I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.
-- "East Coker," T.S. Eliot

[Tuile 22, Year 2510 of the Third Age, Mithlond, called by some the Grey Havens. Shortly before midnight.]

Eventide had long before fallen over the sea-kissed coast of Cirdan's sanctuary, the soft, incessant swoosh of the waves lapping at the silver-sanded shore soothing to the ear, yet even they could not assuage the deep-rooted torment in Elrond's ancient soul. With a sigh as weighty as the burden of his heart, the Lord of Imladris stared out from the balcony of his long-time friend's private chambers, the sea calling him from the West, his home -- or the seemingly empty shell of a valley he called home -- whispering to him from the East. West was where his kind belonged, where his heart truly dwelt. If Mandos' Halls truthfully be in the West, and not beyond the world itself.

A few hours before, Elrond and Cirdan had watched a single white ship sail west into the ever-widening gulf, bearing Celebrian to the Blessed Lands, and whatever fate awaited her there. Despite the perfection of the afternoon sky, naught but a cloud of grief and guilt clouded Elrond's heart as he watched her silver hair and the ship which carried her fade into the distance.

A sudden hint of motion caught Elrond's attention, and he raised his gaze skyward in time to observe a swift meteor wing its way across the sky. "The Lady herself weeps at Celebrian's pain," he solemnly whispered.

A strong grip squeezed his shoulder, the contact surprisingly unable to bring any comfort at all to Elrond's soul. "You are not the cause of her pain," a familiar voice urged from behind the Peredhil's back.

"I am not so certain of that, my old friend."

Cirdan released his grasp of Elrond's shoulder and softly shifted to a spot along the railing next to his deeply grieved companion "Neither is she the cause of yours."

Avoiding the intense stare of his friend's unelvishly lined and aged face, Elrond instead focused on his forefinger, and the shackle of gold which had bound him for most of this age. He twirled the ring around his finger, pondering how it had never truly felt at home upon his flesh despite the obvious care taken in its crafting to assure a perfect fit. Its identical mate now sailed west, encircling Celebrian's finger. She had somehow borne the gold with far more dignity than Elrond could ever muster.

Yes, she bore the ring with the very same grace with which she had accepted the other glaring inadequacies and travesties of their marriage. Yet even Elrond had to admit the centuries had not passed without some moments of joy. Indeed, much of what Elrond had seen in Galadriel's mirror that fateful night had come to pass. He and Celebrian had been blessed with children as fair as the stars, and their years together had not been unpleasant. Yet as he only recently realized, in a moment of pained pondering of memories after Celebrian had announced her intention to travel West, one vivid tableau had not come to pass -- he had not lost his heart to the ithil-hued tresses which shared his bed.

More troubling still was the realization that he had not seen a hint of Celebrian's sufferings at the hands of the Orcs among the prophetic visions, nor her departure West. Nor had he actually seen his beloved King returned to him from Mandos' Halls. Indeed, he had nothing beyond Galadriel's carefully poised prose to suggest that Gil-galad would ever be returned to his bed, to his heart. Perhaps they had all suffered in vain -- Celebrian, himself, and his now-doomed king and true mate? No, not in vain, for the very first day he had seen the light in his daughter's beauteous face he knew without question that the very visage of Luthien had indeed been returned to the Eldar. That realization alone convinced him that all they had suffered was not in vain, yet he doubted it would ever be rewarded with more than the pain of seeing his daughter make the same choice as she whom Arwen so closely resembled before her. May Celebrian find the peace of the West, and may all her pains be taken from her, even as I know mine are far too deep to ever find the salve of healing.

Another of the Lady's silvery jewels careened across the sky, surrendering its glory to the night in a swift dance of sudden death. Memories of another night flooded back to Elrond, a night many years before, when he looked up at the stars of the valley, another night when the stars fell like the cool summer rain. "Do not close your heart to the Lady. She has most certainly not forsaken you." A tingling tremble of foreboding swept through him, the thought striking him as utterly inexplicable that he should remember the gray-garbed stranger who had spoken those words at this moment, and even stranger that he remembered certain of the unidentified messenger's words in particular. "It is said by some that whenever a star falls from the sky, the Lady crafts another to take its place," Elrond parroted without conviction, wondering if he was repeating the stranger's tale for Cirdan's benefit or his own.

