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The bodies of Gandalf and Galadriel lay among the ruins, and Elrond did not know whether, by some miracle, they were still alive or whether Sauron had extinguished their lives as well.

When it became known that Frodo and Sam had been captured and that Sauron had obtained the Ring, Elrond, Galadriel, and Celeborn had jointly decided that they had nothing left to lose. They had received no reply from Thranduil and his people to their message, but scouts reported a great host of Orcs marching toward Mirkwood.
They could not help the Wood-elves.

As long as the Ring was not destroyed, all efforts would be in vain. Sauron would come and destroy their very existence, no matter what they did. So they sent the greater part of their people to Mithlond to sail into the West and set out southward with all their warriors. There they joined forces with Gondor and Rohan in one last desperate attempt to destroy Sauron once more and to unmake the Ring.

The chances had been slim—almost nonexistent—but what else could they have done? Wait in Imladris and Lothlórien for their doom? Wait for Sauron to break down their doors and slaughter their people in their own halls?
They had waited long enough. The Fellowship of the Ring had failed, the companions scattered, dead, or missing. There was no hope left for Middle-earth—only this desperate attempt, this single chance against millions.
And they had failed.

Elrond, Gandalf, and Galadriel had left their troops together when it became clear that Sauron would not appear in person. The Ring-bearers had slipped behind enemy lines and encountered Sauron only a few miles beyond the Black Gate. He had been waiting for them.

The battle was swift and desperate, and in the end Galadriel and Gandalf lay upon the ground, Nenya and Vilya in Sauron’s hand. Elrond alone still stood—but he, too, was exhausted. Weary of fighting, weary of the pain that had seemed to follow him all his life, weary of life itself.
“Give me Vilya.” Sauron’s voice seemed to echo throughout all of Mordor as he stood over the Half-elf.

A part of Elrond wanted to yield. Wanted all of this to finally end, wanted peace and rest. He longed to see his fathers again—Maedhros and Maglor, Atto and Atya—who, despite all that was said of them, had always been loving fathers to Elrond and Elros, far more loving than Elwing had ever been.

Atto, Maedhros, had been the one to teach Elrond his skill in battle—the very skill that now allowed him to stand even against Sauron himself where others had long since fallen. Atya, Maglor, had taught him to use the powers that slumbered within him, to guide them and to shape the world.

But all of that did not help against the sheer force of power Sauron radiated as he stretched out his hand in demand. Upon it already lay Narya and Nenya, glimmering mockingly despite the absence of sunlight, as though even they could not decide between the dark and yet alluring power.

Vilya felt heavy upon his finger, and Elrond tightened his grip on Hadhafang. Weakly, he shook his head. He would never surrender willingly—even if he could barely find the strength to remain standing.
And then, suddenly, Elrond felt the air around him grow warmer, as though he were standing beside a bright and welcoming campfire.
Warmth flooded through him, and it seemed as though someone laid their hands upon his shoulders and arms, lending him strength. Startled, he looked up.

Sauron had stepped back, and a gentle light seemed to surround Elrond. He turned his head—and froze.
Behind him stood Maedhros Fëanorion, his left hand resting upon Elrond’s shoulder. In his shadow stood a dark-haired Elf and red-haired twins.

They were all smiling at him. Caranthir. Amrod. Amras.

A hand settled upon his other shoulder, and Elrond whipped his head around—only to find himself face to face with Maglor Fëanorion. Behind his father stood Celegorm, Curufin, and Celebrimbor. His cousin, his uncles, and his father were smiling as well. Then Maglor leaned forward and whispered softly in his ear, “We are incredibly proud of you, yonya.”
With those words, new strength seemed to flow into Elrond’s limbs.
He heard Maedhros’ voice: “You can do this, Elyo.

Elrond looked at Sauron. If he were not wearing his helm, Elrond was certain he would see fear upon his face. More and more strength flowed back into his body until nearly all his reserves were restored. Then the reassuring pressure on his shoulders vanished, and without needing to look, Elrond knew that his fathers, his uncles, and his cousin were gone.

Sauron seemed to regain his composure and struck at Elrond with his mace. But Elrond parried the blow, let it glance off his guard, and leapt toward the Dark Lord.

Hadhafang sang through the air as Elrond swung his sword with incredible speed, forcing Sauron further and further onto the defensive with each strike. Yet the Maia quickly recovered from his surprise at Elrond’s restored strength and began to press the attack in turn, driving Elrond back step by step with mighty blows. The Lord of Imladris knew he could not win this fight with a sword.
He whirled around the Dark Lord. Others had once described his fighting style as a whirlwind—and the description fit surprisingly well.
A sharp pain tore through his side as Sauron’s mace pierced his armor and ripped into his flesh. The force of it threw him out of rhythm, and Sauron hurled him to the ground. His sword was torn from his grasp and landed several yards away.
Elrond would not reach it in time.

He had just managed to push himself upright when he felt a great armored hand close around his throat, cutting off his air.
Sauron lifted him until they were face to face. “For four thousand years you have been a thorn in my side, Elf. But not even you can defeat me.”

Sauron’s voice seemed to vibrate through Elrond. He did not hear it only with his ears but within his mind, where Sauron tore through all his barriers as though they were made of paper.
The hand around his throat tightened, and Sauron laughed as Elrond seemingly clawed at his fingers in panic—but Elrond’s intent was another entirely.

Centuries ago, Mithrandir had driven himself to the very edge of his physical strength and had still refused to rest. Through physical contact, Elrond had managed to force his friend into a deep healing sleep—and had nearly burned himself out in the process. Gandalf and every healer present had later scolded him for being so reckless as to attempt to overpower a Maia. The sheer power it had cost him could have killed him. But he had succeeded. And why should he not succeed again?
Yes, Elrond was a warrior, a lord, and a commander of armies—but above all, he was a healer. That was his craft, the one calling in which his power was strongest.

So Elrond reached deep into his reserves of strength—into that power he had inherited from Melian the Maia, that power of which he had always possessed more than even his mother, though he bore less Maia blood than she. He seized that power and let it flow through his hands into Sauron, through his mind across the unstable bridge into Sauron’s own.
The Dark Lord understood at once what Elrond intended.

“No!”

With all his strength, Elrond pushed against Sauron’s resistance, searching for the smallest crack.
He poured every last drop of power into this single, final attempt. He felt his fingers grow cold as more and more strength streamed through them. Darkness crept into his vision—both from the immense surge of power and from Sauron’s tightening grip around his throat. The Half-elf felt the chill spread through his very core as his reserves neared their end.
Desperate, he reached deeper still—reached for his life force.

Every living being possessed this energy. It was this energy that granted them life—the Music of the Ainur. It could not be renewed. Every Elf who was able to store and wield energy—power—learned first of all to sense this force that existed within every living creature, from an Elf down to the smallest microorganism in the soil. This energy was sacred; it was the fëa of every creature of Eru Ilúvatar.
The second lesson was never, under any circumstances, to use this energy. It cannot be restored; once lost, it is gone forever. Without it, one cannot live—it is your very life force.

Now, for the first time in six thousand five hundred years, Elrond broke the rule Maglor had drilled into him at an incredibly young age. But more than Elrond’s life was at stake here. The fate of Middle-earth hung in the balance, and Elrond would give everything to defeat Sauron.

The cold spread as Elrond dug ever deeper, drawing more and more of his life force to bear against Sauron.

And it worked.

He could feel the grip around his throat slowly loosening. Elrond pressed against the barriers of Sauron’s mind and forced his way through every tiny crack he could find, sending only a single command:

Sleep.

