Until the Stars are All Alight by Dagstjarna  

That night, Elrond dreamed. In the blue morning on an unfamiliar shore, cold mist clung to the dunes. Behind her she saw the hazy silhouette of a building or house. She went that way, to a pavilion with a strong roof of thatched seagrass and walls of airy linen curtains lapping gently in the breeze. Near at hand stood an elf, strangely washed out as if faded by the sun, faint like the moon during the day. She was clad in plain crisp linen white as bone, with a blanket of light and sturdy wool folded neatly over her shoulder. Her bare feet were crusted with sand. 

She turned as Elrond climbed the steps and passed under the roof, and Elrond found herself looking up into a face of startling familiarity. 

     “Celebrimbor!” She breathed. 

Celebrimbor smiled, warm as ever, warm as fire. 

     “Dear Elrond,” she said hoarsely. She had been weeping and her voice was in tatters, but the life in it was strong. It rasped like a lost voice, like one that hadn’t been used for a long, long time. “I am sorry I left you.” 

     “You didn’t,” Elrond told her sternly. “You were taken.” 

     “You forgive me?” 

     “There is nothing to forgive. And if there was, I would have already.” 

Celebrimbor looked away. Elrond stepped over to her.

     “I am newly come from Mandos,” she said hollowly. “And it’s…very strange. Everything is brand new, yet familiar. My memories don’t feel like mine yet. I feel old and young, and the last thing I knew I was making spinning tops and toys for the children in my halls. Where are they now, I wonder.”

Elrond glanced around them. Valinor, she realized. She had never seen it before. There was nothing but milky fog beyond the sun-bleached linen hangings. They seemed to be alone. 

     “What is this place?” 

     “It is where your parents’ followers live between their visits down from the sky. I haven’t seen them yet, Elwing and Earendil. I wanted to come here first.” 

Elrond’s throat tightened. 

     “Where is everyone else?” She managed to ask. 

     “At a feast with Elu Thingol. I came at an odd time,” She shrugged. “I….I may go to Finrod next. I don’t know what to do.” 

     Elrond reached out, wondering if she could touch Celebrimbor, and found that she could. She folded her arms around her, and Celebrimbor sank into the embrace. 

     “I hardly understand what happened, Elrond. I feel lost.” 

     “Far from it.” Elrond rubbed her back. “You are found. Are you afraid to go to your family?” 

     “I don’t know. I miss them. But I miss you more.” 

     “You could…” she almost said it, but held back, not quite sure why. 

     “That is what I wanted to tell you,” Celebrimbor gripped her shoulders, stepping back. “I want to come back.” 

     Elrond frowned. 

     “I want to return to Middle Earth. I have unfinished business there.” She said, with a stubborn set to her jaw. “Annatar was traitorous. I should have listened to you, to Galadriel.” 

     “It wasn’t your fault. You looked for the best in him, and you cannot be faulted for it.” 

     “I don’t think it was my fault, but I have a responsibility to care for the world and do good where I can, just like everyone else. And my role in the making of the rings and the darkness that has followed is not small, however good my intentions were for their creation. It is because he tricked me so well, I think it’s only fitting that I come back to haunt him just as he haunts me still. Hopefully,” She added. “to a better end.” 

     Elrond bit back a sigh. She wanted her friend to find peace, and healing. But that was something Elrond could also offer in Imladris, perhaps better than a land teeming with maiar could for Celebrimbor in particular. She noticed Celebrimbor searching her face, and smile reassuringly at the worry she saw there. 

     “Don’t fret about me,” she poked Elrond’s neck, who laughed despite herself (a secretly ticklish person). 

     “When will you come?” Elrond asked. 

     “I don’t know at all. There are lots of…conversations, that need to be had.” She sighed and rubbed her face, looking like she dreaded the very thought. “Much has changed in Middle Earth since the end of the first age, and much has changed here in Aman too.” 

     Elrond nodded.

Then Celebrimbor added,

     “I won’t come alone, if I can help it.” 

     “Good.” 

     The air began to shine with a soft pink glow. Sunrise was getting on above the encircling mists. Celebrimbor looked at her fondly. 

