Archive of Our Own ^beta

For most of his life, Elendil hadn't thought of elves as anything but a far off dream – gazing at the numerous depictions of Elros and his brother, he'd been unable to grasp the existence of such creatures even as he knew it to be true.

When the Commander Galadriel herself had ended up on his ship, he'd hardly believed his eyes and it still sometimes catches him off guard, the golden shine of her hair and depth of her gaze. This is someone who has seen the first dawn, the first sunset, who had been born before the sun itself. And how could he understand it, mortal man as he is?

Nonetheless, he does not need to understand to respect, to believe, to remember that Númenor was founded by an half-elf who had by chance alone chosen to be counted amongst the men that surrounded him.

History is a harsh, burdened teacher – but oh, it teaches you well.

He's always thought more people should remember that particular saying, if only to avoid making themselves into a spectacle.

So, the word 'elf' had been filled with awe, so much so he struggles to ever imagine them as parents or lovers or anything but the mythical figures of old.

The proof that he'd been wrong in holding that vision stands before him now.

Galadriel reaches towards the painting on the wall, where Elros and his brother are looking at one another yet separated to symbolise their respective choice, and her hand is gentle when it comes to rest on the figures before them.

At first, Elendil thinks it is Elros she is reaching for, an old friend long lost to time, perhaps, but he soon realises that her attention is fixed on the brother instead.

“Did you know Elros?” He asks, curious as he's been few times in his life.

“Yes. An uncommon spirit,” Her voice lowers, ever so slight, “But I was always closer to his brother.”

It is here, in this moment, that he first questions his beliefs – for he knows the look in her eyes, the weight of her gaze. Knows the longing that fuels her movements, has felt it himself a long time ago.

“Remarkable,” He replies, trying not to stare as her hand travels the path from Elros to the Half-Elf next to him, “What was his name? It has been many years since I last studied on my ancestor.”

A smile brightens her face, blinding as he imagines the light of the Undying Lands must be.

“Elrond,” The word is filled with emotion, said with the utmost adoration, “His name is Elrond.”

“Is,” Elendil repeats, “I don't think I've realised the span of your lives until this very moment.” He adds, suddenly lightheaded at the knowledge that the first King's brother is still alive, out there somewhere.

Galadriel laughs, still transfixed on the painting.

“It must be very strange indeed, to know that he's not mere memory but flesh and bones still.” She's wistful, drinking in every detail. Both gentler and softer than he's ever seen her.

He hesitates, before jumping in headfirst in the same way he always told Isildur not to do – do as I say and not as I do, for there's always been too much of himself in his children.

“Not as much as I think it might be strange for you, my Lady, to be away from him.”

The spell is broken and her hand lowers, fingers closing over the heavy sleeve of her dress, pressing the fabric harshly against her skin.

“For many centuries I have travelled,” She says in a voice as cold as winter, “Finding traces of the enemy. It is not news that we should be separated, only ever meeting briefly after long decades have already passed.”

She reminds him very much of Eärien, now, with that same stubborn streak and habit of using cutting words to hide the hurt beneath.

“But something is different now, is it not?” He asks, trying to be as gentle as possible without relenting.

Always too curious, his wife used to say when they were young, lamenting over the fact that he'd passed it down to their sons.

“The last time I saw Elrond, he believed it to be for our last farewell before I set sail for the land beyond the sea.”

There is true pain in her voice, a kind of tortured sorrow that colours each word – all but one, parting them like sunlight amongst grey clouds.

“Then the surprise shall make your reunion even sweeter, my Lady.”

“I hope you're right, Elendil,” She looks away at last, “I would not have him angry at me, not if I can help it.”

He laughs now, can't help it in the face of an emotion that feels so very young.

“If he loves you half as much as you love him, I do not believe that will be a problem.”

He's not expecting her to flinch, turning her back to the painting as if the mere sight of it might burn her.

“You're mistaken, Captain. Elrond is my dearest friend and no more than that.”

But there is a hitch in her breath, a carefully hidden lie, just barely peeking through her words.

Elendil has met many friends in his lifetime – many who had married early and came to regret it, shunning their spouse's gaze. Many who had never married but shared their lives in such a way it was impossible to view them as anything short than husband and wife.

He has the feeling, from her own actions, from the sweetness in her voice as she said Elrond's name, that this might be a similar situation, if made more complicated by the length of their lives.

“I am married, you see,” Galadriel states flatly, “And even though my husband may be lost, he will be waiting for me at the end, on that other shore.”

A delicate matter, for sure, but Elendil is no judge and certainly has not enough knowledge to navigate it as an elf would. He can only use words of men, only think as a mortal man and, distantly, he wonders if that might not help them more.

If these ancient beings that should be counted amongst the stars but still sound so much like his own people might not benefit from a moment away from the enormity of their lives to fully embrace the smallest moments, as mortal men do.

“Then it seems to me, my Lady, that you should enjoy your time on these lands together, for as long as it may last.”

This wins him a smile, secret but true, and Elendil feels lighter for it, hopeful as he's been few times before.

He looks back at the portrait of his ancestor, at that brother that still lives and breathes somewhere beyond the sea – and what a marvelous thing it would be, to one day meet him. To know the Half-Elf that had captured the Lady Galadriel's heart so thoroughly, who had stood next to his brother even as their paths diverged.

What a marvelous thing it would be, to meet his family's living history and see how full of life and light and love it is.