He struck the hard ground as Sauron finally let him fall. The Dark Lord’s body crashed down beside him and lay still.
Elrond could hardly believe it. He had truly done it—he had forced Sauron into sleep, had overcome a Maia.
For a moment, Elrond lay there gasping, trying to draw breath back into his lungs. His side burned where Sauron had struck him, and his vision flickered in and out. After several more breaths, he struggled to his feet and staggered toward his sword lying nearby. Then he stood over Sauron’s sleeping form.

The Ring gleamed upon Sauron’s finger. Not the smallest speck of dirt had marred its shining surface. Elrond raised his sword and severed Sauron’s hand with a single blow.

And just as it had nearly four thousand years before, the Dark Lord’s body crumbled into dust. Only the Ring and the armor remained.
Carefully, Elrond knelt and picked up the Ring. Such a small thing—and yet capable of so much evil.
A glimmer caught his eye, and he gently brushed aside the dust that only minutes before had been Sauron’s hand.
There they lay: Nenya and Narya, unharmed.

After a brief hesitation, Elrond took them as well. He could already feel the Ring brushing at the edges of his wounded mind, but he rejected it.

Elrond had had enough of Rings, of Dark Lords—enough of power.

A part of him wanted to yield to the cold spreading within him, wanted to lie down and simply never rise again. Wanted to leave it to others to destroy the Ring. But knowing how well it had gone the last time he had trusted someone else to do what was right, he forced himself back to his feet.

Clutching the One Ring and the two other Elven Rings tightly in his hand, he staggered toward Mithrandir and Galadriel. Both were wounded, yet by some miracle still alive. But he had no time to tend to them.
When he glanced toward the Black Gate, he could see the armies of Orcs rushing in his direction. They had felt the death of their master and were now fleeing before the armies of the Free Peoples, who were driving them back toward Mordor. If the Orcs and the rest of that rabble found him here, they would kill him and seize the Rings.

Elrond no longer had the strength to fight; he could barely remain standing, and the road to Mount Doom was long.
With one final effort, he dragged Galadriel and Mithrandir into the shadow of a cluster of rocks. They would awaken soon—but he could not wait that long. His lead was shrinking with every passing minute.

He looked out across the wide plains of Dagorlad and Udûn, with their countless ravines and scattered boulders. In the distance, Mount Doom smoked beyond the mountain range that bordered the valley of Udûn, rising dark against the ash-choked sky. Elrond estimated the distance at roughly seventy miles. At the mere thought of crossing it, his whole body ached. His thoughts blurred as a fresh, stabbing pain shot through his side, and he stumbled. A quick glance back toward the Black Gate told him he had perhaps six miles’ lead.

Without another look at Sauron’s remains, he turned—and ran.

He did not know where he found the strength. As a healer, he had often seen that sheer defiance and stubbornness could save lives, and he had often been told he was too stubborn for his own good. It had to be that same stubbornness that kept him moving, that gave him the strength to put one foot before the other.

Every step thundered in his ears as he carved a path through the broken landscape at incredible speed. Blood roared in his head, and Elrond had never been more grateful for his Elven endurance and swiftness. A Man or a Dwarf would never have stood a chance of reaching the mountain before the Orcs overtook him.
But Elrond had a chance—and so he kept running.

Soon all thought fell silent. His eyes were fixed upon the great volcano rising from the plain. His feet carried him of their own accord across the uneven ground, over fissures and cracks in the earth, past the boulders strewn everywhere. He had left his sword behind—it would be of no use to him now. His hand was clenched so tightly around the Rings that his fingernails dug into his flesh and blood dripped down his wrists, yet he did not notice.

Nothing mattered anymore except reaching the mountain. No pain, no exhaustion, no cold would stand in his way of ending this war once and for all.

The cold had spread throughout his body, along with an unnatural weariness—but Elrond did not care.
He did not look back, did not heed the blood flowing from his side and leaving a clear trail upon the ground. The Orcs would find him sooner or later; he was plainly visible upon the open plain, and he was fortunate that the Nazgûl, weakened by the death of their master, could not overtake him on their winged mounts.

As Elrond ran, his mind grew empty, for Sauron’s intrusion had torn apart all his barriers, and now memories rose to the surface—memories he had suppressed for centuries, for millennia.

* * *
Gil-galad, defiantly leveling his spear at Sauron—only to be mercilessly burned.

Elwing in her white gown, standing upon the windowsill, the Silmaril pressed to her breast. Fear was written plainly across her face as she stared at Maglor, who stood before her in bloodstained armor. His hand was outstretched, his expression pleading. She did not spare a single glance for the twins huddled together in a corner of the room, clinging to one another and trying not to make a sound, as she took that final step and vanished—leaving her children behind with an Elf she believed to be a ruthless murderer.

Elros, old and frail, lying in a bed far too large for him. His chest was still, his eyes closed. He looked as though he were sleeping—but Elrond knew he was not. Where once the bond to his twin had been, there was now a yawning abyss in his mind. For the first time in his life, Elrond was utterly alone.

A large hand closed far too tightly around his small one as Elrond watched his father’s ship depart from the havens of Sirion, where Elwing and her sons stood upon the quay. He could not have explained it then, but he knew he would never see his father again. (Was Eärendil truly his father? Whenever Elrond dreamed, he saw two other Elves whom he called Father. Two fathers who were not cold and distant, who cared, who comforted, who told the twins that they loved them. Elwing had never told them she loved them.)

Elrond sat slumped beside Celebrían’s bed. Her slender hand lay in his, his eyes fixed upon her face. He had tried everything, had healed her body—and yet her soul was slowly, steadily fading. He could not save her. He had failed. He did not know whether he had only imagined the reproach in Galadriel’s eyes when she had left the room mere hours before. He could not have blamed her. He had sworn to protect and honor her daughter, and he had failed. He could feel Celebrían’s fëa slipping away, and there was nothing he could do. He closed his eyes and cried for the first time in weeks.

The air tasted of ash, and Eregion burned. Even from afar, Elrond could see the flames devouring the ruins of what had once been his cousin’s magnificent city. They had impaled Celebrimbor’s body and hung it above the gate. From the nature of the wounds, Elrond knew his cousin had suffered long. He had come too late.

The tall Elf who had frightened their mother so greatly knelt carefully before them. The door burst open, and there stood a true giant. His hair was as red as the blood upon his sword and armor. He began speaking with the Elf before them in a language they did not understand. Elrond knew these Elves. He had often seen them in his dreams and knew they would never harm them. They were Atto and Atya. They would protect them, tell them bedtime stories (their mother had never put them to bed—she had always had something more important to do, like gazing at her necklace), and comfort them. But Elros did not know this, and the panic his twin felt surged across their bond. Elrond began to cry as well, though he knew that now everything would be all right.

“My lords, you should see this.” A tall Elf (not as tall as Atto—no one was as tall as Atto) with black hair stood in the doorway. He wore black armor with an eight-pointed star upon his breast, and two swords were strapped to his back. His name was Erestor, and only if one looked into his eyes could one tell that he was older than he appeared. Atya—though he was not yet Atya, not yet—had told them that Erestor was older than Fëanor, the father of Atto and Atya. Atto had said that Erestor was a fearsome warrior; that when Fëanor, who had been his friend, died, he had hunted down the Balrogs who had slain him and killed them. Elrond knew that Erestor was kind. He simply did not like to show it. Atto and Atya rose from the table, and Elrond and Elros—whom no one had told to remain behind—followed them. Outside in the courtyard of the fortress, many Elves had gathered, gazing up at the sky. There, above them, a new star had risen—Gil-Estel. With a sharp pang of betrayal, Elrond realized that he had been right back then—he would never see his father Eärendil again.

