numbers have not increased in the past ennin, we are careful in what we take, and we dwell not long in the same places, or in great settlements. And yet the forest will not thrive as we hoped, for the greed of Men is endless, and they disregard our concerns and counsel, taking more from the forest that it would be safe for it to yield…”  

Even the trees in the clearing seemed to be listening intently, and the nightingales had stopped their evening song. It wasn’t uncommon that they talked about such things, but this time would be different, and would be the last. The king’s serene expression did not reflect how painful this was for him. He cleared his throat and continued his speech, summoning all his strength and radiating self-assurance and enthusiasm that were contagious.  

“It is time for bold decisions, my friends. As once my father started East with those who would follow him –and later north- in search of a safer dwelling place, so I will travel now West, beyond the Seas, to the wide forests that have been awaiting us since before Time. It will not be immediate,” he added, raising a hand in placating gesture at the dismayed looks in many faces around him. “It will take some time, and much counsel must be taken among us, to ensure the safety of those departing and the well-being of those remaining,” he said with a brief smile. “But let it be known that King Thranduil will lay down his ties with the Forest and will return his powers to the trees that granted them before this ennin is ended,” he pronounced louder, in a voice that did not tremble. The assembled Elves held their breath while the trees around them shook, as if moved by a sudden wind, conveying the news across the forest.  

A laden silence followed.  

“Let there be music!” The Queen’s clear voice broke the gloomy silence, and uncertain notes lifted from a flute here and a fiddle there, and then someone began to hum a well-known tune and others followed, soon filling the sward with their voices.  

“Do you want me to go to her?”  

Thranduil lifted weary, uncomprehending eyes to his wife and then let his gaze wander along the table, meeting concerned glances and spotting the vacant place were Laerîniel had been sitting.  

“No. I will,” he said with renewed decision. The trees guided him to the queen’s garden, where she sat by an olive tree whose seed had come from Ithilien.  

“Laerîniel…”  She stood up slowly, her breathing ragged, her face a mixture of pain, betrayal and incredulity. 

With a deep sigh he walked to her until they were face to face and looked down on her troubled countenance. He did not intend to set foot in the Blessed Realm without his son’s wife. 

“The time has come and decisions must be made. You will sail with us, will you?” It was neither a question nor a command, but yet challenging enough to force an answer from her. As she lifted rebellious eyes, he simply bared his faer to her. All his love of the forest, his anguish at its slow decay, his deep longing and weariness, the weight of long ennin of duty and the pain of abandoning it were there for her to search; and share, if she dared.  

It served his purpose, it seemed, for suddenly she broke into tears and held on to him, overwhelmed by the burden of her own grief. 

“I will my lord, I will,“ she finally admitted softly, and she laughed amidst her tears because, as it seemed to her, she had at last found out the way to healing.  

Early autumn, year 431 of the Fourth Age.  

“It is done,” Thranduil said softly, and to those around him it seemed unbelievable that with a few murmured words and a graceful gesture of his right hand the king had relinquished his bond with the forest and surrendered back all the power which had sustained trees, rocks  and elves together for ennin. Only the knowledge that the echo of his faer would remain for long in the forest-song offered them some comfort to those who had chosen to linger there.  

“It will be liveable for a long time,” the king pointed to the stronghold, “although water and root will soon begin to reclaim what once belonged to them,” he added with a twisted smile. Prestolon nodded silently.  

Almost half of the population of Lasgalen had been leaving at regular intervals in the past weeks, in small groups commanded by Bôrgalas, Mallereg and some of their officers. Now the last of the companies awaited in the Sward. The King’s company was made up of his wife and her retinue, his counsellors and the few descendents of Oropher’s; the last remnants of the most ancient Sindarin families that still walked Middle-earth.  

“When you feel that your time has finally come, you need only push the Great Doors closed. The rocks will fit perfectly and will not open again…or so the dwarves who wrought them claimed,” Thranduil said with a sceptic scowl. He cast a long look around, taking in all details. A few elves who still lived around the stronghold were gathered there to see them goodbye. He checked his company, ready and waiting. They travelled lightly; few and chosen possessions were carried away, as they expected that memories would sustain them.  

