Where I can't follow you by Novenoe

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Fanwork Notes

Hello! This is my frist fanfiction here. Be warned, I've used AI to translate it from my original Italian (that you can find here: https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=4149634&i=1 and here: https://www.manga.it/home/novenoe, a bit censored), since I haven't much time to translate it because of University's mid-terms but I wanted to make it accessible to non-italian speakers. Hope it's alright and thanks you for reading it!

TW: Earendil bites Elwing on the shouder, it isn't violent but one can never know if it could trigger someone

Fanwork Information

Summary: Eärendil and Elwing reflect upon their personal and political future during a very long and intimate night Major Characters: Eärendil, Elwing Major Relationships: Eärendil/Elwing Genre: Erotica, Family, Romance Challenges: Rating: Adult Warnings: Sexual Content (Moderate)
Chapters: 1	Word Count: 6, 213
Posted on 21 September 2026	Updated on 21 September 2026
This fanwork is complete.

Where I can't follow you

Read Where I can't follow you

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They
called it longing for the
sea; to her it seemed closer to an illness. The longing still for
something —
for the sand, for the halls of their palace, for an even more distant
palace
that now existed only in ballads and in the ruins of Doriath crusted
with moss
and blood.<o:p></o:p>
Longing
shouldn't keep you
awake at night pacing corridors and piers with a relentless step. Not
that her
husband didn't do everything he could to stay anchored there, where he
was,
with her and their beloved children and the whole realm. But if your
nickname
is the mariner, and the longing for the sea is so painful, in the end
there's
only one thing you can do. The leaving hurt as much as the returning.
Elwing
understood that well. Finding the children a little taller each time
was a small
wound, just as having to catch up each time on what had happened in the
realm,
and to her. It was Elwing who governed and held audiences in his
absence, often
even after his return — a sailor on land is as much a
stranger as a Man worn
down by travels would have been in the shining halls of Doriath. His
skill
belonged to men of the sea, and Elwing let it be so. She had been born
in an
ancient forest that had seen maturity in twilight before any dawn; she
was not
made for the sea. Her children gathered shells while their father
sailed, and
Elwing told them that holding one to your ear you could hear the sea,
the very
one where their father was at that moment; they all wanted to hear,
too, his
bright, sparkling laugh fill the stairs of their small palace. Elwing
tried to
fill the emptiness by telling the twins stories at night, partly
fishing from
memory the adventures Earendil had told her (but without the fear, the
melancholy and the constant danger among the waves — those
did not suit a story
for children; all that should be left to them was the joy of the wind
and the
currents, the kind every child dreams of), and partly inventing. Elros
loved
stories where there was a new place to discover; he liked to listen to
the
fishermen and had started sailing a little boat of his own. Sometimes
he would
look very far off, but not with the same spasm of leaving that
tormented his
father — as though he wanted to push the visit beyond the
walls of the world,
but not too far beyond. Elrond liked to hear about peoples who lived
far away,
and their songs and their books (his brother never teased him for it;
he simply
liked to learn things — different sorts of things). This
filled her with a sad
kind of joy: inventing happy adventures she wished Earendil could live,
instead
of the endless quest he could not escape. She wished he had been there
to
listen. Sometimes, when he came home, she would tell them to him too,
whispered
in his ear, laughing in the lakeside garden or between the sheets late
at
night. As children, huddled together in a fort of cushions, they used
to tell
each other about Doriath and Gondolin; each of them wished to see the
other's
city, but neither wanted to see it as it was now — nothing
but ruins erased by
time and ever-present grief. Earendil said his mother had seen the fall
of the
city in her dreams, and little Elwing told herself that living in a
city
knowing you were bound to lose it must be like dwelling among ghosts.
