The Road Goes Ever On And On

"The eyes of Elves are always thinking of something else."

Can it be that twelve thousand years of the Sun passed since first I suggested to my dear friend Andreth that Men would speak thus of us when Arda was remade? And yet the jest has proven true. Men are the lordly ones now, and the greatest treasure we have to offer is our memory of what came Before, both of the beauty that was and of the darkness that shadowed so much but nonetheless could not triumph forever. Truly do we live happily ever after. And greatly do our kindreds delight in one another, the more when friends parted since the Elder Days find each other again.

All things have been made new, but the memory of the old ought never to be lost. Thus I, Finrod Felagund, have endeavored to record the history of those last days as best as those involved can now recall it. Perhaps one day someone else will set it to verse, but for now, the tale is set down for any who wish to read it.

The Gwaith i Innas Lain has disbanded, of course, though the friendships on which it depended are stronger than ever. Bobby and Karen Singer have joined with Elrond Peredhel to create an archive unrivalled by any in Middle-earth. Bill and Ellen Harvelle have built a new Roadhouse, and from it their foster-son Ash Buchholz maintains an information network that surpasses even the palantíri when their use was unshadowed. For her part, Jo Harvelle has taken up with Galadriel and seeks to learn as much about Arda Remade as our arts can teach her. And the Winchesters—well, John and Mary have the home they had always dreamed of, and Dean and Lisa and Ben live on one side, and Sam and Jessica live on the other. John's final thought before his death was "God, forgive me," which rendered his deal null and void. Never again need they fear being parted forever by fate or foe, for death has no more dominion here, and their lives are a mixture of all they could ever have wanted, quiet and stability and freedom and joy, even when they do not stay at home.

There are no monsters now, naught of Morgoth's making that has no place in the Music sung aright. And yet somewhere in that great refrain, there must have been the sound of heavy metal and a V8 engine. For ever and anon, the brothers Winchester will leave their homes and families and drive across the land in their beloved Impala, now healed of its hurts and made more than a thing of metal and wheels, not needing the aid of petrol to run without tiring. They do not hunt now, but if ever anyone they meet is in need of aid—in building, in gardening, in teaching, what have you—Sam and Dean are quick to render it. And if not, the brothers will simply see the sights and call on their friends and rejoice in seeing the land at peace. Soulmates, some call them, and it may be so, though in other wise than man and wife; but dearer indeed they are to one another even than twin and twin, and they are seldom parted long, even when their pastimes differ.

Sometimes Maglor or Castiel or Rincaro will travel with them. Their friendship runs deep, and their lives have been full of wandering, so it does not surprise me. And when the brothers are with Maglor, the mountains ring with their voices recalling the greatest hits of mullet rock—not a sound I prefer, but the joy behind it is unmistakable. Olórin always laughs; he has his Hobbits, he says, and Maglor has his Dúnedain, and Castiel in particular has Dean.

Fëanor has never quite got over it, though.