“Do not linger long, Prestolon,” the king said finally, clasping arms with the stubborn, short-tempered Silvan leader that had been the ban of his rule, and of his father’s. “Men’s advance is as unstoppable as the tides…The trees  know how to protect themselves, but soon there will be no place for the elves to live as we used to. And I will have to tell your wife that you will be coming soon,” he added in a warning voice.  

“I will. But there is still joy in these woods for us, and we can strengthen and protect the trees for some time before facing our choice. When that moment arrives, I will sail down the Anduin to gather those lingering in Ithilien, and into the West, my King. May the stars shine on your path.”  

“And upon yours. We will be awaiting you all,” Thranduil replied simply. He put his hand to his heart and bowed to those who remained. He then mounted his mare, nodded to the assembled company and nudged his steed onwards amidst an impressive silence.  

Soon, though, the merry voices of the Wood-elves rose in song, mingled with those of the trees, who bent their branches and shook their leaves, brightly dressed with their finest autumn gold, to honour the former King of Lasgalen on his last ride through his forest.   

It moved them to hear those voices for the last time, even if they knew that their own would still echo for many ennin in the forest and they would carry the memory of the trees’ voices with them; but the excitement of the road was also on them.  

They spent a whole day and night in song and recollection once they reached the Forest Gate, saying their final farewells, but by the time they forded the Anduin and began to climb the first slopes of the Misty Mountains, their minds were mostly set on what lay ahead on the Road. It had been the King’s wish that they set sail from Mithlond, so they could retrace the road they had once taken two ages ago. To this company, in which rode most of the last survivors of that long journey, that route held a special meaning.  

“Your adar would be proud of you.”  

Thranduil sighed and pulled his wife under his cloak, to protect her from the chilled autumn winds. The company had stopped for the night on a small plateau, half-way up in the long ascent towards the High Pass. It commanded a good view over the now distant sea of green; perhaps their last.  

“He would have done the same, I believe. Yet it wasn’t easy, to give up, and concede defeat…”  

“You did what was best. See how many have followed? And the rest will have another reason to consider sailing instead of dwindling and fading,  knowing that their king awaits them there…” Gaildineth pressed against him, sensing his discouragement and his pain. She knew how much it had cost him, to freely let go of his bond with the forest. “No one blames you, Thranduil, even Gaerthûl agrees!”   

He snorted softly at that. Laerîniel’s adar might agree, but was still his old gruff and disapproving self. With a great effort he shrugged and smiled faintly.  

“It doesn’t matter. It had to be done, the forest could not sustain us for much longer and we would have ended up battling the Men only to find ourselves confined in a remote corner of our own woods forced to fade in grief…” He sighed again and rested his chin on her shoulder, drawing comfort from her  closeness. “How about you, my lady? Will you miss your forest home?”  

“I have had a number of homes since I first met you in the forests of Ossiriand, my lord, and I have loved them all because you were in them. That suffices me,“ she answered reassuringly.  

“Elbereth be praised that we met, my lady,” he whispered fervently, “for Eru knows that I could not have hoped for a more blessed life since then!” She laughed joyfully as she met his lips.  

They arrived in abandoned Imladris with the first snows, to the ordered camp that an always efficient Bôrgalas had already set up there.  

“Men still consider this a ghostly place, so they seldom come here; and not without reason now,“ Bôrgalas informed his adar with an ironic chortle, as he showed him around the different buildings that had been patched up to shelter Thranduil’s people. “I sent Mallereg and half of our companies ahead to the Havens, to start planning for our arrival. He would not like to be cooped up here for the season,” he added almost apologetically.   

They wintered comfortably in the abandoned halls, and the stones seemed to rejoice in the presence of the Elves, who brought a last lapse of light to the mournful valley after almost an ennin of solitude and deep slumber.  

Spring came early and bright, and soon the elven companies resumed their march west, leaving Imladris to its definite decay. They avoided the wide East-West road that was now very busy with carts and riders and heavy traffic of goods, and after a peaceful march across the once wild lands of Eriador they were relieved to reach the wide forests around Bree, now a bustling city and trading place.  