"I have heard that, and many other stories concerning the Night of the Taltel," Cirdan offered in reply, his beard silently bobbing as he slowly nodded.

The sharp sting of unmistakable bitterness crept back into Elrond's voice. "Stories... would that half of the tales of happiness told in Middle-earth were true, and a much lesser part of the ones of misery."

Cirdan had known Elrond since the end of the First Age, and had known and served the one of whom he spoke for longer still, until his demise on the slopes of Mount Doom.

"Your thoughts are of one particular star, this night, and its eventual replacement," he gently guessed. Elrond wore his loss like an ill-fitting robe, drawing attention to itself with his every movement, with each breath.

"Its return," Elrond hastily corrected, his voice desperately trying to keep some toehold of hope while faced with the sheer precipice of utter desolation of the heart.

For the second time this hour, the gray-haired lord of the Havens reached out a hand and clasped his friend's shoulder in solace and support. "By the Lady's grace, it may be so,"

Cirdan earnestly offered. "Nothing would bring more joy to my heart than to look upon his face again, and to see the light return to yours."

The Lord of Imladris turned his head to meet the other's sincere expression of hope. "By the Lady's grace," Elrond echoed, knowing that was not the entire truth. For although the Lady might open her heart to his prayers, he knew the one, true gatekeeper to the shadowed halls could not be so easily swayed to pity. "If only I had the gifted tongue of my foremother," he whispered sadly, turning away once more.

"Even Luthien could not convince the Lord of the Dead to release her beloved, if it were not truly Iluvatar's will," Cirdan urged in reply, releasing his grasp of Elrond's shoulder.

"And to his thoughts none are privy, not even the Valar, it is said."

With a pain-drenched sigh whose depth rivaled that of the Sundering Sea, Elrond raised his eyes skyward and searched the patterns of the cool, twinkling gemstones of night for an answer other than the one which seemed firmly entrenched in his mind. "Then it may be that I, too, am doomed to the darkness, for the rest of days," Elrond gloomily answered.

"Perhaps we will not rejoice at the return of our King in this age, but that does not mean that your heart must remain in shadow, my friend!" Cirdan insisted vehemently. "Did you not tell me that Celebrian pronounced in the presence of Glorfindel, and Gildor Inglorion, and others of your advisors, that she would not doom you to spend the nights of Imladris alone? That she expected both your heart, and your bed, to be filled with the fire of love before this age ended?"

Closing his eyelids, Elrond could hear with startling vividness his wife's voice echoing in his head. "She said I have far too much love to give to be alone -- that it would be a waste of an unforgivable sort for me to remain with grief as my only partner."

Cirdan smiled broadly, and although Elrond failed to see it, he could most definitely hear the humor in the shipwright's voice. "She is a woman of equal parts beauty and insight." Elrond nodded sagely. "Our children have received both precious gifts from her bloodline."

"And from yours as well, my friend."

Unveiling his gaze, Elrond stared down at his right hand as it tightly clenched the stone railing. "I do not feel the font of wisdom this day." Elrond twirled the ring uncomfortably with his thumb, feeling it chafe his very spirit, as had its silver predecessor on the day of their betrothal. He remembered with agonized longing the golden ring he had worn in grief, hope, and boundless love, during the first years of this age -- the one, true ring from his only true marriage. How he longed to feel it against his skin once more, even as he more desperately ached to feel the one who had left it for him wrapped among his limbs and his lips. But just as he had waited twelve years to the night before binding himself to Celebrian after seeing the visions in Galadriel's mirror, so too he would leave the visible sign of his wife's sacrifices in the name of Middle-earth upon his finger for an equal length of time. It was the very least he could do to honor her.

Curling his fingers into a loose fist, he exhaled forlornly and gazed skyward. Yes, may you take away her pain, Lady Elbereth, and replace it with peace, even as I have failed to do either. Hesitating, he closed his eyes tightly and added one further thought. May you also take away the pain of my children, who understand so little of their mother's true courage. I ask for nothing for myself, save what I have asked for in vain for so long. Although I do not expect you to answer that prayer, as I have come to know pain as my only true friend in this age.

Opening his eyes, he watched in wonder as a brilliant bolide of shimmering gold was given birth near the Vilya-hued fire of Luinil and winged toward the eastern horizon, toward Soronume. Brighter than Vingilot itself, shining as a veritable rival of the Silmaril it bore, the fireball pierced through the heart of the starry eagle image and disappeared below the eastern horizon, in the direction of his home, and the spine of the world beyond.

