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Thranduil entered the luxurious apartment he and Elrond had purchased together some years ago. He dispassionately tossed his coat at the coatrack in the hallway, not looking back to see if it actually caught on one of the hooks. He toed off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch. He closed his weary eyes and breathed in, loathing the deafening silence and the nagging ache in his chest. His whole body was itching and it was as if his blood was burning its way through his veins. His frustration was building and he felt like screaming and crying at the same time. His jaw tensed, his fingers clenched, his eyelids where squeezed shut so tightly that they began to hurt. His breaths were now coming in short, jittery gasps and when the pain in his chest persisted he started to whine in grief. The sounds were lost to him, however.
He nearly cried out in shock when he felt an arm on his shoulder. It wrapped itself around his chest in a reassuring hug, the palm of the hand gently rubbing the skin between the clavicle and pectoral.
“Thranduil,”
Thranduil held his breath and tensely nodded his head. His eyebrows furrowed as he felt his strength diminish. The light of the Eldar was leaving him, he was fading and yet he lingered.
“Gwenwin in enninath…” Elrond whispered in his ear, his soothing presence helping Thranduil to finally release the pent up emotions and tears. Thranduil sobbed in defeat and utter helplessness and choked out words in Sindarin, Westron and even Quenya while hot tears cascaded from his eyes, tracing a silvery path down his cheeks. He cried for his father, his wife, but above all he cried for his son and he felt disgusted with himself for making them wait for so long. This time there no words were sufficient, there were no ways to describe the pain he experienced, but he knew that Elrond understood. He could hear the Rivendell-elf’s own lamentation at night, he could feel the cramped muscles and lessened strength. They stayed for each other, afraid to finally make that final decision.
Elrond and Thranduil rarely discussed Círdan and the grey ships, but the subject was always in the back of their minds; both of them longing for liberation and their friends and families, but neither of them willing to initiate the conversation knowing that once started, going back would be impossible.
His fulltime job was getting tedious and he was getting sick of his modern wardrobe as well as the amazed glances at his pointed ears. Elves were rare nowadays; all the ‘rational’ ones, as Elrond teasingly called them, had sailed to Valinor when Middle-earth was still a fairly recognizable version of itself. Times had changed, like they always did, and ages had come and gone. The times when wars were fought with sword, axe and bow were over and so were the times of rangers and shieldmaidens. The world held little charm and fascination anymore.
“I Aear cân ven na mar.”
And that’s when he heard it: the rushing of the sea; grey waves crashing against the last shore, waves that had freed his beloveds from their earthly burdens so long ago, waves that should have taken him away when his son left Middle-earth. Fierce yet merciful. Takers of sorrow, givers of peace. Thranduil swore he could hear the distant cries of gulls and he could clearly imagine the frothing foam.
His heart leapt, a sick sensation turned his stomach and the shock of suffocating fear clutched at his throat. However, with a single glance, Elrond told him all he needed to know. He was not the only one. There was no need to be afraid. It was their time. At last…