* * *

At the thought of Erestor, Elrond found himself smiling.

His Chief Counselor was exactly as his fathers had once described: You need someone to lead your armies? Ask Erestor. You need an assassin and a spy? Ask Erestor. You need someone to govern a realm with terrifying efficiency? Ask Erestor. You need someone to fetch a particular book from a library? Ask Erestor.

His friend was indeed frighteningly efficient when it came to ruling Imladris, and Elrond did not know what he would have done without him.

Over the years, the old warrior had transformed from mentor to friend to family—and had become Arwen’s favorite uncle.
Most of Imladris feared him—though not because of his past as a Fëanorian, but because of his icy stares and razor-sharp tongue. The fact that, after Maedhros and Maglor, Erestor was likely the most dangerous of the Fëanorians was known to only a few. The only one outside Elrond and his immediate family who knew was Glorfindel—and he clearly did not mind, considering that the golden-haired warrior had been hopelessly in love with his colleague for centuries, perhaps even millennia.

Elrond wondered whether Glorfindel had survived the battle at the Black Gate—he had left Erestor behind in Imladris with Arwen and all those who had refused to depart, along with the portion of the guards who had once served under Erestor.
Erestor had been Imladris’ last line of defense. Elrond had never argued so fiercely with his friend as on the day Erestor told him he would remain behind.

When they had set out, Elrond had watched Erestor bid farewell to Glorfindel and had not for the first time wondered whether the captain’s love might not be unreturned.
He hoped, for both their sakes, that they would survive—that they might have a future somewhere, in a place where there was more than suffering and death and pain.

Lost in thought, he had not noticed how close he had already come to Mount Doom. His feet had carried him surely across the broken terrain. Not far behind him—little more than a mile—he could see the Orcs.
Their heavy steps made the ground tremble. They had picked up his trail, then, and the cleverer among them must have realized, upon finding Sauron’s remains, what he intended to do.

The mountain loomed steeply before him.
High above, Elrond could see the entrance that led into the heart of the volcano. He no longer felt the pain that should have radiated from the wound in his side. Cold and numbness had claimed his entire body, and he could feel the leaden exhaustion spreading from his wounded fëa. As a healer, he knew that was a very bad sign.
But he could not stop.

His head spun and throbbed. His hand had cramped around his precious, cursed burden. Yet he had to go on. He no longer even tried to gather what little strength remained—because there was none left. Instead, he forced his body onward by sheer willpower alone.
The ascent was harsh and agonizing. There was no direct path to the entrance, and Elrond was at times forced to climb over jagged rocks that bit painfully into the hand he used to pull himself upward.

Below him, at the mountain’s base, he could see the army that had chased him across the plain. Part of it had begun the climb as well.
Elrond dragged himself higher up the mountain. Every step now seemed an impossible feat. His limbs were numb, and his vision wavered.

But he must not give up.

More than three thousand years ago, he had made this same journey with Isildur at his side, had tried to convince him to destroy the Ring. But the Man had already fallen under the Ring’s sway, even if he did not yet know it.
Only years later had they understood what the Ring could do—how deeply it could influence its bearer—and Isildur had been slain on his way to Imladris.

Now, three thousand years later, Elrond made this journey alone. His likely final journey.
He harbored no illusions that he would somehow leave the mountain alive by some miracle. He, Gandalf, and Galadriel had spoken of what might happen if the Ring were destroyed.

The immense power contained within it would likely cause the mountain to collapse.
Elrond did not know how Gandalf had intended for the Fellowship to descend the mountain alive, had they ever reached this place.
A part of Elrond—the part that was endlessly weary, weary of all the pain, the grief, and the death—felt relief that it would end. That part wanted to lie down and wait for the Orcs to find him. It would not be forever, of course. He would one day leave the Halls of Mandos. But perhaps then he would have time to heal the wounds in his fëa, to let his spirit rest, to simply lie down and sleep—for several centuries, if he could.

Yet another part of him remembered that his task was not yet fulfilled.

He had to go on—for Middle-earth, for Imladris, for his children, his four beautiful, loving children. He wished so deeply that they might find happiness.

Whether they chose the fate of Men or of Elves did not matter to him. He would grieve if they chose mortality, and a part of him would die with them (just as a part of him had died with Elros, and a part of him had sailed with Celebrían, and he did not know whether anything of him would remain if the twins also left him, as Arwen and Estel would), but he would always support and love them, for they were his children.

Long ago, he had realized he would never understand how Elwing could leave him and Elros. She had left them with an Elf she believed would kill them, whom she believed would not even spare children. Their mother had left them to die, and Elrond would never understand how she could have done that.

Elwing was not his mother. Eärendil was not his father.
He was the son of Maedhros and Maglor, grandson of Fëanor.
And he would not be stopped by a cursed mountain and a little exhaustion.

The gate of Orodruin—the Mount Doom—lay before him like the open maw of a beast.
Even before Elrond stepped into the tunnel, searing heat struck him, and he stumbled, bracing himself against the rock with one hand to remain upright. Behind him he could hear the Orcs following, and he knew he should not waste any time—yet he paused all the same to catch his breath.

In all his long life, he had never been so exhausted. He could no longer feel his legs; his entire body was suffused with numbness and cold, and Elrond could not tell whether it came from blood loss or from having pushed his body, his mind, and his fëa too far.
The world spun before his eyes, and Elrond leaned against the stone and waited until his surroundings settled back into place. Then he drew one last deep breath, ignoring the pain that lanced through his body at the effort (the mere fact that he could feel it despite the numbness that had claimed him boded ill), and stepped through the gate.

Inside, it was unbearably hot, and the air tasted of ash.
Stumbling, Elrond made his way onto the outcrop of rock that jutted out over the heart of the volcano. Beneath him, lava bubbled and hissed, unbearable heat rising in waves. The entire mountain seemed to tremble in anticipation.

For a long moment, Elrond simply stood there, gazing into the depths. He imagined taking just one more step. The sensation of falling. The brief, searing pain—and then nothing.

He felt himself sway at the edge and forced himself to focus.

He raised his right hand—the one that held the Rings. He had not dared to place them in his pocket; he knew the One Ring was as treacherous as its master and would try to escape its fate. He opened his cramped fingers, and there, in the center of his palm, surrounded by blood and the dust of the plain yet utterly untouched by it, lay the One Ring, Nenya, and Narya. The One Ring seemed almost to glow, as if it knew it had returned to the place of its birth.

Elrond could feel it once more clawing at the frayed edges of his mind, trying to influence him, to urge him to put it on and simply end all suffering. He knew he could do it—he could wield the Ring and erase all pain and grief.
But that was not the right way.

His left hand trembled as he carefully slid Vilya from his right ring finger and placed it beside the others. For a single breath, he regarded the Rings, thinking of all he might accomplish with the combined power of all four.
Then he extended his hand and let them fall into the lava.

Whatever he might achieve, whatever the Ring promised him, it would never be worth the cost or the consequence.
He stood upon the rocky ledge and watched, strangely devoid of emotion, as the four Rings that had shaped the fate of Middle-earth for millennia sank into the molten fire. The mountain around him began to quake; rocks fell, and the lava started to rise. Elrond did not care.

The time of the Elves is over. We have finished what we began. The fate of Middle-earth no longer lies in our hands. It is over.
It is over.