"The Lady has heard at least a single prayer, this night," Cirdan hopefully spoke, gesturing at the lingering ghostly trail the meteor had left in its wake. "May it be yours."

"May it be," Elrond echoed in a hushed whisper, the tiniest embers of hope in his heart momentarily fanned into a true flame of faith.

[Not long after, The Dwelling of the King of the Great Forest, known in this age as Mirkwood]

Silence reigned over the darkness of the mighty forest, the memories of Thranduil's vociferous argument of a few hours before finally faded from the ears, if not the memories, of its citizens. The Lady Aduial, Queen of the kingdom of the Green Elves, watched the heavens in silence, her equally lovely daughter and elder child observing the same tableau in a rapt silence of awe. Her free-spirited daughter had been the cause of her husband's latest angered tirade. Minuial was so very much like her, in both face and temperament, except that she had, in addition, her father's unwavering streak of stubbornness, to the great consternation of all. After reaching her majority only a few decades into the Third Age, Minuial had successfully resisted each of her father's attempts at arranging a 'suitable marriage' for her, and this time was no exception. She had succeeded in creating such a delay that the suitor's family had finally retracted their offer, seeking instead a 'less complicated' match.

She will find love in her own time, and in her own way, Aduial silently mused. For now, let her enjoy the forest, and her family, unfettered by the bonds of marriage. There would be plenty of time in the future for duty and a family of her own. When that day finally came, it would mean the end of precious nights such as like this, spent with just the two of them sitting carefree upon the carpet of moss on the hummock just outside the palace gates lazily gazing skyward. "'Tis sad to see Elbereth's handiwork tumble from the sky," Aduial forlornly sighed at the sight of a green-gold meteor plummeting ground-ward.

Smiling, her daughter slid one slender hand into hers and squeezed tightly. "But such a vision is a gift from the Lady herself! Tumelleth told me once that the Night of the Taltel is simply the Great Lady's way of replacing the old with the new. That is why the stars never grow tired and dim."

Aduial returned Minuial's loving smile, her free hand tenderly brushing back a free-spirited wisp of golden hair from the delicate features of her daughter's face. "What other stories of the stars did your nursemaid entertain you with in your childhood?"

"She told me that a child conceived on such a night is a special gift from Elbereth -- and will be born with the beauty and fire of the starlight."

Chuckling lyrically, Aduial shifted in her elegant robes against the curve of the gentle hillside, tucking her legs under herself. "Tumelleth has become even more hopelessly romantic and foolish with the passing of this age."

Minuial rose to her feet, slid her hand from her mother's and pressed an affectionate kiss upon the crown of her mother's golden-haired head. "I hope to become as romantic as her, one day," she pronounced, twirling around in the barefoot, tip-toed steps of a blithe dance, her hands and her gaze raised skyward.

"Be careful what you wish for, my child. You can never know which wishes the Valar will deem to grant," Aduial gently warned, the hint of a smile never leaving her face. Her smile brightened, then turned bittersweet as she watched her daughter leave on light-footed steps, her diaphanous silver gown flowing behind her in the gentle evening breeze like the sail of a great ship. Minuial had her own secrets, her own special spots to think and watch and wonder about the world. Aduial never revealed to her daughter that she knew of her secret place, upon the narrow ledge which overlooked the palace caverns, instead feigning ignorance in the name of motherly restraint.

After but the shortest passing of time, a strangely loud huffed breath could be heard from behind her, signaling the arrival of her husband from his equally private brooding. Aduial gracefully rose to her feet, meeting her much-beloved mate with a loose embrace around his waist. "Our daughter will never be bound to one suited to her station," Thranduil swore in grumbled exasperation, as Aduial merely smiled sweetly and soothed his worry-furrowed brow.

"If it is the Valar's wish, love will come to her, but in its own time," Aduial lightly hinted. Thranduil's scowl deepened, the furrows in his high forehead deepening to rival the boom of his earlier verbal exhortations. "It is not love which concerns me, but a suitable husband."

Aduial tightened her encircling embrace of her husband's richly robed frame and properly chastised him, with the characteristic gentleness of her ways. "Is that how you felt when you asked my father for permission to take me as your wife?"

