The cold iron bit red and deep against his forearm. Elrohir cried out as it passed through the leather guard, but it was not from the pain, nor the sudden gush of blood. His mother lay there, stretched upon the bone-strewn rock. Silver hair lay in an aureole about her slumped body.
"Elladan! Here!" he cried out. His brother had taken the right turning at the fork with half of the company, but the sound echoed around the stone of the cavern. The terrible shrieks of Orc-kind reverberated, the grating clash of steel on steel, the whining hiss of arrows. He bulled towards her, slashing at his milling foes recklessly, as he pushed through their grinding midst, stabbing and lunging, his warriors at his back.
But they were not fools, though they might be cruel and cravenly. No, though they jeered at guards with yellow fangs and black eyes, they learned the Elven strength. A wall they formed, impenetrable with rusted shield, backed by all the brute strength of Orcs. Though the Elves charged with all the skill centuries of skill-honing may bring, they were not accustomed to fighting here, in the low roofs of stone and the stench and the blackness. Here they were outmatched by their estranged kin, and slowly the shield wall pushed forward, and slowly they were driven back, till black water lapped at their feet, the cold, brooding water of an abyssal pool.
Torches guttered and flared, and by their crimson light, Elrohir saw a pale shape thrust its way through the shield wall, taller and of greater girth than the common Orc, who now cheered their champion on with bloody jests and raucous mockery. It wielded a net weighted with lumps of jagged stone, in its clawed hands. It whirled the mesh in its hands, and the black stones thrummed in the air. It lunged at Elrohir, hurling the net at him, but he dodged aside and carried by its impetus, the creature staggered forward, nearer towards the water's brink. His warriors spread out around him, Elrohir attacked the beast. It was clad in spiked plate mail, ill-fitting but well-made, some loot from Dwarves, and as his longsword searched out the chinks, the web sang and sobbed in the air, and he rolled back. To be entangled in its netting was death. The Orc grunted in anger, as it missed its quarry once again.
Elrohir lunged forward at the slow-moving Orc, slashing wildly. Many of his blows reverberated off, but some struck home. It staggered back, but now the shields parted and the Orc ranks drew aside. A black dagger to her throat, an Orc captain clutched Celebrían. New blood trickled down the pale neck, onto the ragged hem of traveling clothes. Blue eyes were open, dulled, dimmed with tears and pain and hopelessness.
A senseless rage filled him. He shouted, cursed, wept.
Broken teeth showed in a leer. "Drop the sword, unless you want the Elf-bitch to die. I'll start with her ear." He spat. A score of swords clattered to the ground, but Celebrían shrieked out. Half of the delicately pointed ear was gone.
The Orc spat again. "Bitch can't take her medicine. Filthy scum."
A strident discord of laughter and cruel japes stung Elven ears that still remained whole, but Celebrían slumped against the mail-covered arm that wrapped around her chest.
"Let her go!" Elrohir screamed. He could feel himself trembling. "Take me instead!"
"There's no need for bargains, scum. You and your Elves are already dead. Besides, she makes better sport."
Celebrían lifted her head. Dried blood ran from a broken lip. "Go," she whispered a faint echo that ran above the harsh jeering. A pulse of strength seemed to fill her. She jerked her head upwards, slamming the Orc's jaws together, and as the company turned to him, Elrohir snatched up his Elven-blade. Rolling under bowed legs, he thrust his blade into his mother's tormentor. Black blood gushed out. Elrohir pulled his mother into his arms. She was reeling, emaciated in his grasp. The terrible sound of battle all about them, and as he turned, twin scimitars were at their throat then, as he cradled dying Celebrían….
~.~
"No!" Elrohir jerked upright, staring with wild eyes. A soft starlight filled the room. He stared at the carvings of the footboard for a minute, the delicate scrollwork in the oak wood, the light summer coverlets, the form of his wife, her head nestled in both his pillows and hers. She always stole his. White moths hovered dimly outside the window, and pale climbing flowers came through the sill and blossomed like small moons in the midsummer breeze.