There was something strangely liberating in the thought. It was over. Sauron was defeated, the Rings destroyed. For the first time in more than four thousand years, there was no looming shadow of Sauron to mark every peace as fleeting. There was no impending war.
The Orcs and all creatures that had served Sauron would now be leaderless, easy to hunt down. They had done it. That one chance—one in a million—had succeeded.

He was free.
He could rest.

A boulder crashed down near him, and part of the ledge broke away into the abyss. The heat became unbearable, and suddenly Elrond realized he did not want to die here. He did not want to die in a collapsing volcano.
He wanted to see the sunrise one last time.

The Lord of Imladris, former bearer of Vilya, tore himself from his daze and fought to place one foot before the other.

Outside, rocks were crashing down as well, and the earth—indeed all of Mordor—was trembling. Elrond dragged himself onto a jutting rock and fell to his knees there. The acrid smoke that had long hung over Mordor had begun to clear; only the volcano behind him still smoked and hurled lava into the sky. But for the first time in years, all of Mordor lay visible.

With a strange numbness, Elrond watched the Orcs below him flee from the lava now pouring down the mountain, scrambling to avoid the chasms that suddenly opened before them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Elrond thought he saw something—but his vision faded, and he lost consciousness before he could turn his head.

* * *

Maglor, son of Fëanor, wanted to scream.
That in itself was nothing new. Even in life he had often felt the urge to give voice to his anger and despair—especially in the last centuries of his existence—but this time it was simply so unfair.

Why did it always have to be Elrond? Why did it always have to be his small, gentle son, who had asked so many questions that neither he nor Maedhros nor Erestor had ever been able to answer them all? Why did it always have to be his little Elyo who suffered? Why?
When Mandos had descended into the deepest depths of his halls to make Maglor and his brothers an offer, Maglor had known it would be grave.

“Your son and nephew needs you to stand beside him. You will be permitted to remain at his side until the danger has passed, to lend him your strength when he falters—but save for one time, he will not know that you are with him.”

That was what Mandos had told them, and of course they had agreed.

They had done unspeakable wrong. They had betrayed, murdered, and plundered—and all for jewels they had come to hate more than anything by the end of their lives.

The Oath had twisted their souls, had driven them to commit the worst deeds ever wrought by an Elf—but family was family.
And the sons of Fëanor had learned at least one thing from their father—their children came above all else.

Fëanor had not been an Elf without faults. Indeed, he had possessed an astonishing number of them. But no one could say he did not love his children—and his nieces and nephews as well. He would have done anything for them.

Though he had been constantly at odds with Fingolfin and Finarfin, he had always kept an open and affectionate ear for their children. His house had always stood open to them, and he had never forbidden his sons from keeping contact with their cousins, no matter how deeply he might have seemed to hate his brothers at times.
The children were not to blame. In those conflicts, they were innocent. And at the end of the day, it had not mattered to Fëanor whether seven children sat at his dinner table or fourteen because each of his sons had brought at least one cousin along—so long as they were all happy, well-fed, and the house was still standing afterward.

It would have destroyed their father to witness what his Oath had driven his sons to do—how deeply they had fallen into madness, how it had led them to their deaths, how utterly it had torn them from the rest of their family.
They had never fought their cousins willingly—only driven by their Oath and never by free choice, for they were family.

Mandos had sent their spirits forth from his halls together with Celebrimbor, and they had found themselves upon a jagged plain.
Before them stood Sauron, clad in his towering black armor, gazing down at a solitary figure who faced him.
Galadriel and Olórin lay motionless among the rocks, clearly defeated, leaving Elrond alone to stand against Sauron.

Almost like a single person, Maglor and Maedhros had stepped forward to stand protectively in front of their son.
Against Sauron’s enormous form, Elrond had looked incredibly small, even though he was counted among the tallest of the Elves. Elyo’s armor was stained with blood and dust, his face bore cuts, and his shoulders were slumped.
There was no fire left in his eyes, no light to be seen. He had no strength remaining, yet still he had stood defiantly before the Dark Lord. Maglor had felt both immense pride and overwhelming despair.

“Give me Vilya.”

The sheer power in Sauron’s voice had made even Maglor and his brothers tremble on their incorporeal plane, and Maglor had been proud when Elrond had not even flinched. Sauron had reached out his hand demanding the ring, and Maglor had seen his son unconsciously clench his right hand into a fist. He could not see Vilya, but he knew that Elrond was likely hiding the ring with the last remnants of his power.

Cautiously, Maglor had extended his Fëa toward his son and shuddered at the utter emptiness where there should have been power.
He did not believe Elrond had ever truly realized how strong he really was. His reserves of power were extraordinary—more akin to a Maia than an Elf. Maglor and Maedhros had suspected that Elrond even surpassed Galadriel in sheer power, and they had considered sending him to her. However, Maglor’s methods with the Songs of Power seemed to yield good results in teaching Elrond to control his strength. And the brothers were simply too selfish to give up one of their sons—especially knowing they might never see him again.
As he was now, utterly drained, Elrond would never have been able to withstand Sauron. Maedhros seemed to have the same thought, for he carefully lifted his hand and gently placed it on their son’s shoulder.

Elrond had turned his head alarmed and froze—Maglor could not see the disbelief on his son’s face, but he could imagine it perfectly. Maglor also placed a hand on Elrond’s other shoulder, and Elrond’s head whipped toward him.
Maglor could not help but smile at his son. Then he had carefully let his power flow into Elrond.
His brothers and his nephew had moved behind him, and Maglor had seen Elrond’s eyes darting from one face to the next, disbelief shining in them. Celegorm, Curufin, and Celebrimbor had also begun channeling power into Elrond through Maglor.
Sauron had stepped back, and Maglor felt only pure satisfaction as he sensed the fear radiating from the fallen Maia.

He should be afraid—and if they had had physical bodies, Sauron would have stood no chance. But they could remain in the corporeal world only for a brief time, and soon Maglor felt the connection beginning to fade.

He leaned forward and whispered words of comfort into his son’s ear, hoping to console him as he had been consoled as a child.
When Sauron recovered and struck a massive blow at Elrond, Maglor noticed Maedhros flinch beside him, as if he had to restrain himself from rushing forward to take the blow.

He had squeezed his brother’s hand—both to offer comfort and to have something to hold onto if fear overwhelmed him.

Elrond had danced around the Dark Lord, a true whirlwind of blades, even though he wielded only one. It had been incredible to watch.
When he was a boy and they had first taught him and Elros how to fight, it had naturally become clear over time what his fighting style would be. But Elrond had had over 6,000 years to refine himself and to learn, and the result was astonishing.

Still, Maglor could clearly see Maedhros in that fighting style. Anyone who had seen Maedhros fight would immediately know who had trained this mighty warrior. Not only did Elrond wield his sword with his left hand, not his right, but also the way he moved betrayed his lineage.

“It won’t be enough,” Maedhros had said in a hoarse voice. “He cannot defeat Sauron in combat—he is too strong.”
Maglor had seen Caranthir and Celegorm nod in agreement, and despair had risen within him.

“He’s planning something.”
Celebrimbor had been watching his cousin closely, as they all had.
Maglor had looked more closely and recognized what his nephew meant: there had been an expression in Elrond’s eyes, the same expression he had had as a child when Elros came up with a foolish idea and Elrond knew how to improve it so that it would work.

People always said that Elrond resembled Lúthien, and they might be right. Elrond certainly bore a resemblance to his great-grandmother, and had he been born earlier, one might have mistaken him for Lúthien’s twin.
But Maglor had always thought that Elrond looked incredibly like Fëanor. His son and his father shared the same fire burning in their eyes.