     “You should wake up now. It will be morning soon in Imladris.” She reached out and tucked Elrond’s hair behind her ears, brushing the back of her fingers against her cheek. “May a star shine upon the hour of our meeting.” 

“Celebrian is in Aman.” Elrond said quickly, betrayed by a tremble in her voice. “If she has left Lorien she will be glad to see you.”

“I will see if she can be found.” 

 “Farewell.” 

Elrond woke with a face full of tears, her hair stuck to her cheeks. She felt well rested, warm, and comfortable. That was rare, just as it was for her to dream about Celebrimbor, unless it was of her death. It was so good to see her old and best friend that her whole chest ached. She sat up, and saw a gentle gray light reaching into the room. There was something merciful in the light that morning, she thought. She burst into tears at once.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it!! :-) <333

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Celebrian loved to read. She always said you could spend the whole life of the world returning over and over to the same poem, and leave with something new every time. 

When she left the valley to find healing in the West, she gave to her family the longest lock of her fair hair. They buried it in silver ribbons in the earth, and over it planted an aspen tree. The aspen reached full stature before it multiplied, becoming a stand that gave shade where taller spruces might grow. Now on the mountain side that had once been bare stood a large grove. The branch scars of the aspens looked just like her eyes, Arwen always thought. 

     Hair was not the only thing Celebrían left for them. She also left books, many books, filled with poems she herself had written. She never put her own name to them, though. At the bottom, she wrote the title of the poem as if it were the name of the writer. 

      Arwen had just returned yesterday from Lothlorien. That morning she rose late, still sore from the horseback journey. Taking a volume of her mother’s sweet poems she climbed up to her grove to sit and read. The twins had hardly eaten and bathed before riding out again, and now by the clippety-clip of their horses hooves they were back. It wasn’t long before they joined Arwen in the grove, each of them holding onto one of Elrond’s arms. 

Arwen closed the book, marking the page with a silver tassel. 

     “Hello!” She called, as her brothers legged up the slope to sprawl in the sun beside her. Their freckles were winter-faint but getting darker every day. Elrond sank down next to her, and hugged an arm around her shoulder. 

     “What is this you’re reading?” Elrond tapped the book. 

     “Poems by Naneth.” 

     “Which ones?” 

     Arwen opened the book, and tipped it so Elrond could see. She leaned down to look, and, to Arwen’s delight, began to read aloud.

When I wake, I shoulder a great burden. 

But in my sleep I fly swift, over strong dark water,

My thoughts my wings beside me, long curtains. 

The eves of yester and morrow stretch out under my feet, rolling land

Quiet, under snow

As I am borne up on the thermal wind of dreams. 

The starlight, unenscribed, pathless, and nameless

Holds every weight perfectly.  

 Who knew that light could be so heavy?  

“It has no title,” Elrond added, at the end. 

  “She always wrote such lovely things,” Elrohir said. 

             “You look well, Ada,” Elladan said to Elrond. Arwen agreed: the three of them had kept a close eye on her ever since Celebrían’s torment. Elrond had done well at hiding the worst of her grief from them, but having grown up in a place of healing, and a sanctuary for the bereft, they were not strangers to sorrow, and they knew how much Elrond’s heart must ache. But today she sat in the bright spring day, and the shadows under her eyes seemed lighter. 

    “You slept late, too,” Elladan remarked. 

     “I did not,” Elrond smiled, a little mysteriously. “But I was long in coming out of my room. I have tidings,” 

    Elrond recounted her dream of Celebrimbor, and the conversation about her returning. Arwen gasped. 

“What does she plan to do here?” 

“She doesn’t know yet. I suspect it will concern Sauron and the ring, but nothing is certain.”

“Oh Ada, that would be wonderful for you.” Said Elrohir. “It would be so lovely to meet her.” 

“I’ve lost so many people. I can’t deny it would be…different, to have someone back.” Elrond replied carefully. Her expression was very gaurded. 

Elladan and Elrohir left shortly after to eat. Arwen and Elrond liked to take their time walking to stop and look at every tree and flower, and quickly fell behind. While they paused to smell the roses opening along the garden path, light footfalls announced Glorfindel passing by. Elrond waved him over. 