They saw no traces of Bombadil as they crossed the Old Forest, but still they made camp for some days in a clearing by the Withywindle, to rest their mounts and enjoy the beauty of the season and the profound voices of those ancient trees, the last remnants of the greatest forests of past ages.  

Midyear was nearing as the elven host crossed the Baranduin and entered the sweet rolling lands of The Shire, which still looked homely and peaceful enough, despite their thriving neighbours and the busy roads.  

“They have fared pretty well, it seems, since they left the green valleys by the Anduin,” Bôrgalas observed with a fond smile. He and Thranduil stood on the Green Hills, looking south to the last stretch of their road, where the thin pinnacles of the White Towers gleamed in the early morning.  Thranduil cast a considering glance at his son, remembering his delight, as a young child, in all the creatures that dwelled in the forest and by the banks of the Anduin. More than an age had passed, but suddenly it seemed to Thranduil that the lively, curious child was still there before him.  

“Do you regret leaving, Bôrgalas?” he asked curiously. He was so used to his silent, steady and efficient support that he had not wondered how it felt to him. His son gave him a thoughtful glance.  

“I do not think much about it,” he admitted with a shrug. “Luinil is contented, for she would no longer find joy in the forest, and I am happy to see her pleased. It is enough for me,” he added softly, with an encouraging smile to his adar.

An unexpected welcome was ready for them in Undertowers, the residence of the Fairbarns, descendents of Samwise’s eldest daughter and appointed guardians of the Elven Towers. An old hobbit awaited them before the highest tower, managing to look venerable as he stood straight beside Mallereg, who greeted them with his usual festive disposition.  

“My lord, meet Falman Fairbarns, Master Guardian of the Tower. Master Guardian, this is King Thranduil of Lasgalen, father of Prince Legolas of the Nine Walkers.”

“Welcome to Undertowers, King Thranduil,” the hobbit pronounced solemnly. He bowed in two most respectfully and then spoiled the effect casting a curious look from Mallereg to Thranduil, who was returning the greeting with his right hand to his heart.  

“I wasn’t *that* wrong, after all, Mallereg,” the hobbit observed reproachfully.  

“As I told you, Falman, he is my grandfather,  and while I am honoured that you still find a resemblance between us,  it is to him that the message is addressed,” the prince said seriously. “We have arranged a wide camp for you all, Adar, if you would follow me?“ he spoke then to Bôrgalas, indicating to Thranduil that the old hobbit wanted to talk to him privately.  

“My father was yet a very young lad when he was here, my lord,” the hobbit led Thranduil to a wooden bench by the carved door to the tower. He groped under it and produced a clay jug wrapped around with wicker. The strong, honest taste of a young red wine made the king smile in appreciation. He returned the jug to the old guardian with a thankful nod.  

“Yet we Fairbarns have never forgotten our duty, and so I hoped that one day I would see you.”  

“Who was he?” Thranduil asked to indulge the old hobbit, though he had a good idea.  

“An Elf, sir, if I ever saw one; as my old father used to say! Begging your pardon, for now I think I have seen a whole forest of them…” he added with a happy chuckle. “An Elf tall like a tree with a head of silver, as my father said. He spent a whole winter here, studying the old documents and all, and then he told my grandfather: One day he will come from the East, tall and golden like the mallorn in the Party Field, he said, dressed in green and brown and followed by a great host, that’s what he said.”  

Thranduil chuckled quietly, seeing how the hobbit would mistake Mallereg for him. The hobbit lifted the jug and gave a long draught before continuing with his speech. He was clearly enjoying the moment. “And you will provide him with all that he and his host might need, and also give this to him, he said as well, although that he needed say not, sir, for it is our duty as Guardians until the last ship departs, sir.” The hobbit groped again under the bench and this time he brought out a well-preserved roll of parchment sealed with a silver leaf, Celeborn’s signet, which he handed to the King. “My grandfather passed it onto my father’s care, and he unto mine,” the hobbit said most seriously. “We keep it inside,“ he added at the puzzled look in the Elf’s face. “Only I put it here when Prince Mallereg said that you were coming…”  

Thranduil smiled gently. “And I thank you and your family for this service, and for your warm welcome, Master Falman. Now if you would allow me…”  

Thranduil’s laughter resounded in the Undertowers as he unfolded the roll and found out that Celeborn had carefully put down for him a detailed account, with drawings, of the noble art of shipbuilding. It was undoubtedly  copied from Eru knows what old parchments that were still kept in the Towers.  