Earendil
also told her about grandfather Turgon, who had sacrificed himself so
that
everyone could leave the city; neither child wondered whether they too
would
one day be crushed beneath a tower, as he had been. They simply knew
it, and
only wondered how many others would manage to escape. Of Maeglin,
Earendil
never spoke — he had loved him, but then Maeglin had tried to
drag his mother
away. Now and then he dreamed of falling from the walls of Gondolin,
even
though he loved heights.<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
would tell him about the
house where she was born, near the waterfall, and about how it had been
before
her father took Grandfather Thingol's throne, and the silmaril to keep.
Sometimes she told herself it had been the beginning of all their
troubles,
that her father should have said no, or handed the gem over to those
beasts,
the Fëanorians. Then she would tell herself that the oldest
light in the world
could not fall into hands stained with blood. Not into the hands that
had
killed her mother and her father, and perhaps her brothers too. Uncle
Celeborn
and Galadriel had been kind to her and loved her, as did all the people
of
Sirion. Elwing knew the world was dark and that light was their only
hope;
sometimes she wished she could throw it into the sea and be done with
it once
and for all — they would be free, she would finally be free,
and it would feel
like flying, or maybe not. She loved flight, and the nocturnal wings of
nightingales; sometimes she wondered what it would be like to be a
little bird.
Earendil, then, sitting on the tree's root while she dangled upside
down above
him, would tell her it would be a fine thing — that way she
could follow him on
the journeys he would make when he grew up, and they would see places
still
unknown and unexplored. Elwing would shake her little head, scattering
the
leaves caught in her hair, and explain to him, very patiently, that a
kingdom
cannot govern itself, and that she had to stay, bird or no bird. Then
he, a
little furrow creasing his brow up to his sand-colored eyebrows, would
say it
wasn't fair, and that he could name a regent — maybe Uncle
Celeborn and Aunt
Galadriel would agree to hold the role — and that they could
go see the wide
world and all its wonders, just as Eru had made them, without any
trouble.
Elwing would laugh, a little sadly, a little happily; he was a funny
boy with
eyes the color of a stormy sea who wanted to take her with him
everywhere, and
she liked that very much, so very much, enough to color her cheeks
pink. She
didn't fully understand his desire to see the world; she loved the home
that
her people, and what remained of her family, had built, and the world
was also
so dark. So she would say that even if she couldn't go see the world,
and even
though she didn't much like traveling, she would be there waiting for
him,
every single time. Then it was his turn to blush pink. One day, when
they were
teenagers, his blush turned a deep scarlet, while Elwing leaned down
from the
branch above him — the day before his first voyage.<o:p></o:p>
"You
will always come
home. And I will always be here, don't be afraid. You have a home to
come back
to." Her fingers had traced the line of his jaw, lifting his face, as
happy as it was uncertain — but she would never clip his
wings, or his sails.
"Don't be afraid."<o:p></o:p>
"I
will always come back
to you, and then I will always be home. If... if you want me to, I
mean..."
The fingers tracing his jaw made it hard for him to put the thought
into words;
he wanted to reassure her, to tell her he was leaving in order to
return, that
he wished he could take her everywhere, far from that weight always
circling
her neck like a noose, and to tell her that he never wanted to feel so
torn
that he couldn't bear the ground beneath his feet — the way
one can't bear
pollen in spring and suffers from it — and that if she had
seen the shoreless
sea, it would have been better, at least until she had a different kind
of
longing. He wanted to say all these things at once, but there was no
need.
Elwing kissed all the words he never said.<o:p></o:p>
Her
husband sat at his desk, a
compass between his fingers, tracing a course. She was not surprised.<o:p></o:p>
"It
must be
somewhere," he said, answering the gaze at his back as if to justify
himself, the lamplight streaking his hair an unusual red. "Valinor...
it's
out there somewhere. Why prophesy a hope of salvation if the place it's
meant
to come from can't be reached?"<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
sighed, leaning against
his shoulders; she understood the urgency in his words —
darkness all around
them, and it was only a matter of time before the last light went out.
