Adar would never willingly abandon his children, yet hours had passed and there was still no sign of their victory. His son may have been thwarted in his attempts to reach the human. The human may have balked when it came time to fulfill his role; that ever-present weakness rising up like a putrid tide. Adar had spoken true when he said that his children had no master, not anymore… though that freedom came at a price. Without his guidance and love his children would scatter, unable to overthrow the might of both humans and elves combined. Should he die here in this barn, the fate of his offspring was undoubtedly a dire one.

It wasn't a fate he could bear to witness.

Such was what Galadriel promised him, yet Adar knew she hadn't the patience for it. Indeed, she had already crawled into his space, crossing the line, the promise of a merciful release on the edge of her tongue and blade. Adar tilted his chin in challenge and, with some goading, may have secured his undeserved end.

Except: "Galadriel."

That man appeared, she pulled away, and took with her a sampling of his blood. Adar only knew her blade had cut him because he could feel the droplets soaking his tunic—the cut itself was minuscule and, therefore, imperceptible. It took a great deal of effort to scar an elf's body. An uruk, even moreso. Adar suddenly wanted nothing more than for Galadriel to carve into that space again, deeper, for hours on end, not so he died, but so that he might carry with him proof of this meeting. Even as Adar smiled at such a fantasy she was leaving, not even a glance back to sustain him.

"Ah well," he whispered.

Yet a moment later the barn door creaked again and it was pathetic how quickly his gaze snapped that way, starving for another look. Galadriel stood with one hand held defiantly on the hilt of that dagger. The other held a bowl.

"He's right. You're of no use to me dead," she said, lip curling. "Eat—and know that you are unworthy of every morsel."

"…I know."

She didn't hear him. The bowl sailed in an arc as the door locked behind her, soup splattering across the floor, his gauntlet, chest, the hollow of a cheek. No doubt Galadriel knew that he'd be unable to eat what remained with his hands bound… and that he would, in time, lick it from the floor like a warg.

For now, his tongue darted out along his cheek, testing the offering. Adar let out a shuddering breath as he tasted potato and fresh vegetables. She could have easily given him the slop their animals were served, or even a bowl of waste—he had survived on both before. Yet to be served the food that everyone else was eating outside—commoners and Queens, soldiers and would-be Kings—felt like an admission he couldn't afford to read into.

No doubt he would though. Adar already knew that if he survived this trial he would think of nothing but warm hands and sweet scents for aeons to come. It was a curse he looked forward to.

Though he should have been planning their reckoning. The way could open at any moment, dousing this land in flame and carving a homeland for his children. Adar should have bent in supplication against the barn floor, listening for the sound of water.

“Nín iôn,” Círdan spoke calmly though his voice had a natural boom that rung in Morine’s ears, “Nathlo!”

“Mae g'ovannen, istannor!” Elrond beamed back, barely allowing Varnestel to stop before dismounting. Excitedly, he met Círdan, grasping forearms before hugging him fully as he relinquished any pretense of formality. Preferring to remain in the Grey Havens, it had been long since they’d seen each other. Morinë cast aside the twinge of envy at the sight of their reunion; it must have been a wonderful feeling, being missed.

Dismounting from Tautr, Morinë cleared her throat, bowing before offering her hand. Elrond’s reverence for him was evident and only added to her nerves. As Círdan grasped her hand, for the briefest of moments, she felt perceived in a way beyond sight. However unnerved, Morinë remained determined not to derail the carefully practiced Sindarin Elrond taught her, ignoring the probing feeling, “Gin suilannon, hîristannor.”

After a moment of silence, she raised her head. Círdan stared down at her, eyes keen as stars. His expression was near-unreadable save for a flash of recognition behind his piercing gaze. Unblinking, his hold on her hand remained firm. Morinë began to reconsider just how badly she’d butchered the greeting until a more concerning thought crossed her mind: Arda’s most revered clairvoyant touched her…and had little to say. “I must confess, I fear for my future if I am to judge your expression alone,” She joked awkwardly.

“Círdan, this is my w—my dear friend and esteemed colleague, Morinë,” Elrond offered to fill the lingering silence, not missing the way his elder’s eyebrow quirked at whatever he meant to correct.

Círdan’s smile slowly returned, his other hand covering hers with renewed warmth. “Nathlo, Morinë. Worry not, Elrond has spoken greatly of you in his writings, however, seeing you now…I confess I am a touch awestruck at how much you remind me of Elwë’s wife; those who walked only beneath moonlight, bathed in the youth of stars… You must forgive me for staring and relishing the memory.”

