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A vision comes.
Elrond puts on the ring and a vision comes.
The ring is called Nenya and it sings of the sea. It is the same sound Elrond heard before he leapt from the cliff in Lindon, only louder now, as if the mithril in this ring recognises the hand that last touched it. Perhaps a ring like this could do that, could know who held a part of it prior to its making in the forge. Might Nenya also remember the smith who crafted it—Celebrimbor the last of a bloodstained line, for all that tragic legacy he’d built a city made only of his hope—might the ring also remember the touch of Galadriel, Lady of Light? It was she who gave gold and silver to complete the band, exquisite metal from Valinor, sharp with love and grief.
And so Nenya might just remember the half-elf who sparks with a power from across the sea.
A blessing in the touch of the Maiar.
From the nightingale's that sing in Elrond’s blood.
There might be another secret to the forging, another truth, because Sauron had also touched the mithril shard before it followed Galadriel’s dagger into the fire. He’d held it often in his hands and Sauron is far more than a spark, is Maiar as Elrond will never be. Yet when Elrond dropped mithril into Celebrimbor's forge the three rings that came back out did so singing of the sea. They did so louder than it, the music Círdan had heard—how is it they remember? how can these rings know anything of waves?—and perhaps the truth is that corruption found itself unable to keep its roots. Perhaps even the most devious of taints fled from the touch of one as kind as summer.
Perhaps that’s why Nenya glows on Elrond’s finger and doesn’t remember Sauron at all.
They’d escaped the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil and in the forest he’d heard it sing.
He’d heard it as clear as when it had been around his neck during the siege. Elrond heard it while he watched Gil-galad fail to heal Galadriel and yet felt no fear.
“I cannot do it.” The High King had said.
“I can.”
Because Elrond had known.
He’d known it deep in his kind as summer heart.
What had been forged as three in balance; man, elf, maiar. He knows the rings are healers, all three of them are healers, healers with a gift for foresight and a wish for preservation—no twisted darkness, they glow with Elrond’s gifts—it is not Sauron’s influence that touched these rings.
It’s his.
And when Elrond slipped Nenya onto his finger his gaze caught on something far away.
The vision comes.
The ring is called Nenya and it sings of the sea; a scant moment where Elrond stood unmoving under the succour of ancient trees, looking up into light as if he hadn’t noticed it was still there, a streak of blood drying across his newly healed cheek and splatters of mud still dimming the shine of his armour. Nenya eager to sing for him, so swift to heal, even swifter to quicken his existing talent for foresight. Elrond had seen the fire in Ost-in-Edhil, had watched smoke billow from the wreckage and then turned away.
Leagues away it still burns.
Melian of the Maiar had once protected a kingdom with a spell. Elrond had fought with all he had and proved unable to defend a single city. Behind him Celebrimbor’s dream of hope lies in ruins, and just ahead there lies a valley, hidden, tucked between the Misty Mountains.
And there Elrond promises a sanctuary that will never, ever fall.
What else augmented foresight might have showed him remained secret. The ring became a note only he could hear—a sound the same as before Elrond jumped from Lindon’s cliff—what rang high and clear as foresight met itself. It was the first time since Elros lived that something returned the call of his nightingale song.
It was the first time since last he saw his mother’s face that Elrond felt at peace listening to the sea.
To an observer the moment of it passed quickly, gone before it could even register as a pause, both Arondir and Gil-galad watching as Elrond stepped forwards to kneel at Galadriel’s side. One hand hovered over the wound, her skin black with a poison the High King had only just been able to keep from spreading further. And under that succour of sunlight and leaves Elrond glowed with Nenya’s strength and something still more, he made that foul taint flee even before feeling his touch.
Gil-galad watched Elrond heal Galadriel.
He watched him return the ring to her once she awakened.
They both watch him in the days that follow. They are ring bearers after all, and visions are what comes with the powers wearing one grants, no need to question if Elrond had experienced it too. Not when it can be seen so clearly. There is a haunting in him; for good or ill the vision lingers like a ghost, and Galadriel can’t ignore how at first Elrond stands apart from them. She isn’t the only one to notice, Arondir comes to her with curiosity in his eyes, after they stand with Gil-galad as he speaks to the survivors of Eregion’s siege.