Morgoth
would not leave them in peace forever, even though they were a kingdom
of
scattered refugees. The silmaril pressed hard between her chest and the
muscles
of Earendil's shoulder blades, as if reminding her of an unbridgeable
distance.<o:p></o:p>
"You
can't keep going on
like this much longer," she said, burying her face in his neck
— she had
missed being able to do that. "You've been here only three months; how
many will the next stretch be? Three? Two? Our people are here, not out
there
on the sea. And whatever hope you think there might be — at
Valinor..."<o:p></o:p>
He
turned the chair, the lamplight
darkening his features from behind, his eyes shadowed with weariness.
"It
was prophesied, by the Lord of Waters. And... the Valar don't play
tricks." Elwing arched an eyebrow — maybe the Valar didn't
play tricks,
but dealing with them was no small matter for mere mortals either. "If
I
could speak with my parents... they, perhaps, would know... or maybe,
when
Gondolin fell, fate changed after all... They didn't turn their backs
on us,
from the Undying Lands, otherwise... I've searched for them, my mother
and my
father — they must be in Valinor, just as they said..."<o:p></o:p>
He
fell silent, turning the
compass over between his fingers; it had been the last gift his father
had left
him, before being swallowed by the sea along with his radiant wife.
Elwing shook
her head, trying to shake off the thought — if the choice was
to be devoured by
the sea or by Morgoth, she too would have preferred the sea. "Earendil,
they... there's no certainty they're there. It's sung in ballads and
legends,
and people like to hear it because it's a good story. Everyone likes a
good
story. But, my love..."<o:p></o:p>
She
set a hand on his shoulder,
carefully, as if afraid of frightening him away. "Earendil, who has
ever
actually reached Valinor? It's a beautiful story, but... it might only
be a
story. It's... it's life. And..."<o:p></o:p>
"DON'T
SAY THAT." He
leapt to his feet and paced their bedroom in long strides, disheveled
from too
much work, hair tousled over his shoulders — though it wasn't
by working
himself to exhaustion and pacing in long strides that he would face the
problem, his wife thought, following his motion with her eyes. "What's
the
alternative? That they're lost, or... dead? That my father dragged my
mother
across the waves for some foolish wish, and that if I actually reached
Valinor...
they wouldn't even be there?"<o:p></o:p>
He
looked to her like a lost
child with enormous eyes, like their own children, like herself. But
Elwing had
more experience with that kind of grief. "The ballads say my brothers
survived... fed by little birds through the depths of winter, and that
they
live wild in the woods..." She felt the tears of two decades past
tighten
her throat; they weren't salty, they were bitter. "It's a beautiful
story.
But it's a cruel story. I was four years old, they were eight. And I
only survived
because my aunt and uncle managed to drag me away — Elured
and Elurin were
abandoned in the forest by the thugs of that monster Mahedeos, in
winter. What
little birds are there in a Doriath winter? None. Not even a crow. Only
snow
and cold and black branches. And if they had survived, why would they
never
have come back to me? The songs are cruel — it's all false
hope. And whoever
sings those songs never stops to think they might reach my ears, and to
me they
are not stories. If they had survived..."<o:p></o:p>
Earendil
broke off his march,
his bare feet making the floorboards creak; he couldn't blame his wife,
who was
looking at him with grey eyes too adult already since they had been
much too
small. A smile slowly rose to his lips, weary and bitter, too unlike
his usual
self — but who even remembered normal anymore. "They would
have come back
to you. Sometimes I tell myself that I can't find Valinor because I'm
too
afraid of not finding Mother and Father again, you know?" The
silmaril's
light glowed softly against Elwing's gown — it was never
blinding, only a
diffuse glimmer, but now it seemed to weigh her down like an anchor,
like a
waterlogged sail. "I know they might not be... but none of this spares
any
of us. What I feel, or my parents, or..." He stopped, gazing at
Elwing's
face, which no longer looked at him, her eyes fixed somewhere on the
floor and
in her own thoughts. Their family wasn't spared, nor was anything else.
