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It’s slowly rising dawn, when Eärendil gets back in sight of Aman. Arien is tireless and faithful. She always rides for the sky at the same time, every day, while Tilion is more of a...well, it’s probably rude to describe a Maia as a lay-about, even if it’s true. He minds his duty, but more for love of the sky and love of Arien, then anything else. He’d be gallivanting around in the woods still, Eärendil thought, if he had the choice.
Eärendil stares down at the land below.
It shines like a gemstone, he thinks. He’s low enough now he can see details, the gardens of Yavanna a kaleidoscope of riotous color, the towers of Tirion shining opalescent in the rising sun. He can’t see the people properly at this height, but he knows they’re there. Somewhere Finarfin rises, ready for another day of…well, attempting to delegate kingly tasks to other people, from what he knows of the man. Somewhere his son is likely long already been awake – Elrond was always the hasty riser of the twins.
Somewhere, Elwing will be waking, stretching her wings, preparing to fly up and greet him.
She’s always there, every morning without fail, the steady rock upon which his world turns. No matter rain, no matter shine. Whenever he gets back, Elwing is there. It is hard to remember a time in his life in which Elwing wasn’t there – Gondolin is the faintest memory on the wind, the vague impression of shining white and flowers waving like bright pennants in the breeze. It’s hardly more concrete than a dream. Sirion is where he grew up, and since the earliest moment he could remember Sirion had had Elwing.
He scans the sky for her as he directs Vingilot to lower, closer and closer to the docking point. It’s automatic, at this point – he has flown Vingilot for far, far longer than he ever existed without it. The ship is a part of him, an extension of his own being. Looking for Elwing is, as well. She is always there, has always been there. The other half of his soul.
He doesn’t see her.
He scans again and again – where is she? She’s always here – and doesn’t see her. The sky is empty of a flash of white. He’s memorized the way her feathers glow against the backdrop of Valinor. He would never miss her. He doesn’t see her, doesn’t see -
His heart is racing.
It’s a sensation he hasn’t felt in so long that for a moment it feels like he’s dying. He grips the side of the ship hard enough the wood digs into his hands. Where is she? She’s always here. Where -
A flap of wings, the rush of air, and he turns just in time for the great albatross to rise over the wheelhouse of the ship. Its wings shine against the slowly brightening sky. It lands. There is a blurring, like two images trying to exist in the same place at once – and then Elwing is rising, straightening her kimono with smooth movements.
“Eärendil,” she calls. Her voice rings clear and bright as a bell.
Eärendil can’t -
He can’t -
“Eärendil?” she says again, and this time she’s closer to him. She’s an inch or two taller than him. Her eyes are deep and black as a seabird, her face soft and worried.
Eärendil's vision blurs.
He steps forward, taking her form in his arms. She hugs back immediately, her delicate bony fingers tangling in his hair.
“Eärendil?” she says again. “Are you alright?”
He’s pathetic, Eärendil thinks. He had been a prince, once. He had killed a dragon, once. One time he had been the kind of person who could drive his ship into the heart of a dragon the size of a mountain. What had the sky taken from him, that he could be driven to the point of tears just by this, the possibility of being alone?
“Of course,” he says quietly. “I’m fine.”
Fin.