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He still remembered that day in full.
It had been a day of complete and quiet joy, much like the past two and a half millennia. The ink on the verses freshly written in his study had not yet dried; the flowers Celebrían had gathered some days before stood upon his desk, and with Vilya’s power he kept those broken stems fragrant and bright for long beyond their natural span. Before she left, she had placed a crystal tray filled with various berries by his bedroom window, so that when she was gone he might wake to see the lovely birds perched before him, and fall asleep each night to the song of the nightingales.
That morning had been bathed in sunlight when he woke up. A row of little birds had gathered about the bowl of berries, watching curiously as he, somewhat reluctantly, forced himself into a properly formal robe. When the attendant brought his morning tea, he sat by the window and unfolded the reports and letters newly delivered. In that calm delight, he began to read and reflect, focused yet at ease, preparing to compose a reply in his own hand to Gondor’s new Steward, who had lately taken office.
After meeting several more messengers from the leaders of Men, he went to the training grounds, where Glorfindel was sparring with his two sons. So many years had passed, and Elladan and Elrohir together still could not best the reborn hero. They called him to join them, to see if three Half-elves might at last have a chance to win. He only smiled and shook his head, saying that alas, strength of power had never been his gift, and even united, father and sons would surely meet the same defeat. Yet his sons did not lose heart; they launched another round of challenge against the reborn ancient warrior.
That day he picked up a training bow and tried to draw it. His aim was no longer flawless; the skill had grown rusty. Acts of killing were by nature opposed to the gift of healing, and for the sake of the latter he had long since refrained even from hunting. Still, the age was now one of relative peace, and he thought perhaps he might take up the craft again.
Soon Arwen came to find him, saying she wished to discuss with him some old and difficult poems. He gladly agreed and went with his daughter to the library, helping her trace the missing contexts that would let her understand those texts more deeply. She received the ancient tomes with delight, her gaze upon him full of affection and reverence. He smiled and, in a light tone, reminded her that knowledge could be gathered from books, but wisdom could not be passed through words; what she sought was not within the poems, but in the world itself, waiting for her to experience it firsthand. Arwen said that in that case she wished to travel to distant lands—but he forbade it. He shook his head and said the world still held too much unrest for him to let her go. Fortunately, Elves did not lack for time; perhaps one day, in the future, he might go with her—
He remembered instead the frantic figure bursting into that peaceful hall, the surviving messenger whose pale lips struggled to utter that place’s name.
—Ah yes. That was why. That was why he still remembered that day so vividly.
He still remembered that at the beginning, he did not panic. He even caught, with steady hands, the scrolls that slipped from Arwen’s grasp and set them gently back upon the table.
That day, beneath the terrified gaze of all around him, he questioned the dust-covered, blood-scented messenger with calm precision, his voice as tranquil as if discussing what to serve for dinner. When he summoned the guards, he continued to inquire about the route and the enemy’s movements; when he unfolded the map, he even remembered to tell the servants not to alarm the twins still practicing their archery. He knew their experience was not enough—they were still relatively young, still ruled by impulse. His orders came out one by one, every word exact, lucid, cold—so cold it almost seemed heartless.
But Elladan and Elrohir soon burst in, their identical faces twisted by fear and fury. They paced the room, restless, shouting at him in despair—Father! We must leave at once!
He only shook his head, replying with a stillness so complete they could not comprehend: We need more information and a plan. To rush in blindly would only walk us straight into a trap.
It was a long day too—a day that felt like torture.
Time turned into a viscous poison, clinging to his heart. All night he organized the assembly and rehearsal of the troops, even the redistribution of the valley’s grain reserves. The grey eyes that had always held serene wisdom were now no more than two wells, long dried and hollow.
His sons could no longer bear the lifeless stillness in those eyes. In the darkness before dawn, carrying swords and wrath, they left Rivendell in silence—driven by the fierce blood that flowed in them, the blood of the uncle they had never known but whose fire they had inherited. They rode toward that foul nest.
That day—the day they brought her back—it was raining, a cold, relentless rain.
His wife was wrapped in a cloak caked with mud, her once radiant hair, bright as newly forged mithril, matted with dark clots of blood. The lips that had so often curved toward him in affection or teasing were pressed into a single, painful line.
The twins collapsed before his army, drenched in blood. They had disobeyed his command, gone out alone, and returned—broken and wounded—carrying their mother barely alive.
Around them, soldiers cried out in fury and disbelief, but he alone moved swiftly and in silence. He knelt in the mud beneath the rain, inspecting the wounds that cut to the bone. His motions as he lifted the cloak were precise and quick; not a tremor ran through his fingers, not a hitch broke his breath—it was as steady as suffocation. He moved as he had countless times through the ages when healing the gravely injured. That day, he did not embrace his sons’ trembling shoulders, did not speak a single word of comfort to his wife. He simply let fall the sword from his hand and, as though following a plan long rehearsed, began the work of healing—efficient, cold, utterly focused, losing not even a second of chance. He looked hardly like a husband or father.
When Celebrían opened her eyes, he met the pain that clouded them. The brightness he had looked upon for millennia was gone. Yet he knew she could see him—see how he was clawing, half-mad, through every imaginable horror to seize the one fragile thread of hope, until his body could only survive by becoming this suffocating, mechanical shell.
She saw it. She did not ask him, as their children did, to show sorrow. She only used the last of her strength to hook one of his cold fingers with hers—and then closed her eyes again.
And at last came the day when he finally admitted his own helplessness.
He kept vigil by her bedside day and night, exhausting every bit of wisdom and healing skill accumulated through the millennia, chanting every spell and prayer he could find. But the shadow had already taken root like a venomous vine, coiling around and corroding her mind until the starlight in her eyes went out.
Sometimes she would wake in sudden terror, her gaze filled with a fear that no longer knew him.
And he, fool that he was, had once thought that fate had finally forgotten him—had granted him the mercy to let happiness endure forever in secret.
Celebrían. Celebrían.
That day he knelt beside her bed, tears falling as he confessed over and over again: that he had foreseen something but hesitated, wavered, that he was the most powerless, useless husband in the world who brought nothing but misfortune to her.
She lifted her hand with effort to touch his face, yet there was guilt upon her own, the kind that only deepened his self-blame.
That day she told him she was sorry—that she could no longer manage even herself, so that now she could bring no comfort to his heart far stronger than she could ever imagine before.
She also said she had come to understand: that the life she had once given him had not been born from love or healing, but merely from a kind of ignorant good fortune.
Ah, that day.
The day when all his wisdom failed him—when he could not summon a single word that might persuade her, or comfort her, or even gently contradict her.
He had witnessed it before: aged souls struck down by grief, turning to alcohol, to temper, to bitterness. But that day, he only hid away from his wife and children, withdrew to where his father’s starlight could not reach, and secretly broke down, drowning in tears alone for the first time in an age.
That day, at last, he dried his eyes. That day he packed her belongings, that day he watched her leave for the Grey Havens.
And that day, when he returned to his study, those flowers were still there on his desk.