Hadn't
he always known it, Earendil, that sooner or later they would all fall
together
with their tower, and that salvation would not be for them?<o:p></o:p>
"It
doesn't matter? Is
that what you mean to say?" Elwing snapped, the light at her throat
less
furious than she was. "It doesn't matter that your wife and your
children
are swept up in the great prophecy along the way, is that what you
mean? That
if Elros asks every sailor about you, that's fine; that if Elrond
collects
shells to show you when you come back, because that way it's certain
you'll
return and won't be killed by a storm, that's fine; that if I'm here
governing
an entire kingdom like... like some widowed queen, that's fine too? I
must
always stay here, but it doesn't matter to you, does it? Go with your
little
boat east of the sun and west of the moon, go right ahead!"<o:p></o:p>
Earendil
didn't back down; it
hurt him to hear her speak like that, and she knew it — she
wasn't merciful
enough to spare him the same treatment, arching an eyebrow in the way
she knew
drove her mad, the edges of his smile sharper. "I didn't say that. But
what would you have me do, stay here with you for whatever time we have
left,
which will truly be very little if I don't find that cursed land,
because
Morgoth or the Fëanorians will fall on us out of nowhere, and
then you'll be
happy when we're all bleeding out on the floor, dying, because you
preferred
having me for a few more months rather than for a whole lifetime, is
that it?
If that's what you want, fine. Might as well take that compass and
drive it
into my throat right now, and into the children's too, for good
measure!"<o:p></o:p>
Instead
she dug her nails into
his hair and gripped the back of his neck — something that at
any other moment
Earendil would have found rather pleasant — feeling his pulse
pound furiously
against his jugular. "Leave the children out of it, what do you even
know.
You weren't even there when they were born!"<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
let go, frightened by
her own words, and pressed her hands to her lips — she wished
she could pull
the syllables back. It hadn't been his fault; Elwing hadn't known she
was
pregnant when he left (it was always good, but even better to do it
with the
hunger of departure and the thirst of return, taking and giving for the
months
to come and the months gone by), and the voyage had lasted longer than
it
should have, because of a long winter, harsher than usual —
damn Morgoth.<o:p></o:p>
"No,
no. I didn't
mean..." She wiped away the silent tears from Earendil's cheek, with
her
fingers and with her lips. "I didn't mean to... I'm sorry. I didn't
mean
it! I know that, I know that if we'd known, you would have stayed. I
know, I'm
sorry. Sorry, I didn't mean it. I know..."<o:p></o:p>
Earendil
pulled her close,
cursing the waves and the stars and the prophecies. She was light as a
feather;
she could have vanished between his arms. She was so young, like him,
and he
already felt so weary of the world. Of everything, but not of her, or
of the
children. Only of the world.<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
gripped the fabric of
his shirt, with anger. "Why did it have to be us? I always knew it
wouldn't be easy — if we had wanted a political marriage
between our houses,
you could have married one of my ladies. You knew perfectly well how
they
looked at you, the way I did. I could have married one of the scions of
Doriath, or of the Falas; instead I chose to marry you, and the fate
that comes
with you — and everyone knew that wasn't a fate fit for
someone who wears a
crown." The words burned her throat as she clutched at the fabric under
her fingers as if to tear it apart. "But I chose to marry you
— the guest
taken in by a city in ruins, who put himself in my service on his knees
along
with his parents, a vassal in exile among the exiled — I
chose to marry
you." She rested her head on his chest, without letting go, panting as
though she had run for miles. "And I have never once regretted it. I
only
wish... Go if you must, leave, find Valinor, put an end to all of this
and come
back to us. But do it quickly, before you lose yourself" —
she brushed his
temple — "in here. Don't lose yourself in here!"<o:p></o:p>
"No,"
he answered,
his face resting against her hand, the salty trail of tears already
fading —
there hadn't been many tears left by now. "I won't. I'll come back to
you
and the children. Safe and sound." Then he laughed into her hair, a
laugh
closer to normal. "How could I have married one of your ladies, when
I've
adored you since I first laid eyes on you as a child? I believe I asked
you
what you wanted me to do... and what was your answer?"<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
pushed him onto the
bench behind them and sealed his lips with her own, her hands running
between
his neck and his hair, searching for something to hold onto.<o:p></o:p>
"Something
like that,
yes." Earendil caught his breath for a moment, and she took pleasure in
the thought that she could leave a sailor breathless when not even the
waves
could manage it.<o:p></o:p>
"Will
you be leaving
soon?" she asked him, straddling his lap, her lips brushing his; she
could
feel his tension even through their clothes, and the strain in his
breathing.