Only Elrond had kept himself at a distance.
And in the coming days he demonstrates a peculiar familiarity with the land.
He whispers to the pine trees at the top of the valley, to the oak and beech trees at the bottom of it, murmurs softly as if greeting old friends. The path down from the gorge is steep and yet he navigates it with an ease that is more memory than elven grace.
It is clear to all who chance a look.
Elrond knows this valley.
He knows it as if he’s been here before—lived here before, had a home here before—knows which style of construction will provide buildings best suited to the landscape. They draw up plans for a settlement and Elrond knows where best to place each one.
There is new sorrow in his eyes.
Galadriel finds it amongst a softer joy, a haunting pain, had wondered if he’d continue to keep himself at a distance as the days go by. Yet he does not. They speak of Eregion and Elrond asks for her forgiveness once again, turns his face into the softness of the hand she raises to his cheek. They both shed tears and share comfort, they both lean together as two uprooted trees, grief shouldered between them so neither falls under its yoke. The starlight in Elrond’s eyes has always been a sanctuary, now in the right light it seems to glitter ever brighter, now in darkness it seems all the more a brilliant white.
Gil-galad is still concerned about the vision.
Together they ask Elrond what Nenya showed him.
And Galadriel finds that a distance remains between them after all. Elrond will not speak of it, not even when the High King asks, not even when Gil-galad calmly suggests that he could make it an order.
Elrond seems to know what he’s really offering.
He still doesn’t say a word, not about visions at least, instead asks permission to bestow a name upon the hidden place they are beginning to make into their home. It is far too certain to deny—there is a reason no one else has yet tried to suggest a name—Elrond’s right to be the one to speak its name aloud rings true. Gil-galad gives him time for consideration, tells him to make his request when he is ready, but Galadriel is fairly certain Elrond doesn’t need it. Nonetheless she sees the wisdom in the High King’s decision.
He lets it remain secret a while longer.
He grants time for Elrond to feel the weight of the name before speaking it aloud.
Galadriel follows him to the top the valley.
She stands beside Elrond as he looks upon the settlement, the beginning of its construction. The ghost within him finds a ghost here too; he looks upon what isn’t even born as if already grieving its loss, looks upon it as if he’s already said goodbye, as if no one will ever walk here again.
As if he has already seen it for the last time.
She will remind Elrond that he has not.
“Thank you for healing me.”
They are words that she has said before.
“You need not thank me.” Elrond replies, repeats what he too has said more than once in the days since they arrived here.
Galadriel nudges his shoulder with her own.
Elrond’s brow arches as he turns to her; a wisdom still boyish, eyes still glittering starlight, what shines within a grey as clear as evening. Nenya stirs, sings, the lulling hush of waves atop a sea, both storm and calm and not a trace of darkness. For a moment Galadriel finds Elrond changed, he stands beside her with a circlet on his brow, silver against long dark hair, yet beneath the unfamiliar adornment his eyes are twilight warm. This is what haunts him, this is who, Galadriel looks and sees an orphan boy she’d first met by a sea, so long ago. She sees who’d fought to the end in Eregion, bled for Ost-in-Edhil, for Celebrimbor, sees—
This ghost of Elrond smiles.
Kind as summer.
A question uncoils within her, it’s relief akin to being freed from a heavy burden, how there remains still more unknown because this haunting carries a future too. Nenya tugs and Galadriel lets the vision go, keeps Elrond here, knows well enough that she will meet him there in time.
Elrond tilts his head in question. “Galadriel?”
“Have you decided?”
It’s somewhat impatient. Galadriel asks Elrond to tell her the valley’s name and he smiles.
Yes. Here is her friend.
Here is Elrond with his dark curls and ageless smile. Here is Elrond bracing under a weight unseen, soft with the traces of one far older, and within his starlight there echoes what else now lies ahead. A wisdom shared through the ages—who can say if it’s a mind reaching forwards or a mind reaching back?—and it must be a life filled with love as well as loss.
It must be because Elrond smiles still and says—
“I call it Imladris.”