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Morning Mist and Silver Sun by StarSpray

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written for Tolkien_Weekly's hairdressing challenge series

Dusty Heirloom

It had been a long time since he'd gone through the oldest of boxes and trunks stored away in Imladris. Many belonged to Elves long since departed. Elrond knelt before a dusty trunk he recognized as his own.

Inside were papers--letters, mostly--and assorted small items, brought from Lindon that he had not needed at the tiem. He picked up a small comb, delicately carved with roses. Someone had told him once it had belonged to Elwing, brought out of the ruin of Doriath.

He ran his fingers over the carvings and wondered what Elwing was doing then.



Elrond found the twins asleep in the garden, curled up on the grass beside each other, having exhausted themselves in play. The sight reminded him of another pair of twins who often napped on the pale sand on the shores of the sea after building sandcastles taller than themselves.

They had pretended the sandcastles were watchtowers, looking out for their father's return from sea. Elros had always wanted to swim, but when their father was gone their mother bade them stay ashore, wary of the wild, raw strength of the waves.

Elrond hadn't understood why, then. He thought he did now.



Scowling, Lindir scribbled something onto his parchment. Out of the corner of his eye, Elrond could see that he had cut several stanzas out of a song he had been slaving over for months. The twins peered over the table at the parchment, then quickly vanished when Lindir looked at them sharply.

He was always short tempered when songs were not coming along as he wanted. Elrond sat back with his scroll and sighed, remembering Maglor shut away for days at a time, writing songs that always sounded like the sea. Perhaps they still did, on some long forgotten shore...



The heavy tome sat on the table, dusty and cracked, but in surprisingly good condition. "What is it?" Celebrían asked, resting a hand on Elrond's shoulder as she leaned forward to peer at it.

"A collection of songs and stories from Gondolin and Doriath," Elrond said, "recorded by Tuor before he set sail." THe book's journey from Sirion to Imladris had not been an easy one. Elrond was reluctant to handle it, lest it be damaged. "Lindir has volunteered to make copies."

Once that was done this precious book would be carefully put away, to last many years to come.


Feathered Princess

Giggling, Arwen spun around, arms flung out to match her skirts and hair, which she had carefully, if slightly clumsily, plaited white feathers and golden flowers into. Elrond laughed as Elrohir swept her off her feet to toss her into the air.

Grey eyes and hair like shadows. When she wore blue, everyone said she looked like Melian's daughter, their most beautiful princess reborn among the waterfalls of Imladris. She even danced like Tinúviel.

But as he watched her soar for a moment with feathers in her hair, Elrond was reminded not of Lúthien's famous grace, but Elwing in flight.



"You worry too much," Celebrían laughed as she kissed him goodbye. Arwen skipped over to embrace him. "It is high time Arwen traveled beyond Imladris."

Elrond agreed, but he knew also the dangers lurking in the wild. Orcs and trolls and other things with no love for Elves. He hugged Arwen, and then she was mounting her palfrey, and she and Celebrían waved gaily as they departed with their escort, across the bridge and away toward Lothlórien.

Partings were always hard. He knew better, of course, but somehow he always ended up thinking of those who had never come back.

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