OoOoO

Twilight lay across the Hidden Valley like a mantle of silver and shadows. The waters of the Bruinen trickled cold and clear beneath stone footbridges, and a soft wind murmured through the rushes and willows on the river's edge. A spring rain had fallen earlier before sunset, slicking the grass and making the thorns of long-wild rose bushes shine. A Great Horned Owl perched in the crook of an old elm tree. It kept silent watch across the dewy gardens, alone and unseen...or so it thought. Elves have very keen ears and eyes, and the four gathered in what had once been Elrond HalfElven's private study marked well the presence of the feathered sentinel.

"Will you not come with us to Annúminas?" Arwen asked her brothers for the second time that day. Elladan had evaded the question earlier at dinner, and she knew something was afoot. "The Dúnedain will without question be even happier to see you than they will I. They have long been your friends, after all."

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a solemn glance. The two of them stood rather than sat, side-by-side at the window onto the gardens which to this day grew Lady Celebrían's beloved white roses. The single bush had grown into a sprawling hedge in the past several decades, and the twins had let it. Likewise, they no longer held themselves to the exacting standards of elven warriors; standards which Lord Glorfindel had taken very seriously in his days as part of Elrond's household. Their long black hair fell unbound about their shoulders, absent the warrior braids which they had always worn when hunting orcs amongst the Dúnedain of Fornost. They alongside Aragorn in his youth had made it their business to safeguard the north for many, many years. Now, twin swords hung unused and gathering dust in matching sheaths. Peace was upon Middle-Earth, and its presence had deprived Elladan and Elrohir of their purpose.

"We have been to Annúminas in recent years," said Elrohir "and unfortunately each visit seems to hold as much sorrow as it does happiness."

"What do you mean?" asked Legolas. The prince formerly of the Greenwood leaned to one side against a bookshelf, wrist habitually clasped in the stance of an archer.

Elladan smiled bittersweetly. "Every time we go, there are fewer and fewer amongst the Dúnedain who remember us. It seems that those whom we once counted as friends have developed the unfortunate habit of growing old and dying."

"Surely not all?" Arwen pressed. "It has only been little more than thirty-some years since the War of the Ring. Surely some amongst the younger still remain?"

"Some remain," Elrohir confirmed. "They are few though, and old by the measure of mortals. Almost none are left who once roamed the northern forests alongside Estel in his days as a chieftain."

"Such is the price we pay for having made ourselves part of this world," said Legolas, his voice wistful.

"Such is the price we pay," Arwen agreed.

The others fell silent at that. No one knew better amongst them than Arwen the price of binding oneself to mortality. Elladan's eyes slid to where his sister's hair - once darker than a river at midnight - had begun to shine silver at the temples. Elrohir meanwhile was noticing the fine lines etched around Arwen's eyes and mouth. Both were the sign of wisdom and experience amongst mortals. How at odds their two peoples could be, that Elladan and Elrohir could be Arwen's elders by over a century and yet now appear visibly younger than she. The twins glanced at one another, sharing an unspoken agreement. It was time to tell their sister of their decision.

Elrohir spoke first. "Arwen...long have we delayed the choice which you yourself made so many years ago. Now though, Elladan and I are decided."

"We will follow our father into the West, and be counted among the Firstborn."

The words rushed out of Elladan in a rather breathless exclamation. It was not how he had meant to say such weighty words. The decision was made though, and now Arwen knew. 

If she was dismayed, the Evenstar did not show it straight away. She sat unblinking in her seat, white hands clasped and lips parted. Then her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and the twins felt their sister's grief. 

"I suppose I knew such would be your choice." When Arwen spoke, her melodic voice was little more than a soft murmur. "Still, I dared to hope - selfishly perhaps - that one or both of you might choose to remain upon these shores and keep me company in my elder years."

Elrohir left his place by the garden window to join Arwen on the bench. Reaching out, he laced his own long, graceful fingers together with hers. So strongly did he resemble their father when he was troubled that Arwen wondered why she had never realized the depth of Elrond's wistfulness yearning for their numbered days together.

"We considered mortality, perhaps I more strongly than Elladan. Believe me when I say, gwathel-nin, that we take the decision to leave as gravely as you your choice to stay." 

Elladan turned to where Legolas stood quietly. "And what of your own fate, Legolas? Do you not still feel the sea-longing as it awoke in you at Pelargir?" 

Slowly, Legolas nodded. "I do. There is still time though. I will not leave Middle-Earth so long as Aragorn and Gimli live. We are 'The Three Hunters' after all, and our road together has not ended yet." 