They spent a joyful sun-round in Mithlond, busy with their shipbuilding and also roaming the forests that still grew there almost untouched.  

“Do you remember?” Thranduil asked his wife with a wide smile that was quickly returned. They were standing on a small hill overseeing what had once been a bedraggled camp.  

Gaildineth, Brethil and himself had been very young at the beginning of the Second Age, when they had lived there for some time with the rest of survivors from drowned Beleriand, teaching the Edain care for the forest as they built the fleet that would take them to their appointed island.  Short after, Oropher had led a great host East, first to Nenuial and then further east, beyond the mountains. Despite the ages, it seemed to Thranduil that the trees still held a memory of their joyful youth, so he suggested that they settled camp close to the woods while the shipbuilding lasted. The mournful melancholy of the stones in Mithlond weighed deeply on those forest creatures and unsettled them.  

Several nights during that exceptionally mild winter Thranduil awoke with a start, sure that he had heard his adar’s voice encouraging their people to move East, or patiently teaching him how to deal a particularly tricky sword-thrust, only to discover that Gaildineth had shared the same dreams.  

“We made a impression here,” was Brethil’s only comment, and the three spent an entertaining time sharing tales of their adventures at the mixed, busy camp that was Lindon at the beginning of the Second Age, much to their families’ amusement.  

By Midsummer day everything was ready. The camp slept peacefully at dawn, while the last bonfires, only remains of the celebrations, died away.  

“Are you ready?”  

Thranduil walked aimlessly under the trees, not wanting to miss that last morning in the lands of Hither. His daughter-in-law had had the same idea, it seemed.  

“I…it is strange, Adar,” she confessed, joining him in his walk. “I feel worried, and guilty. I know I am going to miss all this but at the same time I cannot help wondering why I did not sail with him as I should have done...” she barely caught back a strangled sob and cast her father-in-law an apologetic, uncertain smile.  

“Stop worrying, my child,” he said, hugging her briefly. “You did what you felt right then, and he would not blame you for that. Everything will turn out for the best, I promise,” he added softly, moved by the confident nod she gave him. They trusted him, he knew, and whatever awaited them beyond the Sea, the weight of duty towards his people would forever be his to carry proudly.  

They set sail at sundown, a forest of white glistening sails. The Fairbarns watched them leave from the stone quays of Mithlond with a sense of loss only partly alleviated by the set of gems mounted in mithril that the king had presented to them as parting gift. Another heritance, and a beautiful reminiscence of times long gone for the Guardians of the Towers, to look upon with pride when the meaning of their guardianship was lost in the mists of memory.  

****  

“I knew you would be arriving. But it will take them some time still, so you can as well give me a hand while you wait…”  

Círdan greeted his visitor calmly, without lifting his head from the fishing net he was mending. Legolas sighed and sat by him on the sun-warmed stone bench. He toyed distractedly with the Shipwright’s tools, scattered on the seat.  

“I felt her coming through our bond,“ he finally let escape, his curiosity winning over his anticipation. “But how on Arda did you know? Is it true that Ulmo speaks to you?” He carefully placed the needles back on the bench at the threatening look in the Mariner’s face. He stood up nervously and paced along.  

“I hear things,” Círdan said eventually, the faintest hint of amusement on his voice.  

For three days Legolas worked in the Shipwright’s workshop, the rhythmic sound of the drawknife over a wooden surface the only noise that would come out. The stars were high on the third night when Círdan finally pitied him.  