Forest-green eyes blinked inquiringly up at him, as his ragged breath tore apart the moonlight silence. His wife levered herself up on an elbow and then sat up. "Elrohir?" Her hands reached up to pull him down so his head rested on her shoulder. She wriggled slightly to straighten the shift. "What ails you?"
His heart was pounding hard in his chest. He sat up. "Nothing, Itarille. Go to sleep."
She said nothing, but in the drifting starlight, he beheld reproach and hurt in her eyes. Brushing through the linen curtains, he passed out to the balcony and leaned there for a while. The moon faded, the East glowed pink and gold. Pale mists rose from the waters, as they glinted rose-streaked in their fall to the river below. When he brushed back through the curtains, he saw Itarille dressing, sliding up gold-filigree armlets to belt the wide sleeves. Dressed in green silk with a woven belt of silver brocade, she seemed an emblem of summer in the beams of sunlight.
His night-terrors were chased away as he watched her comb her honey-colored curls. She pinned the front strands behind her head and left the rest to tumble in golden glory down her back.
"Why do you dress so fine today, my love?" he asked, splashing cold water from the basin onto his face.
"To inquire how much Dorwinion the Lord Thranduil must drink this year," Itarille answered curtly. Elrohir sighed, and she softened. "The representatives of Eryn Galen arrived last night. Both they and Imladris desire a treaty. Thranduil's Queen convinced him so, I believe. The Woodland King still rages, for he is no part of the White Council. His ambassadors often relay the same message. Greenwood is the realm infected with darkness, and yet he has no magic and no say in the Council. I must need skirt the dangerous matter that the Greenwood should have no knowledge of the Three and move on to making peace."
"My wife is as wise as she is beautiful." declared Elrohir and kissed her, but Itarille was aloof, and with a perfunctory brush of her lips on his forehead, she departed. He watched her go, and then with a faint sigh, pulled on his bow braces and buckled his sword to his belt, snatching his quiver and arrows that always lay near his bed. With a brief tug at the bed-linens, he was about to depart over the balustrades, but then came in again through the curtains that led to the balcony.
Itarille always laughed and kissed him whenever he made the bed, but she would surreptitiously straighten out the wrinkles. Shrugging his quiver strap over his shoulder, Elrohir pulled the coverlet straight over the pillows and tied back the bed drapes with their sashes, the way Itarille always did and folded the nightclothes neatly. Sunlight came through an eastern window and showed his work illuminated with gold. After a satisfied smile, he loped out of the room once more and vaulting over the balustrades, he hurried down the ivy and into the dewy rose gardens, weaving through their blossoming hedges, whose fragrance filled the air sweetly.
As he sprinted through this oft-taken path, he wondered if he had injured Itarille. He remembered vaguely having pushed her away after the terror of last night's dream. The rose gardens gave way to a marble archway, heralded by the splashing song of a fountain. A broad green lawn stretched before him, and beyond that was the training field.
When Elrohir arrived, his apprentices were already there. His chief torment sprawled on the turf, plucking a bowstring and singing. His chief pride practiced her aim, sending her arrows thrumming into the target. Two others were throwing a leather ball back and forth. The Squirrel perched in a spreading elm, whose branches had given many a new archer dismay.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, master," they echoed dutifully. Laewen paused her shooting. Galoneth the Squirrel slid from her leafy refuge.
"Thanon ," called out Elrohir as Elf leaned indolently on his longbow, singing softly to himself. "If you wish to make rhymes, Lindir may school you in that, not I."
Thanon shrugged easily. "No doubt you can teach me nothing in that."
Elrohir surveyed him coolly. "One day we may have a minstrel's contest, good Bardling. But we are fighting, not singing."
"But, my Lord," offered Laewen, a devilish twinkle in her eyes, "His voice could rout an army for us."
"No doubt," answered Elrohir dryly, as Thanon flushed with anger. "Notch your bow, Thanon, and let me see your aim. Or have you mistook a harpstring for a bowstring?"