Elrond was better at hiding it, but if you knew what to look for, you could see it.
He had Fëanor’s passion, his loyalty to everything he loved, and, in certain ways, his wrath. Elrond’s anger was immense and dangerous, and unlike his brother’s, it lingered. You wouldn’t think it, but in a way, Elros had always been the gentler twin.
Elrond was calmer, quieter, and more patient, but that made him dangerous too. He could conceal his rage, unlike his twin, and he was patient enough to wait for the right moment—even if it took centuries. In that respect, he differed from Fëanor, but otherwise, they were eerily similar.

There was a certain irony in the fact that Fëanor’s grandson—who was not directly related to him by blood—had inherited his fire the most.

Then, in that moment, Maglor had seen that fire in his son’s eyes and instinctively knew that Elrond was about to do something incredibly foolish.

They all flinched with sympathy as Sauron’s mace tore into Elrond’s side.

The sudden pain seemed to throw his son off balance, and Sauron hurled him to the ground. The sword was ripped from his hand and landed too far away to be of use.

Sauron had seized Elrond and lifted him high—he said something, but Maglor could hear nothing except the rushing of blood in his ears (did he even have blood, being bodiless? It didn’t matter), and he could not tear his gaze from his son, who had been gripped by the neck like a ragdoll.

Elrond clutched Sauron’s fingers.

“Sleep.”

The voice of his son seemed to echo through the world, and Maglor was certain that if Elrond had not directed all his strength at Sauron, even they—bodiless as they were—would have succumbed to his command. Instead, Maglor could only watch in stunned silence as his son challenged the fallen Maia. He could feel every bit of power Elrond possessed surging against Sauron’s mind, probing for gaps, searching for weaknesses, while the fallen Maia resisted with all his might. Maglor knew that what his son was attempting was nearly impossible.

The moment Elrond reached into his own life force, Maglor’s world stood still. He had to watch as his son poured the bright, radiant, warm energy that defined him against that monster. He could see Elrond growing paler and paler with each second his life force drained away.

Strands of hair at his temples had turned silver at the roots, spreading like frost until every hair at his temples was silver.

That was the moment Sauron could no longer resist Elrond’s command. The Dark Lord released the elf from his grip and collapsed. For a moment, Elrond had lain lifeless on the ground, and Maglor feared that his son had exhausted all his life force, that he had given everything he could and it had been in vain. But Elrond rose and reached for his sword.

For a moment, he had stood over Sauron’s sleeping body, then he raised his sword and, with a clean strike, severed his enemy’s hand. The body of the fallen Maia crumbled, and Elrond bent down to pick up the One Ring. For a single, terrifying heartbeat, Maglor feared that Elrond would put the Ring on—but he did not.

He bent down again and picked two more sparkling objects from the ashes. Curious, Maglor stepped closer, his brothers only a step behind. In Elrond’s hand now lay two rings—none other than Nenya and Narya, the rings of Olórin and Galadriel.

Up close, Elrond looked even worse. He was deathly pale, almost gray, and swayed on his feet. Blood dripped from his side, and marks on his neck showed where he had been choked. Exhaustion was written clearly across his face, and all Maglor wanted was to wrap him in at least two blankets and Maedhros’s cloak and carry him to bed.

He and Maedhros shared a loving glance as Elrond first checked on Galadriel and Olórin. Their son had always been a healer above all else.

Celegorm had climbed onto one of the rocks and looked toward the Black Gate. His words had been alarming:
“Sauron’s army is on its way here. If Elrond wants to reach the volcano in time, he must hurry. Every minute he spends here shrinks his small lead.”

A brief glance in the direction Celegorm had looked confirmed his brother’s words. Fortunately, Elyo seemed aware of this as well, for he wasted almost no time.

During his run across the plains, Maglor, his brothers, and his nephew had stayed close to him. It had broken Maglor to watch his son’s gaze grow ever dimmer, his thoughts turning inward. More than once, Maglor had wondered how Elyo could even keep standing. His face had been gray as ash, and in those seemingly endless hours of running, there had been moments when Maglor had been certain Elrond would stumble with the next step.

They themselves had felt no fatigue, bodiless as they were.
By some miracle, Elrond’s feet had carried him safely through the treacherous terrain, even though Maglor had been sure that his son could no longer watch the path.
The army behind them had been closing in relentlessly. Maglor knew by now that they had picked up Elrond’s trail.
Celegorm had voiced his concern when it became clear that Elrond’s wound had left a trail of fresh blood, but they had been unable to reconnect with Elyo.

The climb up Mount Doom had cost Elrond a great deal of strength—strength Maglor knew his son no longer possessed. Yet Elyo had once again shown that he was more than capable of pushing beyond the limits of his body, driving himself to a degree at which other elves would have long since collapsed.

Maglor’s heart had ached for his son as he stood at the edge of the rock ledge, staring into the depths of the volcano.
He had recognized that expression—seen it on his own face, on his brother’s face. He knew exactly what was running through his son’s mind. He could see what lay behind that exhaustion in his eyes: the desire to simply leave everything behind.

But Elyo had pulled himself together.
As he stretched out his hand and opened it, fear crept back into Maglor’s heart. Maglor and his family could feel the One Ring reaching for Elrond’s mind, attempting to seduce him. He saw how his son had hesitated for just a single second. Yet Elrond removed Vilya from his finger and laid it alongside the other rings.

Then he threw the rings into the fire. Just like that, the objects that had shaped the fate of Middle-earth for two ages were destroyed.
Some would say it was a mistake to destroy the three Elven rings as well, but Maglor could only agree with Elrond.
Those rings had brought nothing but pain and sorrow—some more, some less, but still. It was better to destroy such powerful things. Maglor and his brothers knew that better than most.

The mountain began to quake around them; large stones fell, and the lava rose. Elrond did not move, and for a moment, Maglor feared he would have to watch his son die. But then Elyo moved, slowly and staggering, summoning his last strength to make his way toward the exit.

Outside, Elrond collapsed to his knees on a protruding rock.
His gaze was dim and unfocused as he watched the orcs below flee from the lava and the newly opened chasms. Maedhros stepped forward to approach their son—but Elrond collapsed.

Now the seven sons of Fëanor sat with two of his grandchildren on a rock that jutted out from a sea of lava, and one of them was unconscious. Maglor wanted to scream.

He and Maedhros had seated themselves beside their son, their brothers and their nephew around them. Maglor’s eyes welled with tears as he gently ran his fingers through Elrond’s hair. His poor son looked utterly exhausted.

Maglor could feel how little of his Fëa remained anchored in his body. It would not be long now before his little Elyo would join them in the Halls of Mandos. His breathing had grown ever shallower, his face as gray as ash. There was no strength left in his body or his Fëa to save him. Maglor wondered how long Elrond would remain in the Halls before he was reincarnated. The injuries to his Fëa were extensive, and some of them were old.

His little, innocent Elyo had endured so much pain and sorrow. He had spent his life fighting against evil, and now it seemed he would give his life for it in the end.

Maedhros had quietly begun to hum.
Maglor knew the song; they had all learned it from their father, who had sung it to them when they could not sleep, and Maglor and Maedhros had sung it to their own sons as well. He picked up the melody and hummed along. Gradually, his brothers and his nephew joined in.
Softly, Maglor began to sing.