He was like the sea, and she had decided she would drown him.<o:p></o:p>
"With
the tide,
tomorrow," he answered, hoarse with desire but with regret gnawing at
his
voice. Longing for what he held in his arms and what would fly away.<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
kissed him harder still,
swaying like the tide, matching the rhythm of his catching breath,
wanting to
leave him breathless. She wanted to take something for herself, wanted
him to
beg her for mercy from the effort, wanted to take everything the waves
would
deny her, wanted to take everything he would have wanted to give her.
She
unclasped the necklace and flung it aside; the primordial light could
bear this
and more — she could not.<o:p></o:p>
"My
lady is angry,"
Earendil whispered, arching his eyebrow in the way his wife found both
irritating and irresistible at once, invitation in his voice; in the
lamplight
at their backs his face was undone, flushed and glowing, barely
restrained.
Elwing continued with a shiver, tearing another kiss from him. She
thought of
when they were teenagers and he would ask her to follow him into the
sea, and
she would stay in the shallows — I can't, I'm a daughter of
the earth, she used
to say. The waves would brush her ankles like a lover's promises.
Sometimes she
would jump onto the little sailboat; they never sailed far, but the sea
and the
wind would reduce their clothes to little more than a veil. She thought
of
when, older, they would lose themselves in the seaside woods, and the
flowers
would welcome them in an embrace.<o:p></o:p>
She
let her breath escape,
light and deep as a gust of wind; she felt supple and weightless, even
as she
used the whole weight of herself with pleasure — she was
emptied out and full
at once. She often wondered what it would feel like to fly; perhaps it
felt
like this.<o:p></o:p>
She
tore herself from his
embrace, leaving Earendil still gasping, half-dressed, startled as
though she
had woken him with a slap. She didn't want to give him any
satisfaction, not
now, not right away. Not when she wouldn't have any for months. Nor
would he.
She wanted him to die of thirst and hunger, just as she was doing.<o:p></o:p>
She
lifted his chin between her
fingers; he had bitten his lips, and she traced them with a finger,
inviting.<o:p></o:p>
He
responded as much as the
effort allowed him, with a desire that bordered playfully on anger. "Do
you think I'm meant to be the only one to surrender? I don't think so
— where
do you think you're going?" He pulled her back into his arms, fiercely,
as
if he were wrestling the current of a river. Elwing took up her rhythm
again,
while Earendil bared one shoulder, then further down, kissing her
freckles,
which looked so much like the markings on the wings of woodland birds.
His lips
lingered on her breast, softened by motherhood, while his eyes sought
hers to
read the desire there, and found the hunger he was looking for. Elwing
was
soft, small and light. Even more so since she had brought their
children into
the world, her edges further smoothed. He hadn't been able to see her
and love
her while her body and her life were changing, nor known that his own
life was
changing too. He tried to love her now for all the time he hadn't been
able to,
his lips tracing the roundness of her, lingering at its peak, his
fingers
retracing the shape of the other, guided by her shivers and her breath.