     “Glorfindel, may I ask you something?” 

“Certainly!” 

“Did you need to get permission from the Valar to return?”

Glorfindel blinked.  

“I asked for their blessing,” He answered thoughtfully. “but I’m not sure it is needed. The Noldor were not the only people who had lessons to learn from the darkening and the exile, and the Valar are not quite as controlling as they used to be. The laws are more relaxed now, just as they are here for us. Why do you ask?” 

“I dreamt of Celebrimbor,” She proffered, in a low voice. “But please keep it between us for now. Nothing is certain.” 

Spring became Summer, and the days grew long, and the nights sweet and brief. Every day Arwen asked Elrond if she’d had any new dreams, and found herself glancing West, waiting for word from Círdan, but none came. Elrond did not dream about Celebrimbor again, so Arwen stopped asking so frequently. The uncertainty was daunting, and after fretting over it for a while, Elrond seemed keen to set the matter aside. 

     Before long, the coming of the company of Thorin Oakenshield at Midsummer’s Eve put all else out of mind. Rumors of gathering darkness were growing, and Elladan and Elrohir rode out to take word to Mirkwood and the rangers, and to bring back any news they could gather. For years they were hardly home at all. And for many of those years Arwen was unable to visit Lothlorien, the mountains being too dangerous to cross, or away from Rivendell for the same reason, unable to return. 

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Arwen had been born under the first full moon in Autumn. Elrond had been born on the first new moon of Autumn on the Autumn equinox- the very same evening, ten years later, that Earendil first bore the Silmaril up in Vingilot. Celebrian’s birthday fell five weeks later on the waning gibbous moon. Arwen loved her birthday, being nestled between her parents’ as it was, and every year they threw a big joint party on Arwen’s day to celebrate all three. That night they had music and dancing, playing harps and drums and singing themselves all hoarse. Sweet wine flashed in the firelight as it poured from silver flagons. They played charades and crackers and very fast dice games that ended in fits of laughter every round. And songs, mountain songs, night songs, cold songs, and snow songs for the end of the Summer, floated up with the woodsmoke to be caught up on the wandering wind. It had been a long time since Celebrían went West, but a melancholy had hung over them all ever since, and it was fair and free to see it lift for an evening beneath the gold burning stars. 

The next day everyone was nursing a hangover. Arwen and the twins were sitting in the garden outside Elrond’s room drinking tea and having buttery bread in the sunshine. Elladan groaned, laying on the ground. 

“I am so sore from dancing,” said he. 

“My head might as well split in two,” Elrohir mumbled into his cup. Elladan sat up to dig his fingers into Elrohir’s scalp to relieve his headache. 

“Oh me next,” Arwen pleaded. 

They had all woken up in the big garden where the party was held around a bonfire, now merely cinders, still in their party clothes, everything beaded with silver dew. Then the whole household bathed in the river, which of course was very cold at the start of October, puffing and laughing and squealing. Then they all sprinted back naked to the house to get warm with hot drinks. Arwen smoothed the folds in her soft, clean dress, pulling a blanket about her shoulders. 

A few Dunadain children skipped across the garden on business of their own. Away out of sight, she heard Glorfindel singing, probably sitting up on the roof watching the morning as he often did. 

“Good morning brighteye, chaser of mists 

Flinging off the gloom and catching her wrists, 

Tossing her up in a dance and a spin 

Like the foam and the sea, she asks for a kiss!” 

   Then Arwen heard the call of a hawk, keening away in the pines, and looked for it. She saw the silver fleck of it in flight far away, and a bird-shaped shadow gliding across the sheer face of a cliff. Her eye was drawn down to the switchback road into the valley, and there she spotted a handful of horses sauntering down in a row. She shadowed her eyes from the sun with her hand and- “Look, it’s Bilbo!” She cried excitedly. 

“What a nice surprise! I wonder if he knew it was your birthday,” The twins said, sitting up to look. 

“If he did, he’s a day too late!” Arwen laughed, already thinking how she might tease him for it. “He better have brought me a gift!” 