I remember tears streaming down your face
When I said "I'll never let you go"
When all those shadows almost killed your light

I remember you said
"Don't leave me here alone"
But all that's dead and gone and passed
Tonight

Just close your eyes
The sun is going down
You'll be alright
No one can hurt you now
Come morning light
You and I'll be safe and sound

Don't you dare look out your window
Darling everything's on fire
The war outside our door keeps raging on
Hold on to this lullaby
Even when the music's gone
Gone

Just close your eyes
The sun is going down
You'll be alright
No one can hurt you now
Come morning light
You and I'll be safe and sound

The song faded softly; it had been barely audible over the volcano behind them, yet Maglor felt as if Elrond had relaxed just a little, even if he could not have heard it.

They remained seated there for some time, the lava rising ever higher, the mountain still trembling. Soon their small refuge would also vanish beneath the glowing, molten magma. Elrond would not even be able to be buried. His son’s breathing grew more labored, the fumes of the volcano making his already shallow breaths even more difficult.

Maedhros grasped Elyo’s hand, tears slowly streaming down his brother’s face. Maglor and the rest of their family wept silently as well. Even Caranthir had tears in his eyes as they waited in quiet for the death of their youngest member.

Suddenly, Maglor felt a gust of wind on his face. He looked up reluctantly and froze. His brothers and nephew followed his gaze.
Above them hovered a massive eagle, circling slowly. When Maglor’s eyes met it, he knew immediately who it was. It was Gwaihir, King of the Great Eagles, the Wind-lord.

Gwaihir returned Maglor’s gaze, and the elf felt a spark of hope ignite within him. Carefully, the eagle descended and landed on the rock where they sat. Maglor and his family rose at once and bowed their heads in respect.
The Wind-lord pierced them with his gaze, then inclined his own head in return.
Then he gently reached for Elrond, who still lay motionless on the rock, and lifted him into the air in his talons.

Maglor, Maedhros, their brothers, and their nephew watched as the King of the Great Eagles turned northward and quickly disappeared from sight.
Maglor turned to his family and saw in their faces what he felt himself: hope.
When he felt Mandos drawing them back into his realm, he knew that everything would be alright.

* * *
Waking up felt like slowly surfacing from a deep ocean. His body was heavy and exhausted; even opening his eyes seemed like an insurmountable task. Elrond lay on a soft surface, a thick, warm blanket draped over him. His thoughts were slow, as if wrapped in cotton, and he idly wondered if this was what it felt like to be in the Halls of Mandos. Then he questioned why he even expected to be dead.

Gradually, memories began to surface. Sauron. The battle. The long run to Mount Doom, which he could barely recall. The interior of the volcano. The sight of the four rings as they sank into the lava. The mountain trembling around him, falling rocks. A rocky ledge. The fleeing orcs. Darkness.

It all felt incredibly surreal, like a dream. Perhaps it had been a dream? Perhaps all of it was just an illusion of Sauron’s, meant to bring him to his knees? He would only know if he dared to open his eyes—and perhaps that too could be an illusion? An illusion within an illusion? He would certainly not put it past Sauron.

Finally, Elrond mustered the effort to open his eyes.
The odds that he had survived his reckless endeavor were incredibly slim, but he also didn’t think the Halls of Mandos came with such comfortable beds. How far could Sauron distort the perceptions of his victims? Elrond had once asked Maedhros this as a very young elf, but had never received an answer.

The light hurt his eyes when he finally opened them, and he immediately shut them again. This time, he opened them more slowly, allowing them to adjust to the brightness.
As he suspected, he was lying in a bed. The room around him was bright, with large windows and a door leading out to a terrace. Several chairs were arranged around the bed, as if multiple people often sat with him.

Carefully, Elrond sat up. Even the slightest movement sent pain coursing through his body, especially his side, ripped open by Sauron’s mace.
He studied the architecture of the room more closely. The curved ceilings and walls of pale stone, along with various tapestries, told him he must be in Imladris. Now that he recognized his location, he could feel the presence of his realm in the back of his mind.

The valley of Imladris had always… been more aware than most expected. Elrond had sensed this consciousness from the very first day, when he had led his troops and the fleeing civilians of Eregion here from Sauron’s forces. The valley had called to him, had helped him hide them.
Contrary to what many believed, Imladris’ protection did not rest solely on Vilya, but largely on the valley itself and the enchantments Elrond had placed around it at the time. Over the millennia he had strengthened and expanded them, but the foundations had been laid without Vilya’s aid.

The longer the Elves lived in the valley, the more aware it seemed to become, and in the last millennium, Elrond had increasingly felt his connection to it. He always knew who entered the valley, when orcs prowled along its borders.

Right now, he could feel the valley and its enchantments welcoming him, and instinctively he searched for any problems that might have arisen—enemies that threatened the valley. But all he felt was peace. There was no danger, no enemies. They were safe.
He was almost certain that Sauron did not know how to fake this unique feeling.
Yet Elrond had to see for himself. Perhaps the Dark Lord had brought him to Imladris to make his trickery more convincing? Could the One Ring deceive or replicate an entire, partially sentient valley?

He forced his legs out of the bed and rose unsteadily to his feet. Immediately, a wave of dizziness struck him. The world wavered around him, his vision dimmed, and he had to sit back down before he completely lost his balance. His entire body protested, clearly unhappy with being moved.
He was so incredibly tired, from his limbs deep into his soul, and all he wanted was to lie down again and sleep—and a small but stubborn part of him didn’t care whether it was real or not. He just wanted to sleep (and preferably never wake up). But he could not. He had to be sure that everything was alright, that everyone was safe, that this was not an illusion.

So he forced himself upright again, more slowly this time, and the world stayed more or less in its usual order. He paused briefly to regain his balance. Then he dared to move. With uncertain steps and using the furniture and walls for support, Elrond slowly made his way to the terrace door. It was merely ajar, and he pushed it open. 
Cautiously, he approached the railing and leaned heavily on it.

Before him lay Imladris, bathed in the sunlight of a beautiful afternoon.The Bruinen roared in the distance, the waterfalls sparkled in the light. Everything was peaceful, everyone was safe, everything was as it should be.
A part of the tension he hadn’t realized had been weighing on his heart eased as he gazed upon his serene valley. He did not know what he had expected deep down—perhaps burning buildings, orcs pouring through his valley, killing everyone they saw. But perhaps, just perhaps, it had not been a dream. Perhaps it was truly real. Truly over.

“Lord Elrond?” “Lord Elrond!”

The Lord of Imladris turned just in time to be nearly tackled by two hobbits who leapt toward him. He barely managed not to fall, bracing himself against the railing.

“Merry? Pippin?” he murmured, surprised.
The two hobbits grinned up at him, still clinging tightly.
Elrond wore a simple sleeping tunic and trousers, yet the hobbits didn’t seem to mind.
Strangely, it was this moment that convinced him that it was truly real. He was inexplicably certain that even Sauron, master of illusions and mind games, could never have made these two young hobbits appear so lifelike. Besides, he had never met them before, probably didn’t even know of their existence, let alone what they looked like.

Elrond wanted to laugh, cry, scream—all at once. They had made it. They had really made it.
Pippin was just opening his mouth, probably to unleash an incredible torrent of words, when someone interrupted him.

“Ada.”
He turned toward the door. His children were standing there. It was Elrohir who had spoken. Behind him were Elladan, Estel, and Arwen. They all looked healthy and well, and Elrond felt the last of the tension weighing on his soul melt away. His children were safe, alive, and well.

He didn’t notice Merry and Pippin stepping back as he opened his arms in a silent invitation. Within less than a heartbeat, he had his arms full of his children, who clung to him, crying. He wrapped his arms around the four of them and let them weep. Even if he had tears in his own eyes, no one had to know as he closed his eyes and held the four most important things in his life close.