I love
you too, I love you too, Elwing thought without speaking, understanding
everything Earendil was telling her without a single word — I
miss you too, I'm
sorry too. He held her close, while she kept up her motion, stubborn,
yet surrendering
more and more to herself. She let herself slide to the floor, and to
Earendil
the rustle of fabric sounded like a retreating tide. Her fingers were
quick and
nimble, clumsy with urgency and with clothing that wouldn't come free.
She
finished what she had begun, with the eagerness of someone parched who
finally
brings water to their lips; her mouth was glossy as the sea. Earendil
felt
himself break apart, like a rope in too much wind. It wasn't
everything, it was
too much, it almost hurt, it wasn't enough, it was only a drop in the
sea, it
was the whole ocean. Elwing laughed, without wiping her lips, and then
went on
slowly, like one who is sated and can now savor more deeply. He would
miss her
too much, and not only for this — again his breath began to
catch — he would
miss her too much because he wouldn't hear her laugh for months,
because when
he returned he would find her sad and weighed down by the light and the
crown,
and he didn't know how to ease that burden. If only he could succeed
this time...
In the dim light he raised his eyes to the ceiling; he knew it was
painted with
constellations, though they couldn't be seen now — one day
they might never see
the light again. He pulled his wife closer to drive the thought away;
at sea he
couldn't do that, and the stars weren't enough. He stared into the dark
without
truly seeing it, while Elwing led him, guiding him where she wanted. He
lifted
her easily and she let herself be lifted, so responsive it seemed as
though she
must be running from something, when in truth she was running to meet
it. They
went on together, she glossy as a shell, as her last garments came away
in a
rustle, light as a pair of wings; he kissed her deeply, on the neck.
She
gasped, her tender anger not yet spent; she held her husband still by
the hair,
wishing she could stop the moon in the sky. The moon would understand
— the
moon was always running to catch up with the sun. She pressed further,
as deep
as she could go, to reach him.<o:p></o:p>
They
gave themselves over into
each other's arms, and stayed like that to catch their breath, softer
now,
sadder now. She kissed his temple, the way she would have done as a
girl after
a quarrel, or to reassure him.<o:p></o:p>
"Elwing,
Elwing..."
he sang out, the way he would have done as a boy to make peace, with a
laugh.
"Elwing!"<o:p></o:p>
She
let herself fall back onto
the great bed behind them, while the lamplight died away. In the dark
Earendil
reached her, letting her hands guide his fingers. She truly was as
glossy as a
shell.<o:p></o:p>
"Do
you want something to
remember me by, my lady?" Earendil whispered, kissing her shoulder, her
black hair spread across the pillow; he felt her nod with the desire of
anticipation, and pressed his lips against her neck and shoulder, again
and
again, and then the edge of his teeth. He stopped only when she told
him to,
after having begged him to go on. In the moonlight Elwing's shoulder
glowed
red, tender where he had bitten it; he traced the little mark with his
fingers,
and she gasped at the pleasure and the faint pain — he wished
he could devour
her whole, while she trembled.<o:p></o:p>
"I
won't be able to wear
low-cut dresses for weeks," she remarked, without it really being a
reproach. "Down! But no teeth!"<o:p></o:p>
He
laughed. He loved her too
much, and she loved him just as much in return. Like home.<o:p></o:p>
They
lay among the blankets in
that drowsy half-sleep. The moon ran swiftly across the sky.<o:p></o:p>
"Have
a good journey,
tomorrow," Elwing murmured, nearly falling asleep against his heart,
"and when everything is over... if it ends well..."<o:p></o:p>
Take
me... take us with you. She
wished she could say it. She didn't.<o:p></o:p>
"What
will we do if the
Fëanorians discover we're here?" It was a question he often
asked her, and
it was perhaps less terrible than wondering what they would do if
Morgoth
arrived — or perhaps just as terrible.<o:p></o:p>
She
hated him a little for
