Epilogue

Armenelos, Númenor. S.A. 442

Four hundred years had passed since Eärendil’s son had set foot upon the soil of his new home, and the years had been kind to him, more so than to any Man of fully mortal birth. His carriage was still erect and, although his face was deeply lined, his sea-grey eyes were steady and alert. His shoulder-length hair, although now white with age, still hung thick and straight – Elven hair, as his queen had been wont to tease him. Tar-Minyatur they called him now, king of Elenna the land of the Star, the Gift of the Valar to Men. In his heart, though, he would always be Elros of Sirion, cousin to the High King.

He wandered slowly about his sleeping chamber, dousing lamps as he went, picking up and examining items that were close to his heart before returning them carefully to their allotted places. There was a little filigree box containing locks of hair belonging to his queen and a beloved daughter, both dead long since; a small, exquisitely-carved quartz dragon, delicately coloured, every scale correct; a woven lap-rug, a gift from a grand daughter for his two hundredth birthday; the painting Gil-galad had given him the night before he sailed, the door to home still open to the morning…

Sighing, he replaced the painting and then slowly removed the ring that Elrond had given him from his finger - the first time it had left him since that day Círdan had pressed it into his hand. Almost on a whim, he placed it in front of the picture. Vardamir, his son, might not find it, but young Aranel, his several-times great-granddaughter with her love for the small treasures with which he had surrounded himself in these last years, certainly would. She loved the ring’s story almost as much as he had as a child.

He smiled now, remembering how she and her brothers, like the generations of children before them, had sat at his feet listening in open-mouthed wonder to the tale of how the Ring of Barahir had come into their family, and of Beren and Lúthien and their quest for the Silmaril. There had been other favourite stories, especially the rise and fall of hidden Gondolin, and of the great hero Glorfindel, who had bought their forefather’s life with his own - and who Elros had actually met after his rebirth many years later. And they had all loved to hear about Gil-galad and his court, and the creatures of the forests of Middle-earth…

So many memories in one room. So much of the past that still spoke to him, cried out to him, especially in the long lonely years since Faengil’s passing. He felt tired beyond weariness and had felt this way for months now. His work was long since done, and he knew, as he knew his birth name, that it was time to move on, to allow the responsibility to pass to the next in his line.

He had originally intended to seek out the small, windowless mausoleum set into the foot of the Meneltarna with the idea of joining Faengil there, but the thought of going alone into that cool darkness was too much for him; his heart quailed. Instead he had chosen his bedchamber, surrounded by memories, as the place where he felt best able to accept the Gift of the One, the end to labour, the time of rest.

Still wearing his simple grey house-robe, and leaving only the small alabaster lamp beside the bed lit, he went to lie beneath the formal coverlet, gold silk embroidered with scarlet leaves, that he normally removed in the evening and replaced with something warmer and more homely. Not tonight, though. When morning came, he wanted them to find everything neat and right and proper, an example for those who would follow.

He folded his hands on his chest and closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. He had no idea how to do what came next - but then again, this had been the tale of his life. Somehow he had always managed, through instinct and common sense and, surprisingly often, by drawing upon the lessons in kingship learned from Gil-galad hundreds of years ago.

He had done his best for the new kingdom, for his people, for the future they had begun to build. He had often felt inadequate to the task, but over time he had developed confidence in his abilities and his people in their turn had developed confidence in him. It had not all been work and duty, either. Not long after their arrival he had wed Faengil, his support and refuge from the beginning, and she had determinedly carved out a home for her family, a place where he could put aside the crown and be himself. When the children arrived, things had finally begun to feel ‘right’. He had missed his previous life, but as time passed it had begun to seem more and more dreamlike, another world.

There was no exchange of letters between him and Elrond; his brother was lost to him forever, a pain long accepted but never quite forgotten. There was news, however. Three, sometimes four times a year, letters came to him from Tirion, forwarded from somewhere within the household of the High King, delivered there, he guessed, by Elves returning home from the Land of Exile. These unsigned missives contained stories about his brother and cousins, court gossip, political developments in Lindon, events in the lives of people he had once known. They opened a window onto a world forever closed to him and, certain of their origin, he regularly blessed Galadriel for her thoughtfulness.

His body was beginning to relax, his breath flowing in and out, slowing perceptibly. He could hear the rushing of blood, the beating of his heart. There seemed to be nothing else in the world, only him, only these sounds. He had planned to lie and think back over his long, full life, but even thought seemed tiring and he realised the time for such things was past. He felt a warm darkness drawing closer, not frightening as he had imagined it would be, but welcoming. A time to rest.

“At the last you will lie down and sleep and, sleeping, your faer will pass to the place where the inner selves of the Second born go. No pain, just a sense of rightness.”

Who had said that? Ah yes, of course, Galadriel on his last day at the palace. Galadriel who had made him a promise at that time.

“When that time comes at the last, remember today and think of Galadriel,” he whispered, remembering as though it had been that morning. “I will be waiting in the shadowplace between worlds...”

And she was there; power, strength and compassion, a light within the approaching dark, surrounding him with love and approval. They exchanged no words: none were required. As time slowed around him, as he felt the ties that bound him to the physical loosening, she remained; calm, steady, her presence a promise that there was nothing to fear, nothing to question.

And then finally he was aware of a change, a sensation of freedom and movement as he was drawn at last towards the place he had chosen when he picked eternity for his brother and the unknown for himself. The last thing he knew as his heart faltered and his breathing stilled, was a sensation akin to a kiss between minds.

And then the next stage of his soul’s journey began.