Their Uncle's Letter by Himring

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Story Notes:

Written for Houkakyou as her SoWD prize.

The requested prompt was Houkakyou's drawing Peredhel, which is here:

I also included a reference to Voronwe, as a nod to Loke's SoWD prize request.


Warnings: reference to character death

To my brother Elrond, wherever and whenever this may find him

It is my lasting regret, Elrond, that I was unable to answer your letter. Those few ships that we did not have to take apart for their materials when we got here decayed with age or lack of maintenance, for at first we were struggling for survival, despite the help that  we had from Tol Eressea. And in all this time, there has been no elven ship going back to Middle-Earth that I know of—it is as if those of Aman have no interest and those of Tol Eressea cannot bear to return. Or maybe a desire to return would be frowned upon, in them? They are discreet about the terms of their parole, our friends.

I rejoiced to hear how well Ereinion has managed to establish himself in Lindon. I was well aware that your generous efforts to contribute to our shipbuilding depleted resources that were already scarce and, if you feared for me setting sail into the unknown, I feared for you hardly less, for you remained behind as little more than fugitives on a devastated coast, even if after the end of the War of Wrath remaining enemies were few. Those who delivered your letter told me details that your letter had omitted—your growing reputation as a healer, your high standing at court, and I am proud of your success.

I, too, succeeded, Elrond. I have a home and a family and a country that is at peace—where nobody has to make the poor choices that war imposes—and where people no longer starve. And I myself have made my peace with some of what drove me away. I have sailed the seas following our father’s star and look on it with different eyes. And, if you were to ask me again whether I regret that Maglor did not send us to Balar sooner--this time it would not take me so long to answer 'no'.

When my people find you again—as they eventually will, I think, because I foresee that, now that our struggle to establish ourselves on this island is accomplished, some will become restless; they were wanderers, to begin with, after all—I pray you, stand their friend. I trust they will deserve your friendship. As you predicted, I did not know the Edain as well as I thought when we launched our ships, but our shared experiences during our voyage and after our landfall inevitably, gradually tightened the bond. They were not truly my people to begin with, but they have become so.

I have a home, I have my people—and if in some corner of my heart I still weep for the green mornings of eastern Beleriand and for the more dimly remembered seawall of Sirion, I’m not alone in that—not even alone on this island, although all those who arrived here with me have died and I am now the only one living who remembers our voyage. Voronwe, who once proved our grandfather’s steadfast friend, comes over from Tol Eressea as much as permitted, now my time is near, and speaks to me of Tuor and Earendil and Gondolin. My son Vardamir sits with us in the evenings and records our conversations.

Do you remember…? But of course you do, better than I do, now, I would guess. The candle light is flickering. The fault is in the wick. Soon it will be time to blow it out.

Imagine me happy, Elrond—and so farewell.

    Your brother Elros, Tar-Minyatur of Numenor

And so Elrond imagines Elros happy. He has not much to go on except for this one letter—which he treasures, as vouched-for evidence and talisman—for Veantur and his mariners could supply fewer details of Elros’s personal life than the elven sailors were able to tell Elros about Lindon. To the Numenorean captain who finally delivered Elros’s letter to his brother in Middle-earth, Elros was already history, a founder hero beyond the living memory of any except the oldest of his people.

Elrond welcomed his kin of Numenor, as he had been bidden to do, and he continues to stand their friend through the ages. And in the stories he tells his sons--and later his daughter--at bedtime, when he quietly speaks about their uncle Elros, he speaks of him as happy in his choice. They are not fools, though, his children. They hear the lingering uncertainty in his voice.

Chapter End Notes:

I believe I have absorbed the influence of more than one Elros fic here. One of them is Fiondil's Tenn' Ambar-Metta. I trust there are sufficient differences as well as resemblances.

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