After a few minutes, they cautiously loosened their grip—not enough for him to let go, but enough to look at him.
“Never do that again.”
Arwen’s voice was hoarse from crying, and in her eyes, Elrond saw the fear she had felt for him.
“We thought you were dead, Ada. Grandmother and Mithrandir didn’t know where you were, only that Sauron was dead and you were gone, and then the mountain erupted and the orcs were swallowed by a chasm, and then we realized you must have destroyed the Ring, but you didn’t come back, and …”
Elladan couldn’t continue.
“And when Gwaihir brought you back, we thought you were dead, but you weren’t, so the eagles brought you to Imladris, but you wouldn’t wake, and Gandalf and Galadriel said you’d used too much of your power, and we couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t fade anyway,” Aragorn continued.

Elrond felt guilt rise within him as he saw the pain and fear he had caused his children. He leaned forward and kissed each of them on the forehead.
“I promise I have no intention of ever doing something like this again.”
Elrond flinched slightly; his voice was incredibly rough, and he wished he had a glass of water.

Yet his children seemed to relax as they heard their father’s words. They knew their father never made promises he could not keep.
The burning guilt worsened as Elrond thought of how close he had come to giving up. How, in so many moments, he had considered simply… stopping, letting go, allowing the lava to consume him. He would have taken their father from his children as well, on top of all the other losses they had already endured in their lives. In that moment, he hated the part of himself that still longed for peace and rest, for a silence that Elrond knew could only come with death.

“How long have I been asleep?” he finally asked, trying to distract himself from the dark thoughts swirling in his mind.
“Just over two weeks,” Estel answered cautiously.
He watched his father closely, and Elrond knew that his clever, sharp-eyed son had seen the dark expression in his eyes. Estel was a healer just like him; he recognized the look, and Elrond wished his son had never had to see it in his father’s eyes. From now on, he would have to be more careful to conceal his thoughts.

“Gandalf and Galadriel said your Fëa was nearly burned out from exhaustion. That’s why they weren’t sure you would wake at all. The wound on your side hasn’t fully healed yet; it’s healing much slower than it should.”
Elrond hated seeing the worry in his son’s eyes. Something told him that Estel would be keeping a very close watch on him.

The slow healing of the wound did not surprise Elrond. After the final battle of the Last Alliance, he had treated some injuries inflicted by Sauron himself, and even those had healed more slowly than normal. He suspected Sauron had done something with his mace that delayed recovery, though he had never been able to prove it—and it had never really mattered.

“What in all the Valar are you thinking, young man?!”
Celeborn stood in the doorway of the room where Elrond had awakened. Apparently, his father-in-law had come to see what all the commotion was about, and he was clearly not pleased. His eyebrows were drawn together in disapproval as he stared at the young man—who, despite being 6,500 years old and a father multiple times over. Elrond gave a faint smile—there were few who dared call him “young.”

Normally, it was Erestor who liked to remind Elrond that there had once been a time when the Lord had been no taller than a knee, and the old warrior could lift him effortlessly with one hand like a misbehaving kitten. Which he had done more than once—usually with Elros in his other hand. In those cases, he would either deposit them with Atto or Atya, muttering about being too old to be surrounded by such young children. He had made the same comments about Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, and later Estel—but that hadn’t stopped him from helping them steal sweets.

Behind the Lord of Lothlórien, Galadriel came into his view, standing quietly behind her husband. Elrond knew his mother-in-law well enough to see the concern in her eyes as she looked at him.
It confused him—he had had the impression that since Celebrían’s departure, she had wanted as little to do with him as necessary—a feeling he could completely understand. He could barely look at himself on most days without seeing all the mistakes and failures weighing on his shoulders.

“You should not be out of bed yet, let alone wandering around!”
Celeborn stepped out of the doorway and approached him with purpose. His gray robes billowed around him as he advanced. Gently, he nudged his grandchildren aside and grasped Elrond’s arm.
Now, reminded of it, he felt once more the bone-deep exhaustion and the ache in his body. He staggered as he let go of the railing, his vision briefly dimming, but Celeborn supported him and carefully guided him back into the room.

Galadriel held the door open while his father-in-law helped Elrond back to the bed. The moment his head touched the pillow, Elrond fell asleep.

* * *

Galadriel sighed as Elrond’s eyes closed and her son-in-law sank once more into the depths of sleep. Carefully, she reached out to his Fëa and was relieved to find it somewhat brighter and stronger than it had been that morning.

She looked over at Celeborn, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, gently brushing a strand of hair from Elrond’s face. The Peredhel’s hair had turned silver at the temples, as if frost had crept up the strands and remained there. The pale color stood out sharply against his otherwise deep black hair, yet it suited him—it lent him a certain dignity.

Galadriel’s gaze shifted from her husband to her grandchildren, who had gathered at the door and were now coming inside. The twins, Arwen, and Estel settled into the chairs around the bed, as they had every day since they were all reunited in Imladris.

When Galadriel and Gandalf had awoken after the battle against Sauron, they had been confused. Sauron had once again turned to ash; his armor and weapons lay nearby. But there was no sign of Elrond or the One Ring. Part of the armies had been on their way to them, and they had no time to search longer for their friend.

They had taken a wide detour around the army and returned as quickly as possible to the Black Gate. They arrived just in time to witness the part of the army that had stayed to fight being swallowed by massive fissures in the earth. The entire land trembled, and in the distance, they could see the Mount Doom spewing searing lava into the sky.

Galadriel, together with Gandalf, had felt the destruction of the One Ring. In that same moment, they sensed that their own rings, whose absence they had not even realized until then, were also destroyed. It was clear that Elrond had succeeded in annihilating Sauron once and for all, even if no one knew how.

The following hours were excruciating. None of them were dispensable as they counted the dead and tended to the wounded. Galadriel had seen the fear in her grandchildren’s eyes as they reported that they did not know where their father was. It was clear to all of them what it meant that Elrond was missing and the Ring destroyed. The chances that their son-in-law had survived the volcano’s eruption were slim.

Finally, in the council, it was decided that Gwaihir, the King of the Eagles, should search for Elrond, no matter how low the odds. Even if he returned only a body they could bury, it would provide some closure. Anything was better than living in the tormenting uncertainty of wondering whether they might have saved him if only they had searched. In the meantime, they brought the surviving troops to Minas Tirith.

When the eagle finally returned, they all feared it might bring them a corpse. Elrond was deathly pale, almost gray, and it was only upon closer inspection that they realized he was still breathing. The relief was short-lived, however, for it soon became clear that Elrond was utterly exhausted.

His Fëa was nearly completely drained, his life force almost spent. He had pushed both his body and soul beyond their limits, recklessly, without regard for consequence. Galadriel did not know exactly what Elrond had had to do to defeat Sauron, but it had cost him everything he had.

Gondor had been left under the supervision of Faramir, Denethor’s second son and Boromir’s brother, and they—all of them: Galadriel, Celeborn, Gandalf, and Elrond’s children—had been carried by the eagles to Imladris. They hoped that Elrond’s connection to his realm would help him regain his strength.

The following two and a half weeks were some of the hardest in Galadriel’s life, comparable only to the time when she had feared for Celebrían. The Lady of Lothlórien knew that her own pain at the thought of losing her daughter could only be surpassed by Elrond’s grief. He had lost his companion, his wife, the love of his life. Elves truly loved only once, and to lose that love was one of the cruelest fates that could befall them. Galadriel could not and would not imagine a life without Celeborn by her side.