Arwen smiled at Legolas through her tears. "And for that I am glad, voronwer (loyal one). To say goodbye to two brothers is a bitter sorrow, but three is beyond bearing." 

"There is a chance that your mother has been released from the Halls of Mandos, and thus we might find her upon our arrival," said Elrohir. "Is there any message you would like us to carry for you?" 

Legolas considered the question at length. "Tell her that...Tell my mother that I love and remember her still, as does my father. And tell her that we will not remain parted for much longer." 

Elladan and Elrohir swore to deliver Legolas' message exactly so. Their eyes kept sliding back to Arwen though. They looked at her as if she were a rare flower; beautiful and cherished, but inevitably to be lost to the winds of time and memory. A gulf was opening between the three Peredhil, a chasm of fate which grew wider with every passing heartbeat. Elladan and Elrohir were now as they would always be; immortal, fairest, and bound indivisible to this world. Every moment that Arwen grew older brought her closer to the Doom of Men...and beyond the reach of those who had loved her best. 

"What of Imladris?" asked Arwen, lifting her face to the beautiful, weathered artistry of their father's study. "What will become of the valley once you are gone?" 

"We will seal the Hidden Valley when we leave," said Elladan. "No mortal shall ever discover its hidden paths again, and time will reclaim this place once and for all." 

"Estel will be devastated that you left without bidding him farewell." 

"Some goodbyes are best left unsaid," said Elrohir. "Let Aragorn remember us as we were together in his youth, and keep his gaze turned to Gondor where it must be."

"I wish that our own farewells need not be said," Arwen wept. "This will be a bitter parting indeed, and it makes me curse the road which must take me from here come the dawning!" 

Sensing that this final parting between siblings was not his to share, Legolas stole from the room as quietly as a moonbeam. He left Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir to embrace one another for the last time, and speak of things that they never would again. With the departure of the Peredhil, the last of Arwen's elvish kindred would be gone from Middle-Earth. Arwen would leave Imladris for the last time on the morn, forevermore to be Queen of Gondor and nevermore 'Undómiel'. The thought saddened Legolas immensely.

The sound of voices from across the plaza drew his attention. His boots stirred last year's fallen leaves - darkened and smelling of mulch between the flagstones - as he approached the entrance to Imladris' library. Legolas recognized Elboron's reverent exclamations and Faramir's patient chuckle. Father and son were undoubtedly discovering the wonders of Lord Elrond's prized storehouse of knowledge. There were books on those shelves so old that they were written in the Quenyan tongue by scribes with a Vanyarin stilt to their diction. Legolas' knowledge of Quenya and Vanyarin was poor to non-existent, but he supposed someday he would have an eternity in Valinor to learn both languages to perfection.

Someday, but not yet.

OoOoO

"Father, look! I think this might actually be written in King Arvedui's own hand! See, the bottom even carries what's left of the old seal of Arnor."

Faramir came to lean over Elboron's shoulder at the bookcase. "Mmmm yes, I believe you're right. A missive confirming his betrothal to King Ondoher's daughter, Fíriel."

Elboron bent his head over the scroll, eyes narrowed with the effort of reading the small, faded calligraphy. "Arvedui speaks of Fíriel and their marriage as though he were arranging an appointment with a government official." The tone in Elboron's voice made it clear what he thought of that attitude. 

"Arvedui was an ambitious man," said Faramir. "When Fíriel became the ruling Queen of Gondor and Arnor, he leveraged both his lineage as a descendant of Isildur and his status as Fíriel's husband in an attempt to become king of both northern and southern kingdoms. I'm sure he regarded such a match as a political endeavor indeed."

"He may have been a king, but he was probably an awful husband." Elboron closed the scroll with a decisive 'snap'. In that way Elboron was very much like Éowyn; it didn't take long for him to form an opinion on people, and once decided his opinion was very difficult to sway.

Faramir chuckled. "Perhaps, perhaps not. Fíriel did choose to stay with Arvedui in Arthedain when Angmar attacked in TA 1974, rather than return to Gondor with her children. I'm sure many would have supported her decision to leave under such circumstances if she had done so." 

"Maybe she stayed out of a sense of duty. That and wanting her children to be close to their father." 

"Also possible." Faramir patted Elboron's shoulder. "There are many ways in which two people might come together, Elboron, and you'd be surprised how many of them can lead to a fulfilling marriage."

"Like you and mother?" asked Elboron with a sideways smile. Faramir and Éowyn's romance in the House of Healing was something of a local legend in Minas Tirith. A saying had even sprung up around them; 'Wounded warriors heal stronger together'. 

"As one example, yes." Faramir couldn't hide the nostalgic grin in his reply. 