bringing up the subject at that moment; she understood a little that he
wasn't
speaking as her husband now, but as the Lord of the Havens. And so she
answered
as the Lady: "You know... the only way to resolve this matter would
have been
possible if Curufin and Celegorm hadn't kidnapped my grandmother, and
hadn't
tried to kill her, or if they hadn't killed... They would have to offer
something of equal importance — namely, their own lands
— and they wouldn't. Or
declare themselves our vassals, and they wouldn't do that either. And
the head
follows the neck. And our neck — our subjects —
believe that damned rock is the
reason for the land's prosperity..." In the dark she twisted her mouth
into a clinical smile. "Perhaps it's true. They say Lúthien
made the whole
Isle of the Dead that Live blossom simply by wearing it around her
neck. But
she was closer to the divine than we will ever be... Without an
adequate
exchange, giving up the silmaril to the Fëanorians would be
the same as handing
them our sovereignty. And what happens when a people feels betrayed by
its own
sovereign?"<o:p></o:p>
She
leaned toward the
nightstand to drink the potion — they didn't want any more
surprises, however
unexpectedly welcome.<o:p></o:p>
Earendil
buried his face in the
pillow, regretting having brought up the conversation at all; his wife
was the
keeper of the silmaril, and however much the people loved their rulers,
they
would see surrender as a betrayal. The Noldor had been willing to
accept
vassalage because Idril and Tuor were wise, and because of their
distant
kinship with the ruling house — but without the guarantee
given by Fëanor's own
creation, who could say what the more turbulent fringes might do. "If
the
diplomatic path is bound to fail... what's left?"<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
brought a hand to her
chest automatically, where the stone should have been — she
only took the
necklace off to sleep or for intimacy; otherwise she would have felt
the weight
of the institution creep even into their bedroom. It would fall to her
to
remain the walking target, and then the twins? No. Never the twins. One
way or
another, she would be the last to bear that weight. "I fear the
Fëanorians
even when they bring gifts. After everything they've done to me... I
hope the
diplomatic solution works. They say Mahedeos searched for my brothers,
you
know?" She laughed bitterly while Earendil stroked her back. "A heart
of gold, is it? He's grown gentler over the centuries. He was
terrifying — I
only remember he had red hair, it looked bloodied to me; I had never
seen
anyone with hair that color before. My father seemed like a mere boy
next to
him — he was one, really... If he had managed to bring them
back to me... I
would give him nothing. What would Lúthien say of me? And
everyone else? But
the diplomacy has to work, because it isn't only about us."<o:p></o:p>
"I'll
stay here,"
Earendil pressed himself against her, feeling sleep weigh down his
thoughts.
"If something happens..."<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
sighed; saying what she
had to say weighed on her, but it was right. "No. I'll deal with it
here.
If you're not here, I'll take my time and say I can't decide without my
lord —
no, thank you."<o:p></o:p>
Earendil
kissed her one last
time, as sleep claimed him. "But I am only a vassal, light of my
life." Elwing seemed already asleep, hair across her face, so he went
on
more quietly, "And Lúthien would be proud of you, and so
would all the
others. Beren recovered a silmaril for love, and none of us has ever
done
anything that wasn't for that same reason. When I go to Valinor, if I
manage
it, I will look for Melian and Thingol — surely they'll be
together, if Mandos
hasn't kept him too long — and your mother too. And I will
tell them about you
and the children. I would like to see Grandfather again too —
I was only a
child... I must tell him we made it. And perhaps I'll even meet Aunt
Aredhel, I
would like that. And who knows what I'd say to Maeglin... And who knows
if I'll
find Mother and Father again..."<o:p></o:p>
And
if I die, he thought
without saying it, for fear that Elwing might be awake, then I will
find Beren
and Lúthien again, your father, your brothers, my cousins.
