Seeds of the White Tree

Chapter 27 - Of Nightingales

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Twilight lay across the Hidden Valley like a mantle of silver and shadows. The waters of the Bruinen trickled cold and clear beneath stone footbridges, and a soft wind murmured through the rushes and willows on the river's edge. A spring rain had fallen earlier before sunset, slicking the grass and making the thorns of long-wild rose bushes shine. A Great Horned Owl perched in the crook of an old elm tree. It kept silent watch across the dewy gardens, alone and unseen...or so it thought. Elves have very keen ears and eyes, and the four gathered in what had once been Elrond HalfElven's private study marked well the presence of the feathered sentinel.

"Will you not come with us to Annúminas?" Arwen asked her brothers for the second time that day. Elladan had evaded the question earlier at dinner, and she knew something was afoot. "The Dúnedain will without question be even happier to see you than they will I. They have long been your friends, after all."

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a solemn glance. The two of them stood rather than sat, side-by-side at the window onto the gardens which to this day grew Lady Celebrían's beloved white roses. The single bush had grown into a sprawling hedge in the past several decades, and the twins had let it. Likewise, they no longer held themselves to the exacting standards of elven warriors; standards which Lord Glorfindel had taken very seriously in his days as part of Elrond's household. Their long black hair fell unbound about their shoulders, absent the warrior braids which they had always worn when hunting orcs amongst the Dúnedain of Fornost. They alongside Aragorn in his youth had made it their business to safeguard the north for many, many years. Now, twin swords hung unused and gathering dust in matching sheaths. Peace was upon Middle-Earth, and its presence had deprived Elladan and Elrohir of their purpose.

"We have been to Annúminas in recent years," said Elrohir "and unfortunately each visit seems to hold as much sorrow as it does happiness."

"What do you mean?" asked Legolas. The prince formerly of the Greenwood leaned to one side against a bookshelf, wrist habitually clasped in the stance of an archer.

Elladan smiled bittersweetly. "Every time we go, there are fewer and fewer amongst the Dúnedain who remember us. It seems that those whom we once counted as friends have developed the unfortunate habit of growing old and dying."

"Surely not all?" Arwen pressed. "It has only been little more than thirty-some years since the War of the Ring. Surely some amongst the younger still remain?"

"Some remain," Elrohir confirmed. "They are few though, and old by the measure of mortals. Almost none are left who once roamed the northern forests alongside Estel in his days as a chieftain."

"Such is the price we pay for having made ourselves part of this world," said Legolas, his voice wistful.

"Such is the price we pay," Arwen agreed.

The others fell silent at that. No one knew better amongst them than Arwen the price of binding oneself to mortality. Elladan's eyes slid to where his sister's hair - once darker than a river at midnight - had begun to shine silver at the temples. Elrohir meanwhile was noticing the fine lines etched around Arwen's eyes and mouth. Both were the sign of wisdom and experience amongst mortals. How at odds their two peoples could be, that Elladan and Elrohir could be Arwen's elders by over a century and yet now appear visibly younger than she. The twins glanced at one another, sharing an unspoken agreement. It was time to tell their sister of their decision.

Elrohir spoke first. "Arwen...long have we delayed the choice which you yourself made so many years ago. Now though, Elladan and I are decided."

"We will follow our father into the West, and be counted among the Firstborn."