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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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