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Elrond stood framed in the doorway of Bilbo's chamber, tall and grave, though not unkind. The years had laid no mark upon his brow, yet there was a weariness in his gaze as he looked upon his youngest daughter. His eyes passed briefly over Bilbo, seated with his pipe, then came to rest on Elspeth.
"Elspeth," he said, and his voice was low, touched with that sonority which could command a hall yet now fell almost like a whisper. "Come. Walk with me."
She rose, reluctant, but obedient still. She pressed Bilbo's hand as she passed, and the old hobbit gave her a look—half encouragement, half warning—that lingered with her as she followed her father through the carved arches of the Last Homely House.
The air outside was bright with afternoon light. The valley lay stretched in green splendour, silver mists yet clinging in its folds. Birds stirred in the birches, their calls carrying like bright threads through the stillness. Elrond walked at a measured pace, his hands clasped behind him, and Elspeth had to quicken her steps to keep beside him.
For some time, they went in silence, down the wide lawns and then into a narrower path, where stone gave way to earth and the soft moss of shaded ways. At last Elrond spoke.
"You do not look glad," he said gently. "I am not blind. You are troubled."
Elspeth's breath caught. She folded her hands before her and walked on, eyes lowered. "You know why."
"Yes," said Elrond. "I do. You think me harsh, perhaps, for asking this of you. Yet it is not lightly done. Your marriage is not only for you—it is for your people, for the binding of bonds that may endure beyond even your lifetime. Bonds that are needed now more than ever."
"I know," she answered quickly, with some heat in her tone. "I know all the reasons. I have heard them in the hall, and in whispers, and from your own lips. But I do not want it."
Her father halted. They stood beneath a great oak whose branches arched above them like the ribs of some vast hall. The ground was dappled with gold and shadow. Elrond turned, and for once the weight of lordship seemed to slip from him. There was only a father there, weary, sorrowing, yet steadfast.
"Elspeth," he said, "do you think I do not know how you feel? Do you think I do not pity you?"
Her eyes rose to his, startled.
"I know what it is," Elrond went on, "to bind one's heart where duty lies heavy upon it. When your mother sailed, long ago, I thought the light of my days was gone. Yet still I remained, and I bore what was given me: my house, my realm, my children. That is not the same sorrow as yours, I do not claim it so. But marriage, Elspeth, is not always the tale sung in tales. It is not only joy—it is labour, and patience, and sometimes the putting aside of one's own desire for the good of many."