Even as he made the jape, he regretted it, but Thanon's surly reply drove away any thought of an apology aloud. Night dream's lingered here and made him sharp-tongued and short-tempered. Laewen's skill with the slender-sword did not delight him, nor did Galoneth's cleverness with knives.
When noon came he dismissed them curtly, and they left willing. That wounded him, for often shy Galoneth would perch on a low branch and speak to him, or Laewen and her brother stay to seek a little more instruction that he was not loath to give them. But their quick departure fueled his wrath, and when the midday bell rang in a signal for the meal, Elrohir did not enter the hall.
Sliding open the carven oak doors, he found warm sunlight slanting into the library through glass-paned windows, dust motes swirling in their beams. He flung open the window so he might breathe of the lilac that blossomed outside the window, and tried to immerse himself in the scrolls, but some presence of his mother clung there, brought on by the tormenting dreams, the memories that would never fade, images of her sitting there at pale dawn, wrapped in a grey cape, encircled with books. He dreaded the night, dreaded reliving the anguish he could not fight with steel.
With a faint shudder, Elrohir selected a large tome, titled with gold sheet, and slipped out the window, down to the river, where on its banks he immersed himself in the legends of men, and some almost made him laugh.
"And so he dreamed, and saw himself changing into a stag before the morn of his death and became the leader of the herds," he murmured, smiling, watching the branches play a game of dappled light and shade on the smoothly singing water. "Arwen must surely be disgraced at hearing such absurdity."
He returned to his book, murmuring out the words to himself to blend in the run of water. "But then old age came upon the Knight-Stag, and weariness crept into his limbs. His eyes were dim and his head heavy, and he returned to the cave where he had dwelt as a man and was besieged by wolves. But they did not yet dare to enter the cave, but snarled outside and cried 'Tomorrow, we will gnaw on your bloody haunch, Stag!'
Then the Stag spoke, for he was weary of life, bereft of grass and water and sun. 'Tomorrow, I will go out and die,' and the wolves howled hungrily.
Then the stag slept, and dreamt another dream, and saw himself changing into a mighty boar, with the blood of youth.
The night wore away, and the wolves cried 'Come out, Starving Stag! Come out as you promised so we may feast!'
And Boar came out, and his back bristled, and he charged the wolves with curving tusks of great length and red eyes, and the wolves tumbled over each other in terror. And the Tusked One took lordship of the boars.
Now the wolves feared his tribes, and the Boar challenged all that moved, all things except one. He and his tribe fled away from man, but sometimes, drawn by a remembering heart, he would trot to the edge of the woodlands alone and watch them at their fields.
And while he was watching them at harvest one day, he saw the mother who was reaping wheat lay down a babe swaddled in blankets on grass so she could scythe freely.
And he saw the great craven among beasts steal forward, and snatch up the sleeping babe by its cloths. Then the Boar's heart was wroth, and even as the sly fox fled away, the tusked Leader followed him. The fox did not challenge the Boar, for he had no wish to be slashed and ripped to shreds, so he dropped the babe and fled into brambles where the mighty Boar could not follow.
The child was now awake as it lay on forest mould, and its eyes were bright and blue. Then over the Boar felt a great weariness, for he was now counted old. And he lay down beside the child and slept and dreamed he changed into a man, a man with golden hair. And when he woke, he found the babe fast asleep, he picked it up with a man's hands and carried it back to the weeping village.
And when the mother saw the child, she fell on his young neck and kissed him and wept and the villagers crowded around him and said 'We saw the craven fox steal our babe, and we saw the Tusked Boar follow him, yet we could find no trace of either. How comes a man, who is very fair, to rescue our child?'
But the young man smiled, for he would not reveal the secrets of his former life and said 'There lie many mysteries in life, my friends.'
And he was called Beothach the Godlike, and he wedded a maid whose hair was as black as a raven's wing, and there was great love between them, and they were known as the Fair Ones of Coal and Gold. Now there lie many other things in the lives of Beothach and Duv Laca, but these will be told in the next chapter.
Elrohir closed the book and looked up to watch the setting sun. Great spires of clouds were stained with gold and crimson. The sky grew purple with the color of night's sweeping wings, and stars glinted. He rose and made a way back the House.