“Oh, well, I have been called worse, so forgive you I shall. Besides, I understand you have been gracious enough to help us along our journey.”

“Of course, I have begun the preparations myself and our shipwrights should complete their works in the coming days. Though, I confess I am glad to see you unharmed by the forest’s scourge.”

“The forest’s scourge? That sounds terribly ominous.”

“The surrounding villages have named a rather large and reticent boar the ‘forest’s scourge’. If you have not seen it, we shall count our lucky stars. Let us take advantage of the peaceful time, and you may remain here to rest for the journey that lies ahead.”

Guiding them into the village, Círdan kept whatever thoughts came during their meeting to himself, for now. To prevail in Middle Earth as long as he, the art of holding one’s tongue until informed enough to speak was one worth perfecting. And from the dreams he’d had in the weeks prior— and now the touch of her hand, he was gaining a wealth of information to speak on when the time came.

For their part, Elrond and Morinë tabled the feeling that they were missing something, following Círdan to the stables and past the shipyard. It was a vast workshop with towering wooden beams and Morinë fought her curiosity to see inside. They would be there for a few days yet and, knowing what high regard Elrond held Círdan, she felt a strange pressure to impress. It was a feat she found increasingly difficult the more of the Grey Havens they saw.

It was nearly as breathtaking as the joy upon Elrond’s face as he recounted memories, excitedly planning to create a score more. It was easy to see why as they came upon the great mouth of the city, its vast harbour home to all manner of illustrious ships. Sunlight colored the tower’s faces with golden light, bleeding into the sapphire water lapping at their docks, the wounds of his past balmed by this place and the warmth of the people within it. The shipwrights and artisans were greatly influenced by Círdan, his calm, gracious air filling their hearts, tending to their craft with a joyful diligence. He wielded no obvious power or authority over them—no strident edicts forced them to labor so arduously, yet they did so all the same. A leader by nature rather, his influence on and relation to Elrond and Gil-Galad was apparent.

“Please, enter freely, friends. My home is your home,” Círdan called, Elrond already stepping inside with their bags as Morinë tore her attention from the fantastical views she was certain no human had seen before.

Bustling her robes, Morinë ascended the ancient but well-kept stone steps. The style of his home was of particular note, humble in its size, though stately in design. The detailing and motifs clearly informative of other Elven architecture, Morinë felt she was in the midst of something greater than Círdan would ever admit to. He ushered them through the kitchen and onto a large, oaken veranda, its posts as old as Coirëamár’s bones. The cushions of the seating were a rich cerulean, embroidered with Teleri heraldry, telling tales of their sea-faring history in greater fidelity than some books she’d read. Morinë made it a point to brush off her skirts before sitting, her posture seldom straighter.

“Círdan, there is much to tell you,” Elrond began, his expression and the mood turning serious. “I have—”

“Elrond,” He interrupted with a smile,” You know as well as I we cannot begin a visit without sæwindrinc…”

“But Círdan I—”

“Or would you prefer a glass of an old favorite honey milk?”

“No. No sæwindrinc is perfect,” Elrond replied, the shade of red clouding his face causing Círdan’s smile to broaden. Elrond had grown into a noble Elf of great aptitude, but Círdan’s heart still warmed to see the gentle boy he raised still endured. “Would you care for some as well, Morinë?”

“Transparently, I haven’t a clue what sæwindrinc is, but as long as it brings you little trouble, I would love some.”

“Oh law! Then we must introduce you to it.”

While Círdan left to the kitchen, Morinë relished in the view from the veranda. Breathing deeply, sea air and incense filled her lungs. Overhead, singing birds rode the breeze floating effortlessly in painted skies. A hand reached to cover her own in her lap, Elrond’s contented gaze and shy smile following shortly after.

“Morinë, I… I am glad you are here.”

Gently, she silenced the part of her that wished to hold them in this moment forever, swallowing a more impulsive response, “Me too.”

The sound of a boot heel thudding against a plank of the veranda startled them. Elrond retracted his hand, both of them sitting stick-straight, looking anywhere but Círdan’s eyes which bounced curiously between them, his smile unfaltering.