Perhaps Father, if
it's true he never reached Valinor... But I would also like to see my
mother
again... Why must we always be split in two? Death should be a gift,
but as
long as you are here, I would rather live.<o:p></o:p>
He
slipped into sleep as the
moon disappeared into the dark.<o:p></o:p>
He
was woken at dawn by a
mocking voice knocking at the door: "Mother? Father? Are you decent?"<o:p></o:p>
He
leapt up, snatching a robe
and his trousers in a rush, while Elwing, jolting upright, searched for
a dress
like a girl caught red-handed; he rolled his eyes with a laugh
— his younger
son reminded him so much of himself as a boy. "Elros, how many times
have
I told you, you ask permission, not... if people are decent."<o:p></o:p>
The
boy opened the door anyway.
Elwing, fully dressed by now, slid under the bed regardless, red with
embarrassment. Their son paid no mind, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder.
"Well, anyway, Elrond's having a nightmare and won't wake up. And I
don't
want to have to dunk his head in a bucket."<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
sprang up and started
running, barefoot across the tiles decorated with ferns and sea-flowers.<o:p></o:p>
"Does
it happen
often?" Earendil lifted the boy into his arms, ashamed he even had to
ask.<o:p></o:p>
"Not
always. But when it
happens he doesn't wake up. It's scary. I wake up right away instead
—
sometimes I even fall out of bed."<o:p></o:p>
Earendil
stroked the boy's dark
little head; they were too young to be having nightmares —
though they
themselves had been too, at that age.<o:p></o:p>
"Will
you tell me what
you're dreaming about?"<o:p></o:p>
Elrond
sat on the pier, his
head resting against his father's arm, his feet dangling, while Elwing
held
Elros in her lap; he had already fallen back asleep. The boy sniffled,
calmer
now. "It's a huge wave, Father. And it sweeps everything away. I don't
know where it is. It doesn't look like Sirion. There are palaces of
glass, and
they aren't beautiful. And the ships have no sails."<o:p></o:p>
Earendil
shivered, not from the
morning air. His mother had been a seer. But his children couldn't be.
Ships
without sails... It was only a nightmare.<o:p></o:p>
"Don't
worry."
Earendil wiped away a fugitive tear. "Nothing can happen. Do you know
my
father was friends with the Lord of the Waters? No one will be
swallowed by a
wave. What does Elros dream about, instead?"<o:p></o:p>
"A
great big empty palace,
Pa," the boy answered, wide awake and lively now. "It's a beautiful
palace in a forest, with a river, and there's a library. Enormous. The
library
is beautiful. It feels like being home — maybe I'm there to
visit someone I
know, because I'm happy to be there. But there's no one. It seems like
it's
been empty for years. So I tell myself that I couldn't find the person
I was
looking for, and I never will. And I feel really sorry, and then I wake
up." At that point he dove into his brother's arms for a while, while
the
other boy gave him a few pats on the shoulder. "Don't worry, if you
came
to live at my house I wouldn't be rude enough to leave you behind. As
long as
you don't make me angry, that is."<o:p></o:p>
"IDIOT!"
Elros
grumbled with a stifled grin that made everyone laugh. Then he pulled
himself
up, wiped away the single tear that had dared to show itself, and,
cheerful as
ever, pointed a finger. "Since we're all awake anyway, why don't you
tell
us a story? Ma always does it, but I want to hear yours. Is it true you
met the
Fastitocalon?"<o:p></o:p>
Earendil
winked. "The
great turtle-giant who lives in the far seas, old Stilo? What do you
want to
know?"<o:p></o:p>
Elwing
perched on his shoulder
as he told the story, one foot dipped in the sea, which teasingly
splashed the
hem of her dress. Silently, she asked the waves to take care of the man
she loved,
and just as silently she watched the flight of a gull cutting through
the sky
beneath the last stars before it returned to its nest atop the tallest
pine.
She would have liked, she thought, to be a gull.<o:p></o:p>
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Thanks you if you read it all, let me know what you liked if you want. Thank you so much, see you soon. N.

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