“They will arrive with the first light,” he said with a fond smile, joining him upon the pier where Legolas stood guard, his gaze fixed eastwards. Before dawn, a great crowd was assembled along the quays, waiting in joyful expectation.  

****

Arien’s first rays shredded the dense mists that had surrounded the fleet for the past days. The same anticipation throbbed aboard all ships as a rugged coast with tall cliffs surged before their eyes. An awed silence replaced the joyful singing and hopeful conversations, and the starboard deck was soon crowded with anxious heads eager to get a glimpse of their new home –and of those awaiting them there.  

“Will Grandfather be there? How will he know?”  

”He is already there, and he just *knows* my child.” Laerîniel’s voice trembled so slightly as she stood by her daughter and her granddaughter. She had felt his presence as soon as they entered those dense mists some days ago and since then the wait seemed more unbearable to Laerîniel than the three ennin she had just endured.  

A current of excitement drifted across the fleet, as the tall island got closer and they could discern the abrupt shoreline, the secluded beaches and steep trails that led upwards, to grasslands that hopefully would dissolve into endless forests and, finally, the much awaited jetty and smaller quays and the welcoming entrance to the haven, packed with long-missed relatives and friends. Bands of seabirds danced among the tall sails, shrilling their greetings while they led the white fleet home.  

Laerîniel bent daringly over the gunwale, not paying attention to the happy  and relieved voices around her, searching desperately for the golden head she knew so well.  

His presence was now almost overwhelming, as his faer threaded itself steadily among the loose strands of hers, and the joyful feeling of completion demanded that her attention turned inwards, while she fought to keep her eyes focused on the approaching coast, her eyes blurred by tears she had not noticed she was shedding. 

“I am here, my Sûlaer.”  

She stumbled backwards, stricken by a feeling she had missed so badly  for three ennin. She had lost her advantageous position at the gunwale to a couple of excited guards, but suddenly it did not matter to her, as she closed her eyes and submerged in the bright, steady presence that now shone within her.  

“I am coming,” she whispered and then shook like a tree welcoming the breeze at sunset as she heard his clear laughter, free of cares and worries, echoing within. When she opened her eyes again, the King’s ship was approaching the wooden quay and he was there, almost at arm’s reach, smiling tenderly at her.  

She found that she could not speak, her throat tightened by a cry of joy that threatened to escape her, as she elbowed her way through the dense wall of people eagerly awaiting to disembark. The moment the gangplank was fixed, and even before the King had managed to set foot on it, she hastened down and into the open arms of her husband, who waited at the end of the passage to greet the King properly.  

“Calenben!”  

She did not hear the laughs and cheers and exclamations of joy.  

She did not notice that the King had dispensed with a formal greeting and had given leave for all to disembark in ordered chaos, as the rest of the ships followd into the haven.  

She failed to perceive the crowds swarming around them, all lost in relieved laughs and tears.

She only knew that she was holding on to him and feeling him all around her, wrapping her in his strong comforting embrace, again whole and steadfast as she remembered him.  

“I…” He silenced her with a deep kiss, and she laughed and cried and kissed back in a frenzy.  

“I am...” Tears rolled down her beautiful face as she traced his features and felt his caring, tender, needy touch. There was so much she needed to tell him first, so much she had to explain, so much she had to apologize for…  

“I am...” He fixed her in a deep glance, the last threads of their bond so firmly tied that she could feel them vibrating together in a wild song of unknown harmonics and she finally surrendered herself to the bliss she had thought forever lost.

“I am home,” she finally acknowledged in a soft, awed whisper before drowning again in his lips, knowing that, at last, there would be no more partings.  

TBC in an Epilogue.

A/N  A couple of quotes that supported this chapter.

“But after the passing of Galadriel in a few years Celeborn grew weary of his realm and went to Imladris to dwell with the sons of Elrond. In the Greenwood the Silvan Elves remained untroubled, but in Lórien there lingered sadly only a few of its former people, and there was no longer light or song in Caras Galadhon. (LOTR, Appendix B)

“…So that the people of Gondor in times of peace, justice and prosperity, would become discontented and restless.” (Letters, nº 256 )