When Elrond stepped upon the ship that was to take him, Galadriel, Gandalf, Bilbo, Frodo and a few others to Valinor he was nervous. So long had imagined what it might be like, and for some time even questioned if he would ever sail.
But here he was, stood upon their ship with the undying lands finally in sight after months of sailing across the unending ocean. He might be a mariners son but he certainly had no great love for boats, he didn’t have a problem with them, but the knowledge of not having ground beneath his feet still made him uneasy.
At their arrival many awaited them, to welcome the newcomers into the blessed lands.
High King Arafinwë, in Middle Earth better known as Finarfin, and his other children had come to welcome Galadriel.
Gandalf reunited with some old Maia friends of his and then escorted the hobbits that had joined them to a nice little cottage for them to spend their days in.
He himself recognized many of the faces in the small crowd. First he spotted Gil-Galad, who welcomed him with open arms. Then his beloved Celebrian, who pulled him into a hug the moment he saw her, she was much better now.
A few soldiers of Rivendell were there as well, happy to see their Lord again.
Elrond ended up settling in Tirion with all the others and moved into Celebrian‘s home. It was a nice house with a good view and easy access to the market and other nearby shops and market places.
Tirion was flawless. The white towers with their pointy roofs, the elegant guards with their silver spears, the market place with its various stalls and merchants.
He met many of his ancestors, some he got along with and some he didn’t.
The first he met was Turgon, it took half an hour for them to end up in an argument about the moralities of handling delicate situations within one‘s own city and when to help those in need.
Luckily his second meeting went much better. His great grandfather, Fingolfin, was much more sensible and they got along quickly due to their shared knowledge on leadership and experience of hardships throughout their lives. Though the late High King did comment to his wife Anairë later about how he was sure he‘d bite his teeth out on Elrond eventually, comparing his stubbornness to someone else’s.
When he at last met Fingon it took the elf exactly five minutes to ask if he had been raised by Maedhros. To this day Elrond didn’t understand how he did it, for he himself wasn’t aware of the small details. Like how he did his hair exactly like the fëanorian had or that he held himself with something of Valinorian regalness he definitely didn’t pick up in Lindon.
But as time went on Elrond began to realize something.
Tirion was truly perfect.
Everyone seemed to have collectively decided to ignore any pains and hardships experienced in Middle Earth or Beleriand and live their lives as if everything was perfectly fine.
When bringing this up to Gil-Galad he just said that they preferred it that way, even if it wasn’t perfect, not everyone had made the journey and seen war, and those who didn’t weren’t comfortable of discussing or displaying it.
The more time Elrond spend in the white city the lonelier he felt. It seemed as if he was the only one prepared to speak of or even mention anything of the things that happened to so many of them.
The more he realized that the more he felt out of place.
Because he wasn’t perfect, he was far from it actually.
He had gone through things most couldn’t imagine in their worst nightmares and had seen horrors he wished he could forget.
He had seen his city attacked, had been kidnapped, even though that did turn out positively in the end. Had witnessed war and bloodshed from young on, had served as Herald and later taken on the mantel of Lord. He had seen so much that he just couldn’t ignore.
So one day he mounted his horse and rode out of Tirion. He didn’t have a destination or any idea where he was going but he just kept riding until he was exhausted.
When he looked up he saw a large city with high towers, but no pointy roofs were atop them, instead there stood guards. The walls weren’t made of white stone and marble but steadfast and resistant cobblestone and tall pillars.
The front guards let him in after he explained his situation, and the moment he stepped through those gates it was as if he had entered another world. No excessive jewelry was worn, but rather detailed braids and head dresses or simple circlets.
Scars of all types were openly portrayed instead of covered up and hidden as if they were sometimes to be ashamed of.
Elrond saw elves with walking sticks and missing limbs and crippled bodies. They were warriors, they were survivors, they were the ugly but real truth, and it felt so relieving too see them.
He had no idea where he had ended up in, but he already knew it was much better than Tirion.
No one was putting on a fake mask of perfection and instead just acted as they truly were.
Elrond walked through the streets, talked with some of the locals and listened to their stories.
He heard everything from ex soldiers to healers like him to guards and even some escaped thralls of Angband.
It was so much better than the flawlessly perfect white city. It wasn’t fake.
Elrond ended up in what seemed to be a throne room. At the end of it stood a elf, dressed in a long robe, his hair littered with many braids and a elegant silver hammer in hand.
His eyes were of piercing grey and his hair as black as the night, but his gaze familiarly gentle.
Elrond knew before he spoke.
Elrond knew before he looked up.
Elrond knew before he stepped closer.
Elrond knew before he even acknowledged him.
He knew where he was, and he knew he would stay.
