Celebrían falls asleep in Elrond’s arms, and it is not a dream. It is just a field of heather, just purple flowers underneath a blue sky. There is a slight wind that carries the scent of birch trees, and the sun is high and white above them. It is not another lifetime; it is just a field and the wind and the sky. Everything real, everything here—her hair falling silver across her face, her hand resting on his knee. There is a rock sharp beneath his leg, and he is glad, for in a dream it would not hurt.