That seemed to satisfy Elboron for the time being, and he went back to perusing the twelve-foot-tall bookshelf in front of him eagerly. Faramir traced his fingertips along the leather bound spines ringing the room before selecting one at random. He brought it to the round table in the center of the room and lit the wick on a lamp set there. The candlelight sprung up tall and bright, casting lapis-blue panes of light about the room through the delicately fluted lantern shade. The moon was full though, and so Faramir turned down the wick a little, reducing the flame to a low glow. 

A nightingale trilled in the gardens outside, prompting Elboron to wander over from the shelves to the veranda. It was a beautiful spring night, filled with the sweet scent of drying rain and fresh evening blooms. The sudden intake of breath that came from Elboron went beyond appreciation of the botanical though. Looking up, Faramir turned in his seat to see what had so fixated Elboron's attention. 

There was an elf maiden outside, walking the paths of Imladris' gardens with her long dark hair and shimmering cloak trailing behind her in the moonlight. The nightingale was perched on an twining ivy bower above where she walked, and as the elf-maid passed by the bird let out a warbling trill that pierced the night. For a moment she passed out of sight behind a low hedge...but then she reappeared in a moonflower-ringed courtyard beside the halls. She walked slowly but with direction, as if wandering on familiar paths. 

"Is that...Eruthiawen?" wondered Faramir aloud.

Elboron did not answer. He stood with his arms laden with books, leaning against the carven doorway onto the veranda like one overcome. His back was to Faramir, but Faramir saw the naked yearning in Elboron's slumped shoulders. Moving very quietly, Faramir stood and went to go look out onto the gardens behind his son. 

Eruthiawen either did not notice their presence - at a distance as they were - or else paid them no mind. Her hair hung loose and rippling in a curtain down her back, and it trailed like spider-silk in wisps over the white flowers as she bent to prune weeds back from their roots with her bare hands. She wore no ornaments; no rings nor crowns nor necklaces of any kind, and the simplicity suited the daughter of elfkind within her. Eruthiawen was neither princess nor daughter, alone out under the jewel-bright sky like that. She simply was, just as the elves had been when first they awoke in the world and delighted in the stars. 

The nightingale sang again, and Eruthiawen rose, clapping dirt from her fingertips and nodding with satisfaction at her work. Then, pinning her cloak back behind one shoulder, she went on to do the same for the white roses growing beneath the window on the far side of the courtyard. She sang as she worked, and though the words were in elvish Faramir and Elboron understood them clearly. 

"Well the summertime is coming 
and the leaves are sweet returning. 
But those flowers of peace 
it's for them I'm really yearning. 

Will they bloom, ever bloom 
will they bloom in the springtime? 
Those flowers of peace 
when the world should be in springtime 
will they bloom, ever bloom..."*

When Faramir chanced to look at Elboron, his heart was filled with both gladness and concern. He, Éowyn, Aragorn, and Arwen had all known that Elboron had a special fondness for Eruthiawen since the children were quite small. What little boy would rather hold and wonder over an infant girl-child than play chase and ring-toss? As the children grew older, Aragorn and Éowyn had wondered if perhaps the childhood fancy would become something more akin to brother/sister-hood. Faramir knew now that that would never be the case. Elboron loved Eruthiawen, as clearly as the nightingale now sang. 

But what of Eruthiawen? That she had been receiving the attentions of Prince Hakon of Dale was no secret. Faramir feared that, if Elboron did not find it within himself to speak his heart, Eruthiawen might never chance to open hers. She was such a serious girl, so dutiful and poised, Faramir wondered what had ever become of her childish years. A giggling maid might almost have been easier for Elboron to work up the nerve to court. But then, a giggling maid would likely not have inherited those hypnotic grey eyes and timeless grace of the Evenstar. 

For a moment, Faramir thought to speak to Elboron; to urge him to say something before the day came when it might be too late. But what kind of lover was a man who had to be urged to romance by his own father? No, he must do nothing. As much as Faramir loved and wanted to do for Elboron, this was one thing he could not master for him. If Elboron and Eruthiawen were meant to be, then they would have to find their way together for themselves. And if not...then Faramir knew that his family would always love her as if she were one of their own regardless. 

Faramir left Elboron to his yearnings, the peace of the night unbroken. 'And so time turns on itself in a wheel', he thought to himself. A generation ago, a shieldmaiden of Rohan had longed in silence and secret for a king of the White City. That longing had been misplaced though, and for that Faramir was very glad, as it had ultimately brought Éowyn to his arms. Whether history would repeat itself or be written anew, Faramir could not say. That was for the shieldmaiden's son and the king's daughter to decide. 

    OoOoO

*'Flowers of Peace' - Irish folk tune