“…Sæwindrinc is the wine of sea grapes, sweetened by fruits of the land. It is ideal for replenishing the spirit and relaxing the mind. I have kept this bottle for some time yet, though sharing it with you seems fitting.” He spoke, placing the ornate bottle on the table. Its frosted glass etched with intricate patterns, a kaleidoscope of color painted the table as the sunlight illuminated the liquid inside. The handle, an iridescent mother of pearl, curved elegantly in a way she hadn’t realized the material was capable of, its shape decidedly Teleri. Pouring each a glass, they raised them together, “To your journey and all the places it will take you—Almién!”

“Almién,” Morinë replied. Bringing the cup to her lips, brows shot to her hairline. If ever the Valar thirsted in Arda, this is what she’d offer them first. “It tastes divine. For exactly how long have you been waiting to share this?”

“It was bottled the year Eärendil and Elwing welcomed the twins. We shall enjoy more over our supper tonight; a blessed wine for a blessed time,” He smiled, turning to clasp Elrond’s shoulder, both too distracted to notice Morinë's jaw slacken at her mental calculations.

“Oh, this is much too generous. I’ve met forests younger than this wine.”

“Well, pardon me,” Elrond retorted.

“No offense, my friend.”

“Some taken…” Elrond mumbled behind his glass as he took another sip.

“At the very least, allow me to source the game for supper,” Morinë offered.

“Please, I cannot have my honored guest labor,” Círdan rebutted.

“… Did you no enlist me to work in the yard tomorrow morning?” Elrond added, Círdan’s expression unchanged.

“It would be no labor at all,” Morinë replied.

“You are almost as resistant to care as Elrond.”

“Respectfully, I find that impossible. Moreover, I enjoy the hunt and would feel extremely cared for if you allowed me this small repayment… Please?” Judging by Elrond’s resigned countenance, Círdan knew it would be futile to debate her further on the subject. His store would be refilled regardless.

Elrond rubbed the cloth along the rim of the chalice as Morinë's figure shrank in the kitchen’s window before disappearing into the forest, a silent prayer crossing his mind as it always did when they parted. The pewter serving tray settling gently on the counter drew his attention, Círdan moving to his side to place the chalices he’d cleaned in the cupboard.

Shifting his weight, Elrond made his stance more comfortable, knowing this was one of Círdan’s favorite times to delve into lengthier subjects. Chatting during a task seemed to make both the subject and work lighter, though he wondered about the weight of this particular conversation.

“You’ve grown taller.”

“With all due respect, I believe I am well past my growing days, physically at least.”

“And yet here you are,” Círdan replied, his neck craning a bit to meet Elrond’s unconvinced gaze. He made a mental note to check the notches on the doorframe later. “Your Morinë is as enchanting as you described.”

“She is not mine, yet. I mean, she does not belong to me, or anyone, but… yes, enchanting is a fitting description.”

“You appear conflicted.”

“No, not conflicted. It is simply that, given our current situation, I have found one must balance pragmaticism with such… hopes.”

“And how fairs that approach?” Círdan more commented than asked.

Pointedly, Elrond placed the second chalice on the counter, his brow furrowed. For months now, he had been trying to reckon with himself and the knowledge his foresight had provided, or rather burdened. But for all his thought, Círdan remained ten paces ahead; the teacher gently guiding his oft frustrated student to a point he’d long arrived. Círdan knew far better than any how difficult the sight could be, but his current prodding was proving more testing than helpful. “Forgive me, but what exactly are we speaking about?”  

“We are speaking about why you are so stifled about a woman you so clearly love.”  

“Oh.” Elrond’s gaze dropped, twisting the spotless cup in his hand. He’d known it to be true, but hearing it spoken aloud threatened to shatter him anew. The same visions that brought comfort every night, tormented him every day; the promises of the future doubling as taunts of the present. Setting down the dishcloth, his hand rose to his neck, futilely rubbing at a knot of existential proportion. “I have seen an end that she cannot, or rather will not, allow herself to fathom. And given our reality— and her mortality, I cannot bring myself to find fault with her. I am helpless to convince her and thus resigned to wait until these visions align with present time.”

“In all my teachings to you about the Sight I do not recall helplessness,” Círdan intoned, gently releasing the chalice from his hand to replace it in the cupboard. Reaching toward a jar on the countertop, Círdan retrieved a stalk of incense. A small part of Elrond softened, seeing its smoldering embers fall into in a familiar shell upon the windowsill. He’d gifted it to his teacher on a similarly sunny afternoon ages ago though Círdan must have seen a thousand more beautiful vessels since then. Of course he kept it.