“It looks like he’s brought us something, but it’s elves,” Said Elrohir. “And I don’t recognize them at all.” 

     There were three elves steering their horses in the wake of Bilbo’s pony. Arwen did not recognize them either, but she thought they all looked alike, even at a distance. Right behind Bilbo was a gray horse, its rider dressed all in garnet and green, with gold beads in her hair and cuffs stacked on her ankles. Bringing up the rear on a tall brown horse rode an elf plainly dressed but for a silver necklace and ear hoops, her bare feet crisscrossed on the saddle rather than in the stirrups, armed with a bow and arrow as the rear rider often is. The rider in the center of the party had a long tumble of bluish black hair on a gold horse, her pink dress fluttering in the wind as she looked out across the valley. She turned her head and seemed to look right into Arwen’s gaze. 

They heard a scuffle inside, and Elrond suddenly came scampering out onto the balcony a moment later, hurrying right past them to the railing. 

A huge beaming smile spread across her face. 

“CELEBRIMBOR!” She called, waving. 

One of the elves’ heads jerked up, the one behind Bilbo with the gray stead. She smiled just as much, and cupped her hands around her mouth.

“ELROND!” 

For a moment they almost feared Elrond might jump right off the balcony, but she turned on her heel and sprinted back inside. Arwen and the twins followed after. 

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 It rained all day and all night, and that meant mushrooms. Curufin was sitting on her blanket leaning against the trunk of a tall holy tree by the campfire. Her ankles were crossed, an arm behind her head. Celebrimbor’s grandmother, Feanor, was sitting on a blanket of her own, crisscross applesauce, flipping through a small journal she had been scribbling in since they set sail from Valinor.

       “Ta-da!” Sang Celebrimbor as she came back to camp, hoisting a basket of morels she had just foraged as she came striding out of the trees. Feanor craned to look into the basket.

        “Try not to poison us, will you,” Curufin said dryly. 

         “I will poison you if you keep saying that!” Celebrimbor retorted back. “I know it’s hard for you to imagine, Ammë, considering how you abandoned me and then died, but I have lived a long and full life in these lands for many thousands of years. Certainly I’ve survived outside of Aman far longer than you did, and I intend to continue that now.” 

         Celebrimbor knelt and added some wood to their campfire, ignoring the flush that crept into her mother’s cheeks. 

         “It’s also worth noting,” Feanor put in. “That Celebrimbor is technically the oldest of us now. I may be your grandmother, and Curufin may be your mother, but we both died long before we ever reached a thousand years old. You are nearly two thousand!” 

          Curufin looked at Celebrimbor unreadably for a moment, until she could catch Celebrimbor’s eye. 

         “I am sorry.” She said. “I forget that you are not a child anymore. I have not known you since you were far younger. I will get better with time.” 

        “I know,” Celebrimbor murmured, trying to hide the hurt in her face. Based on Curufin’s pained expression she had not quite succeeded. 

        “Are the mushrooms all there is to eat?” Feanor wondered innocently.

        “For breakfast, yes, because it’s morning now. If you wanted something more you should have foraged for it yourself yesterday!” 

        “What about the road?” 

        “Be useful and stir the pan. What road?” 

        Feanor scooted over to stir the mushrooms as the first batch began to sizzle. 

        “The road, the one we saw yesterday afternoon,’ Feanor said. “Surely it leads to a town, and I saw lights through the trees last night,” 

       “We could certainly afford to get our horses reshod,” Curufin pointed out. 

       “And some decent fare,” Feanor murmured. 

       “You don’t like my cooking?” Celebrimbor asked, pointing at Feanor with the knife she was using. 

       “Some variety wouldn’t be unwelcome,” Feanor grimaced. 

        “If you put the mushrooms on the pan in bunches like that they’ll all be cooked in different ways,” Curufin pointed out without opening her eyes. 

        “Why didn’t you say that before!” Celebrimbor wailed, taking the pan off the fire at once. 

      After breakfast they rolled up the blankets and washed the cooking gear and packed out. They walked Northeast for a while, wet leaf litter sticking to the horses legs, and water pitter-pattering off the trees. The trunks were dark and rain soaked, making the lichen look to glow, and the leaves of the trees floated above them like hanging fire. Celebrimbor inhaled deeply. It was Autumn in the world, and the wind was in the West. 