With a deep chuckle, Thranduil enveloped his wife in his own embrace and sensuously ran his lips along the pale smoothness of her forehead. "Let me show you how I felt --that night and every other, since you became as much a part of me as my bow arm." With that he claimed his wife's mouth as his most precious treasure.

Aduial melted into the familiar taste and touch with a tremble of anticipation. It had been far too long since the fire of passion had taken the place of the heat of politics in their lives.

After a lingering moment of reacquainting kisses, Thranduil slipped from his wife's ardent embrace, and without a word took her hand in his, leading her back toward their private chambers with a mischievous smile upon his lips.

Aduial followed eagerly, easily keeping step with her husband's rushed gait, and before entering the stone gated entrance to their subterranean palace, dared one final glance skyward to the Lady's artistry. As her eyes beheld once more the bejeweled velvet tapestry of night, she watched in awe as a brilliant golden fireball, brighter than Earendil himself, sailed eastward from the sapphire fires of Luinil and exploded in a twinkling shower of glittering sun-hued gems. With a knowing smile of prescience upon her face, she allowed herself to be gently drawn through the doorway and without delay to the bedroom they had shared for all of this age, and enjoyed a night of well-experienced tenderness, deeply abiding love, and breathless passion she had not known since the conception of her younger child, her husband's son and heir.

---

[One year later]

The royal family of Mirkwood and the King's closest advisors stood gathered around the birthing bed, welcoming the newest member of the palace with excited chatter and beaming smiles.

Thranduil looked on in pride beside the headboard as his wife cradled their newborn son in her arms, their full-grown children by his side. "He is beautiful, Mother," Minuial sang out in her joy, gently running a fingertip along the top of the infant's forehead. "Look how the very light of Anor shines in his face, as well as in his hair." With the greatest care, she brushed back the soft, silky tendrils of hair carelessly cascading from the child's tiny head.

Brethilas sniffed in feigned ambivalence, controlling his enthusiasm for his newly born brother as he felt befit his station as crown prince of the realm. "He looks like any other elf child, Sister. Tiny and helpless."

"Your sister speaks the truth," Aduial cooed, staring at the precious package of silk swaddled wonder she cradled in her arms. "He is far lovelier than any ordinary babe of the wood." Sensing the inception of insult in her elder son's bristling posture, she raised her gaze to meet his and smiled. "As are all my children."

"He is, indeed, the fairest newcomer to the forest this spring," Thranduil proudly pronounced. "And its most precious." Lowering a hand to his new son's head, he raised his voice and pronounced to all assembled, "I name my son Legolas -- the most fair green leaf of the forest!"

Thranduil's counselors bowed reverently at their new prince and muttered a chorus of thanks to the Valar for granting their king another son. A secretive hint of a smile twitched the queen's lips just before they lowered to her son's forehead and pressed a knowing kiss of silent conspiracy to his perfect skin.

---

The following hour found Aduial finally alone with her newborn child, her son's stomach filled with its first meal, his keen sapphire eyes equally full of earnest wonder and a curious, ethereal light which rivaled Helluin in its startling clarity and intensity. "My husband would name you for the green of the forest he so loves," she whispered lovingly, so low that not even the nursemaids busily fussing in the antechamber beyond could possibly hear. "But I look upon your face and see naught but the very light of the stars, and the sun, intertwined and blessed by the Valar, themselves." It was a tradition among some of the Eldar race for mothers to grace upon their children a second name, but her husband had strictly forbade it with her elder children, thinking it a custom for the kinslayers and their kin alone. She had respected his wishes twice before, but now she found she could not halt the song of her heart, the wisdom of the dreams which had come to her repeatedly during the months her son had grown strong and beautiful in her womb.

"It will be our secret, my precious one, that none shall know. I will name you now, as my heart tells me I must, and yet I shall never utter the name again, not even to you alone. Yet I will think of you always thus in my heart, not as Greenleaf, but as the golden starlight I know you to truly be. You are truthfully a gift from the Lady, and my hopes and dreams ever dwell in you." Smiling, she pressed a consecrating kiss upon her son's head, then nuzzled her cheek against the fine strands of purest gold which adorned it.

"Forever you are to me Malel-galad -- my golden starlight. May you one day bring the light of love and hope to the heart of another, as you do to me, this day, and for the rest of my days."