Facing each other fully, Elrond had already begun to match his slowed breathing. Extending his palms between them, Círdan spoke again, “Show me what you have seen.”

The smell of niphredil hit him as squarely as the light beaming through the glass overhead. By the curved metal frames, he guessed a greenhouse in Sirion. It was common to encounter memories while searching for visions and Círdan found himself content to see the past through kinder eyes. Walking down the stone pathway before him, a child with dark, curly hair looked upward, at a moth fluttering around a lantern. At the end of the path was his twin, grasping at the skirts of his mother. She stood proudly, a staff of light at her side. Her gaze was focused on a great tree whose limbs had long risen above the glass roof, its top far from view. Her hair was black as night, and she glowed like starlight, crowned with a silver circlet whose jewels mirrored those woven into her gown, blue as the bay of Balar. “Elwing,” Círdan thought, sighing to himself.

“Elrond!” She called, not turning around, but extending her ringed hand to her side expectantly.

Círdan looked to the boy who was trailing behind, waiting to see the small Elrond run to catch up with his mother, but instead, he was now staring directly at him. Taken aback, Círdan looked back to the end of the path. The other twin and woman were staring at him now too. However, it was not Elwing and Elros, but a child he did not recognize and Morinë, her hand resting atop her belly.

Gasping, Círdan took his hands back, his eyes opening to see Elrond standing patiently in his kitchen for him to awake. Though he tried to school his features, the twinkle of joy dancing behind his eyes could not be fully dimmed. Círdan had indeed not taught helplessness nor hopelessness, but he had been insistent on one thing when first teaching him about the Sight:  visions can be subjective. Elrond pursed his lips, knowing well that Círdan would remind him if he had forgotten.

“It is a… compelling notion.”

“But?”

“But, even if it shall come to pass as you have seen, how can you be sure this is not but a few years from now?” Círdan hedged. Elrond seemed prepared.

“The thread of her gown was made of silkworms she raises. It has taken her 15 years to cultivate enough for a handkerchief, and she would never rush such a process.”

“Perhaps it was gifted to her by someone else.”

“Perhaps, yes, but the position of the stars, they will not be so any sooner than 100 years from now.”

“We have both known Men capable of living to that age,” Círdan countered, but Elrond appeared undeterred.

“That may be true, but the tree… she and I have seen it. It is hardly a quarter of its size at present. For it to have grown to that height, it would require no less than 300 years’ time. And yet, there she stood, with our children, as vibrant and keen as the day we met—perhaps even moreso. Her cascading curls, bright eyes, lithesome figure, full lips…”

“Elrond…”

“Apologies, I drifted. But you can understand why I believe my confidence in this vision to be well-founded. I am not merely charmed by a beautiful vision. I have long analyzed it, even if it meant its disproval.”

Círdan’s smile diminished, his countenance serious for a long moment, “…Gwestol?”

“Gweston,” Elrond nodded.

Glancing out the window, Círdan considered his next words carefully, “I have seen a piece of this future, but it is not what one could mistake for a beautiful vision. You may arrive at the place in your dreams, but not before great hardship, my boy. She is not what she appears to you now. Do you still wish to stay this path, just for the possibility of being with her?”

Elrond’s chest tightened, swallowing a clot of doubt. Looking out toward where she disappeared into the forest, he paused for a long moment, “Yes, even still. For many nights, I feared myself tormented by this vision, however, it has made me aware of a fear far more palpable: being without her.”

Círdan sighed, his expression and hand at Elrond’s shoulder warm though his keen eyes felt a hint of dread at the familiar vision threatening to replay before him. “You may have Lúthien's face, but it seldom ceases to amaze how much of Elwë steeps through your manner."

"A compliment, I am sure."

Tags: @valar-did-me-wrong, @orehuna, @xcrybaby555x

A/N: Hooray for Morinë and Elrond finally making it to the Grey Havens to chill before things get real dicey...I added some Sindarin, but let me know if it’d be more helpful to have the translations right next to the text rather than in the notes. Hope you all enjoy this chapter and thanks for reading!

Sinadrin translations (forgive me bc these are rough~)

Mae g'ovannen- Well met

Nathlo- Welcome

Len suilannon- I greet you (formal)

Istannor- teacher

hîr [hîr] name lord, master

Gin suilannon- I give greetings to you (informal)