       Once the sun had sailed to the top of the sky, they reached the road. Its path was wide and smooth, and they could ride along it beside each other. They sang songs at first, but after awhile they fell silent, just listening to the rain, and each drifted into their own thoughts. 

Feanor had sworn her daughters to an impossible quest and then died, leaving them to fight the battles she had created. Curufin had disowned Celebrimbor for growing up and refusing to fight those battles- and then she had died, leaving Celebrimbor with an infamous legacy to rewrite all alone. Celebrimbor had made a rich and beautiful life for herself, taking the skill and knowledge and love her mother had given her in happier times, to remake their family legacy into something truly good. It had not lasted in the way she hoped. She supposed that maybe nothing did. Eregion had brought good into the world, and that good continued even if Eregion could not. She had made it to heal herself and her people, and though she had made mistakes, she had succeeded. The seeds of her family’s treachery and infamy were sown by Morgoth, but tended by Feanor and Curufin. Celebrimbor had healed, and so had her mother and grandmother, and all were now released from Mandos. 

 When Celebrimbor had first reembodied, she went to meet Elrond’s parents, not sure where else to go and longing for a sense of normalcy. She stayed on the coast with Elwing, and then went to Celebrian’s house. Not long after that, Curufin was reembodied. Curufin came at once to find Celebrimbor, still in the plain ghostly white shawl and tunic of mandos. For many years prior Celebrimmbor had been thinking of her mother with growing frequency, and had long suspected she might return soon. She had expected to feel all sorts of things when she first saw her- rage, fear, disgust, sadness, even pity. What she had not expected was for Curufin’s eyes to go wide with joy and anguish at the sight of her, for her mother to break into a run and dive right into her arms, for the two of them to land hard on the ground, clinging to each other for dear life, sobbing and crying and tangled together like shoestrings. Curufin had bared her heart then, and told Celebrimbor many sweet and loving things, things she should have said a long time ago and knew she should have. She apologized, and held Celebrimbor, and they talked a great deal for many days and nights, saying all there was to be said at the time. “I left Mandos because you did, because it is my place now to follow you, to be your mother before anything else, if you will have me.” Curufin had said. And Celebrimbor would. And when Celebrimbor decided to leave Aman to face the maia who betrayed, tormented, and slew her, who had ruined her kingdom and her people and sullied her good work there- well, Curufin would have died twice before she let Celebrimbor go alone. After the shock of their reconciliation, though, Curufin regressed slightly into her tendency to be flippant and emotionally opaque. It was something to know how she truly felt, and of course she would not have come if she didn’t feel the way she said she did, but her heart was always hidden from the outside to a degree that was sometimes rather maddening. 

Feanor, for her part, felt much the same toward Curufin as Curufin did for Celebrimbor, and had insisted on coming with them for the very same reason. And now the three of them were bound together on this quest, traveling together through the wide world. Unlike Curufin, however, Feanor could scarcely conceal a feeling if her life depended on it- her mind seemed to live in her face, and the thoughts passed across it as legibly as clear round handwriting, which Celebrimbor saw as she lit up and pointed, saying, 

“Look, a town!” 

The road was rolling right along to a small village of timber houses. A fine, misty rain with drops so small they could hardly be felt fell as they drew near, and before long they reached the town of men under a gold leaf sky. 

The town, visible from a distance on its green hill, was walled by a high wooden fence, and when they reached the gate they found it to be shut. After exchanging looks, Celebrimbor tapped her knuckles on the wood. Nothing happened, so she tapped again. 

“Hello?” She called. “Might there be some asker of riddles to stump us, or a feat to prove ourselves to enter? Or does this door need special words to open?” 

Before she finished talking, a rather old man peered over the top of the door to gape at their smiling faces. 

“An elf?” He cried. “Three elves! What brings you here to Bree?” 

“We are in need of fare to eat and our horses need some attention. Is there a place for us to eat and get our horses reshod?” 