She knew that Elrond believed that they blamed him for what had happened. But that was not the case, not at all. He had done everything he could, and they knew he would have given everything he had if it would have meant that Celebrían would live. His failure to save her had broken something inside him. It had affected Elrond deeply, and ever since, he had withdrawn from her and Celeborn, becoming distant where he had once allowed even the slightest affection from them.

Galadriel did not believe Elrond truly knew how much she and Celeborn loved him. He could have been their son just as easily, and in many ways, he was. It had pained her greatly to see Elrond withdraw and refuse comfort from anyone—her, Celeborn, or anyone else.

Seeing him now in a position so similar to her daughter’s broke Galadriel’s heart. Someone was always with him, day or night. Usually it was his children, or Galadriel and Celeborn, but often also Gandalf and the Hobbits. Above all, Frodo sat with him often. He and his friend Sam had been rescued from Barad-dûr after the tower collapsed. They had been trapped in the dungeons, nearly buried alive—but they had survived.

The Lady of Lothlórien knew that the young Hobbit blamed himself for Elrond’s failure to awaken—that the Lord had to complete his mission because Frodo had failed. Everyone had told him this was not true, and it wasn’t. The entire mission had been essentially a suicide mission, and the fact that Frodo and Sam had made it so far was a miracle. Had they not been interrupted, they would have destroyed the Ring.

They had all told Frodo that Elrond would be the last to blame him for anything, but he did not believe them. He and her son-in-law were too alike. As if Elrond would ever place blame on anyone. Elrond was too good for this world, too kind for his own well-being. The only one he would ever blame was himself—even when he had no reason to. And he would find one regardless; he always did (to the dismay of them all).

Over the course of two weeks, Elrond’s body healed slowly but steadily. The wound on his side worried them, but it showed no signs of infection. It was only his Fëa that gave them concern. Elrond had used his life force for something — something reckless, suicidal, and absolutely characteristic of the Lord of Imladris when he believed he had no other choice.

For all his wisdom, intelligence, and supposed composure, their son-in-law was far too much like their cousins, Maglor and Maedhros, and above all, her uncle Fëanor. They all shared that tendency toward self-sacrifice, drama, and foolishness when it came to themselves. (Although the dramatic flair was mainly Maglor’s domain.)

In any case, after two weeks, it seemed to her that Elrond’s life force had stabilized. Previously, it had been restless, unstable, almost uncertain whether Elrond’s Fëa still had the strength to remain in his body. Galadriel suspected, however, that the presence of his children, their bonds to him, had strengthened him. Gandalf and she had done this deliberately, giving him strength in the hope that they could keep him in Arda. Apparently, they had succeeded. His Fëa had settled back into his body, had stabilised. At that point, Gandalf and Galadriel dared to hope that he would soon awaken.

Seeing him on the balcony, holding his children in his arms, was a weight off her heart. Elrond was alive, standing, speaking, on his feet (even if he shouldn’t be yet—healers were indeed the worst patients), and she wouldn’t have to go to Valinor and tell her daughter that her husband, whom she had waited for centuries, would never come, locked away for an indefinite time in the Halls of Mandos.
Galadriel made no illusions: Elrond would have had to spend at least several centuries in the Halls if he had faded. The injuries she could feel on his Fëa would not disappear overnight. Time and care would be needed to close those wounds. Some of them were old—older than they should have been—and Galadriel knew that Elrond, had he been less stubborn, less Elrond, would have faded or forced to sail long ago.
Moreover, she did not like the look in his eyes at all. He hid it well, but Galadriel had seen that look many times before—such as in the eyes of Elrond’s fathers the last time she saw them, just before Maedhros threw himself into the flames and Maglor disappeared forever. She knew that exhaustion, that weariness that comes from life itself.

The Lady of Lothlórien would not allow Elrond to follow his fathers. She wouldn’t allow it.

Now he slept again, and Galadriel carefully seated herself on the other side of the bed, straightening the blanket. Celeborn smiled at her over their sleeping son-in-law.
Everything would be all right—they would make sure of it.

* * *
Two years later

After several weeks of travel, the coasts of Valinor were finally in sight. Elrond stood at the bow of the ship, watching the once-blurred line of the mainland grow steadily clearer.

The past two years in Middle-earth had been full of bittersweet moments. Arwen and Aragorn’s wedding had been beautiful, yet for Elrond, it had been filled with heartache. He had been genuinely happy for his children, but also sorrowful, knowing he would never see two of them again. The farewell had been painful, but in the end, it had been the right choice. He had felt the call of the sea ever more strongly, and his Fëa longed for rest and peace.

He had carried a few scars from his battle with Sauron, though most of them were not physical. When he recounted to his in-laws, his children, and Gandalf how he had defeated Sauron, they had been horrified at his recklessness. Galadriel had delivered an angry-yet-concerned triad of warnings about the dangers he had exposed himself to, and his children had clung to him again, refusing to let go as if afraid he might suddenly vanish.

His hair had kept its unusual coloring, and likely would forever. He grew tired more easily than before, was more susceptible to cold, but otherwise, he was surprisingly well. Yes, he got lost in thought more quickly, and hours sometimes passed without him noticing, but all in all, he had come through remarkably unscathed. The voice in his head, yearning for rest, peace, and silence, had gradually grown quieter.

Even now, Elrond did not know if he had only imagined the presence of his fathers and uncles. He had told no one about it, but deep in his heart, he knew they had truly been there—perhaps the entire time.

As Elrond emerged from his thoughts, Valinor had grown noticeably closer, and Frodo stood beside him. The young Hobbit had been quiet throughout the journey, especially around Elrond. Elrond knew that Frodo carried guilt for not completing his task and for forcing Elrond to take on such a difficult mission, almost costing his life in the process. Elrond bore no blame toward the young Hobbit and never had; it was Sauron’s fault, and no one else’s.

Their companions joined them as they approached Alqualondë. The beautiful city gleamed in the sunlight of Valinor. Galadriel stood behind him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

This… openly displayed affection was something Elrond had had to get used to. Both Galadriel and Celeborn had seemed to regard it as their duty to ensure he rested, and unlike his children, Elrond had been unable to refuse them.

After Celebrían had sailed, Elrond had withdrawn from his in-laws, feeling responsible for their loss of their daughter and thinking they held him accountable. Apparently, that had not been the case, and after his near-death experience, he had been placed firmly at the center of their parental concern.

He had been well observed, he knew. He had felt their worried glances whenever he had become too lost in thought. He knew they were worried about him. He knew Galadriel had recognised the look in his eyes when he had stood on the terrace, just as Estel had. They had both watched him closely until they were sure all was well.

Still, it brought him comfort to know Galadriel was behind him as he looked at the crowd gathered on the pier. At the very front stood a figure with silver hair, and Elrond knew without needing to get closer who it was.

Celebrían.

The name echoed in his soul, and as soon as the pier was within reach, Elrond leapt from the ship and ran across it. His wife came to meet him, and he caught her, using the momentum to spin her around. He heard her laughing, breathless. People surrounded them, laughing, singing, embracing—but it didn’t matter. They stood there on the pier, in each other’s arms, foreheads touching, and the world seemed to pause.

Finally, they pulled back just enough to truly look at each other. Celebrían studied him from head to toe. He knew she was looking straight into him, seeing all the bright and dark thoughts lurking in the deepest corners of his mind—and she loved him anyway. Celebrían lifted a hand to touch his hair, an amused sparkle in her eyes.

“You’ve stolen my hair colour.”