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Eärwen clutched the letter to her chest, tears budding in her eyes. “A granddaughter,” she wept. “Across the Sea—oh, oh! Celebrían!”
The mariner who had delivered the letter bowed and took his leave. Eärwen wiped her eyes, then held out the missive to read again, and again, and again.
Emil, I know I am not the first of your children to have children of their own, but I remember your delight and—forgive me—your overwhelmedness when Ango had his baby boy. Ingo and Aiko had no children of their own, and all of us left you, but I wanted to let you know: I have a daughter. Her name is Celebrían, and she looks just like you...
There was more—much more—but she would read that later. Nerwen had a daughter! Her granddaughter! Celebrían!
She whirled around in joy, for a moment ignoring the pain of separation and distance. Celebrían! Celebrían! What a beautiful name!
She ought to tell her husband.
Eärwen let herself celebrate for a day, but the next morning the realization hit her: this meant, also, that Arafinwë had a granddaughter. She and her husband were estranged, and had been since—since the Darkening. They pretended a united front in the immediate aftermath of his return and repentance, but ever since he returned to Tirion as High King of the Ñoldor, they had dwelt apart.
From time to time, he would visit Alqualondë, but she never came to Tirion. It was not that there was anger or coldness between them—but there were some distances too vast to overcome.
Nerwen had written to her mother, not her father; she had said so in her letter. She must have met Arafinwë sometime during the War of Wrath—unless she had already departed for the East. Eärwen was not sure; the reports from that time were unclear and at times contradictory. Regardless, she had to know her parents were no longer living together, and sharing all their news.
Did she not mean for Arafinwë to know? Or did she mean for this to force them back together?
Eärwen sighed, her sorrow and grief returning. She really ought to tell her husband.
She wrote a letter. She told Arafinwë all Nerwen had said, and little more—but she signed her name, and had her personal messenger deliver it.
And Arafinwë, who had not dared write to her outside of official state business, wrote back.
An Age and a half later, another letter came from Nerwen.
This time the mariner who delivered it was wisp of a nís, frail and thin and pale. Her hands trembled, and her spirit flickered, but Eärwen knew her instantly.
She tucked the offered letter into her pocket. For once, she did not eagerly read her daughter’s words. Instead she took the nís in her arms, and sent at once for her husband.
“Celebrían, my sweet,” she whispered, holding her granddaughter close. “I am so glad to meet you, despite—everything.”
“How can we help you?” asked Arafinwë, hurrying to embrace them both.
Celebrían crumpled into their arms, weeping softly, and tears fell freely from Eärwen’s eyes as well.
“Oh, indyelya,” she murmured. “We love you. We love you. Let us help you, in any way we can.”