“Why yes, certainly. Go to the inn of the Prancing Pony, they will fix you up proper.”

“Thank you, friend!” 

The gatekeeper opened the gates for them on groaning hinges, and they passed through and clippety-clopped down the street in single file. It was very muddy, with wooden boards put across the footpaths for those walking on foot. It was also not very crowded, and a little foggy. Eventually they spotted the swinging sign that marked the inn, and they entered under it into a courtyard where a halfling came to meet them before they could even hop down from their saddles. 

“Good evening!” He waved, as a few other inn workers came to take their horses. “My name is Nob.” 

“Hello Nob!” Said Celebrimbor. “I am Celebrimbor, and these are my mother and grandmother. We are in need of a little bread and better shoes for our horses, if you have any, or know who might.” 

“We have both, and more besides,” Nob supplied. “You’ll find bread and butter and vittles of all sorts inside. Let me stable your horses and go put a word in about shoes to the smith. Go on in and Butterbur will take care of you!” 

Curufin and Feanor bowed. Celebrimbor knew not to, but still did anyway because it seemed rude not to now that they had. Nob laughed. 

“When was the last time fair folk came under our roof?” She heard one of the inn workers say as they led the horses away.

They had to duck a little to fit in the door, which they found had a few well worn stone steps leading down into a roomy space. It was very crowded and rumbling with chatter, warm and dark and smoky compared to the outside. Accustomed to many weeks of peaceful, quiet forests and fields, Celebrimbor felt rather stunned by the sudden commotion, and when she looked back she saw the same feeling reflected in Curufin and Feanor’s faces. 

“Greeting and well met!” Said a man suddenly appearing in front of them. This was an innkeeper if ever she saw one. He shook her hand vigorously. “Are you elves? I’ve never had an elf as a guest here in my life, though my grandad used to say he had, though he was a teller of tall tales, if you take my meaning. You look like you need something hot to drink! I’ll fetch you something. Just go ahead and sit wherever you like, I’ll find you, don’t worry about anything! Welcome to the pony!” He said before he was called away. 

Celebrimbor blinked. She felt a small tap on her shoulder, and Curufin pointed to a table tucked in the far corner of the room that was both empty and set aside. They shouldered and shuffled and excused themselves across the crowd to it, sinking onto the stools and removing their damp cloaks. 

“I like this language,” Feanor said, after spending a moment listening and watching people talk. “It sounds like it’s made of jams and jelly. It’s sweet like berries.” 

Feanor was always saying things like that, whether or not anyone knew what she meant. Curufin nodded, knowing more than anyone what Feanor meant: she could taste sounds and see the shapes of them in the same way, though hers were different. 

“To me its like it is carved out of wood. Listen- branda…neg…” She said, listening for words that people were saying. “It’s soft and brown like bear fur.” 

“I can see that,” Feanor agreed. 

“Branda means border,” Said Celebrimbor. “And neg means end. People are sharing news, and most of it is troubling.”

Curufin nodded knowingly. She glanced around at faces, reading their expressions, which were serious for the most part. 

“Who are the short people, do you know?” Wondered Curufin. 

“They are halflings,” Said Feanor before Celebrimbor could. “Hobbits, in their own speech, and kuduk in Westron.” 

“They are about the same height as dwarves, if not shorter. It is a shame there aren’t any dwarves here. You will love them, Amme,” Curufin added to Feanor. 

Then Nob, rather than Butterbur and with his hair full of beads of raindrops like he had just come inside, came to their table. He was bearing a heaping tray, and set it on their table. It had several steaming clay pots, a plate of hot buttered rolls, a fruit and nut cake, and meat pies. 

“You have treated us to a feast! Thank you, master Nob, a prince among kuduk!” Feanor cried in Noldorin, and Celebrimbor translated. 

“Certainly,” Nob bowed. “I spoke with the smith and she said she’ll not have time to shoe them until tomorrow morning, if you are willing to wait. We have rooms you might lodge in, if you like,” 

“Thank you for all your help. We have no need of lodgings, but we will wait until morning. You are all very generous.” 

One of the clay pots had an infusion of several things they guessed included chamomile, apple, and honey. The second clay pot had mulled wine, and the third a thick hot soup. They polished off the fruit cake and the roast with no trouble at all, and dipped their rolls in the soup. 

“This is glorious,” Feanor groaned. 

“Alright, enough,” Celebrimbor protested. “I made you plenty of decent food for weeks! Didn’t I?” 

“Oh yes,” Feanor said earnestly, trying to sound reassuring. 

It wasn’t long before curiosity brought strangers over to say hello. The mulled wine was making them very lighthearted, and in no time at all the men were teaching them steps to a dance. Everyone sang and stomped for rhythm, and they laughed and clapped the elves on their backs when they proved to be quick learners. 

After a while Celebrimbor, dizzy and out of breath, sat down at one of the tables for a rest from the dancing. Nearby sat a hobbit, his walking stick leaning against the table, chatting with Nob as he brought him some supper. 

“Why, it’s mister Baggins!” Said Butterbur as he passed by. “What matter brings you to Bree, old friend?” 

“The matter of my leaving the shire, of course!” Said the hobbit Mr Baggins.

“Leaving?” Butterbur raised an eyebrow. 

“Leaving-leaving!”

“Leaving-leaving!” Butterbur gasped. “What on earth for and where on earth too?” 

“I am going on a permanent vacation, sir! Where on earth it will be is my business, except that it’s down the East-West road that passes through here, and that’s what brought me to Bee.” 

“I see, I see, keep your business yours, that’s what I’ll say. It will be strange to never see you again!” 

“Never say never, Butterbur. Who knows where chance will bring us.” Mr Baggins sipped his beer sagely.

“That’s true enough! I’ve seen more than a few curious things in my days. Let’s have a toast!” He cried suddenly, shouting over the din. Someone tapped a spoon on a cup and the place fell, if not silent, quieter. 

“A toast!” Butterbur said. “To our Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, who is going on a permanent vacation! BAGGINS!” He cried. 

“BAGGINS!” Everyone cheered. 

“Is he dying?” Someone nearby asked someone else, who shrugged and replied, “I don’t know, I’ve never even heard of him.” 

Mr Baggins, drinking deeply of his beer, cast his eyes about and did a double take at the sight of Celebrimbor, who smiled at him. 

“Are-are you an elf, of all things?” Mr Baggins asked, half choking on his drink. 

“So it seems!”

“My my! Why in heaven are you drinking watery wine at the Prancing Pony?” 

“Do not call my wine the W-word, Bilbo!” Butterbur hissed as he passed by again. “Men get turned into mice for far lighter offenses around these parts!” 

Celebrimbor laughed. 

“I couldn’t cook mushrooms well enough to satisfy my companions,”  She explained. “so we sought the refuge of a meal under this smoky roof!” For the innkeeper’s sake, she added, “I could not have asked for richer drink in the very mountain halls of the last age!” To which Butterbur guffawed. 

Bilbo laughed heartily, and replied, in Quenya “It is always a pleasure to meet Good People on the road. I am bound for Imladris, to live with Elrond in her house until the end of my days. I will not be returning.” 

Celebrimbor, who had actually choked on her own wine when Bilbo began rattling off in Quenya, ogled at her as she spoke. 

“You’re going to Imladris? Why, that’s where we are going!” 

“What a great coincidence! Perhaps we can travel together,” Mr Baggins suggested. 

“I think that is a splendid idea!” Celebrimbor agreed. 

Curufin and Feanor, more than a few beers put away and growing a little pink cheeked, were now singing songs from the noontide of Valinor about a frog stealing flies from a spider web. Maglor had written it, and the thought of Maglor made Celebrimbor’s heart ache. No one there knew a word of Noldorin, but they listened carefully to the beat and clapped to it, and then returned the song with one of their own which Curufin and Feanor stomped and clapped to with uncomprehending glee. Feanor was soon dancing with Mr Baggins, and the two went spinning about together, trying to teach each other dance steps with only laughter and pointing. 

That night, after Celebrimbor had introduced Feanor and Curufin to their new traveling companion, they retired to the forest outside of town. In the morning they went back through the gate, and met up with Nob, who brought them to the smith. They had found honey in the forest, and brought it to her as payment. She sighed when she took it, but smiled. 

“Honey is always nice. I would have preferred a silver coin or two, but elves are elves.” 

They returned to the inn for breakfast where they found Bilbo dressed, packed, and eating. After sharing the meal with him, they were ready to take up the road. They made their way out of Bree, going slower than they had yesterday, for the streets were crowded that morning, and more than a few townsfolk pointed and stared at them. They left through the gates, and followed the windy road as it passed into the forest. Mist was floating around the ground, snaring on the thickets like locks of wool. Celebrimbor felt that the forest was strangely watchful, though not unwholesome. She noticed Feanor was sitting straight up in the saddle, looking about. 

“Who are the spirits who live in this forest?” Feanor asked Bilbo. “Aside from the trees and rocks, I mean?” 

“Breefolk. The wood is where they dwell when they die, at least for a time. That’s what they say. I’ve never seen anything, except once I heard a voice on the wind.” 

Bilbo knew a great deal about everything, and they spent most of their time together listening to him, except to ask questions. Bilbo returned the questions, especially in the evenings around the campfire. 

It was a treat to have a hobbit in the group who was good at cooking. He had brought his own butter and cheeses and seasonings, as well as teas of many flavors. Celebrimbor liked chamomile the best. 

After several days of good conversation and good eating, they came to a deep valley where the Bruinen came into sight. They could hear it for a long time before they saw it, as you do with rivers, and they found it foamy and lined with autumn willows. That day they forded the river at a wide shallow place, full of noisy stones with slippery banks. Rust colored algae swayed in the currents as the water swirled around the horses legs. When they climbed the bank, they could see the Misty Mountains with their grim heads wreathed in strips of clouds. The path forward was marked with stacks of white stones covered in heather and moss and lichens. They ascended for a long time. The trees grew older and shorter and fewer, until they were shorter than Bilbo though hundreds of years old, spaced between meadows of heather and grouse until they were replaced entirely. Then the horses came to the edge of a sudden cliff. A valley went out below their feet, filled again with the voice of the river. The updraft smelled of pine, and hawks circled on rising thermals far below their feet. Down below, on the South side of the river, many buildings sprawled connected by gardens and bridges and paths.

“What is this place?” Feanor asked. 

“The valley of Imladris.” Bilbo exhaled. He was smiling. “In the common tongue it is known as Rivendell, the last homely house East of the sea.” He said this slowly, as if remembering something. “Here lives Elrond Halfelven.” 

Celebrimbor felt his heart soar. 

As they made their way down a winding road so narrow it verged on treacherous, the pine trees were replaced by beech and oak. 

“Do the trees say anything?” Bilbo asked, clearly accustomed to the company of elves. 

Feanor tipped her head a little. 

“They say that they love this valley and the elves who live here. There is a great kindness here, but also a deep magic, and power.” 

“That’s Elrond for you,” Bilbo laughed. “Though he isn’t quite as intimidating in person as that makes them sound. Not that you are easily intimidated, Feanor.” 

Celebrimbor looked over her shoulder at her mother, who was bringing up the rear. She had a peculiar expression, serious and a little sad. She caught Celebrimbor looking at her and forced a smile. 

The road leveled as it came to the floor of the valley. The morning was wearing on, and the Sun was pulling mist off the river as they dismounted to lead their horses across a bridge over it. 

They came on foot into a stone courtyard, almost overgrown with flowering vines. The music of water and birds was everywhere about them in the cool of the morning, the light fair and silver, the breeze ruffling their hair. 

Then a voice, rough with joy and surprise, cried out. 

“CELEBRIMBOR!” 

Celebrimbor looked up to the sight of a figure leaning over a balcony above them. She cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling, 

“ELROND!” 

Elrond disappeared for a moment, and then reappeared very quickly at the nearest door outside, running down the stairs as Celebrimbor ran up them, and they crashed into each other. Celebrimbor buried his face in Elrond’s neck and Elrond held onto Celebrimbor’s cloak in fists. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Elrond said, muffled by cloth and tears. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” Celebrimbor sobbed. 

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