There was no lamp in his room, and his wife was not yet there. He lay down on the bed and stared up at the tapestried drapes, searching out their threaded stories with his eyes.
~.~
Celebrían slipped from his grasp and rolled aside so he could fall backwards from the lunging scimitars. Elrohir stabbed up at the belly that bulged from the armor, and entrails spilled out. Shoving the dying Orc back on the blades of his fellows, Elrohir sprang to his feet and pushed Celebrían behind him. His sword sang, cutting through the air. Black blood and corpses pooled about his feet. But he was growing weary. Behind him, his Elven Guard hewed the Orcs down, but their sword arms were as heavy as his. An arrow whistled, white-fletched and they sliced through the darkness and into Orc mail. And the humming sound swelled to a battle cry, and it swelled and rolled even higher, and the Orcs screamed and died before the bright flash of Elven steel. Elrohir reeled against the wall and picked up his mother. Elladan's hand was steadying him.
"Brother?"
"I am here."
"Mother?"
There was no reply.
"She is dying, Elladan."
The shadows hid his eyes. "We must take her out. Let me carry her, you are weak." He sheathed his sword and gently took Celebrían from Elrohir's grasp. He loathed to let her go, but Elladan spoke truly, he was weary, weary with pain and fatigue.
The light blinded him as he stumbled out, where the setting sun slanted down crimson beams through the clouds. "Come out, come out!" Elladan urged as the Elven Guard poured out from the cave's mouth. "We cannot fight all the Orcs of the Misty Mountains."
Elrohir mounted his horse slowly. Elladan came to his side and placed Celebrían on his horse. "I must lead them, brother. Take care of her."
Elrohir nodded slowly. "I will."
Celebrían's silver head lolled against his chest as they came down the narrow mountain path, treacherous in the daytime, terrible in the shadowy gloaming that made things not what they seemed.
A Warg howled far away, and then two of their terrible voices together, not so far. They were coming to the steepest part of the path, where a narrow road overlooked a bottomless drop. And it was there the Wargs would trap them….
~.~
"Good evening, Elrohir. The bed looks very well." A faint kiss woke him. He stifled a scream, almost rolled over and reached for his dagger, only to see Itarille seated on the bed beside him.
Her smile faded on seeing his eyes. "I am sorry, my love. I did not mean to startle you." She straightened out the linen shift. Elrohir lay back, struggling to calm his breathing, staring at the whorls in the oaken board until they looked like eyes, staring, leering, mocking.
"Elrohir?"
He looked back at her gentle face and felt ashamed. Ashamed to tell her of his weakness. Ashamed to tell her of dreams that scared as though he was an Elfling. He was ashamed and proud, and pride was very much in his blood, from both strains.
"Yes Itarille?" he answered. "How did you fare?"
"We have peace," she said, drawing up her knees and resting her chin on them. The smooth waves of hair that lay in a honeyed torrent down her back.
He smiled. "Of course we do."
She lay down on the coverlets, put her head on his shoulder and said, "What is your favorite image?"
Elrohir followed her gaze up to the canopy crown, corned with silver finials, where the draperies were worked with many different scenes.
After a while, he pointed up towards the right corner, at the heraldic device of Gil-Galad. "That one. What about you?"
Itarille motioned up at a circle, surrounded by dark crimsons whorls. It was an image of the Sun-bearer and her treasure worked in brilliant threads of red and gold. Arien hovered there, winged and crowned with flames, her eyes closed, head bent over the blazing fruit of Laurelin.
"That is a strange image to have on bed-drapes." offered Elrohir.
"Everything else is the Moon and the stars." countered Itarille. "I like it. It is…comforting."
"Why do you need a piece of arras to comfort you?" It was meant as a jest, but it came out sharper than intended and Itarille took it ill. She sat up, green eyes alight with anger. "I will be back later," she announced, wrapping herself in a grey cape, and left the room, ignoring Elrohir's contrite expressions.
When she had left again, he sat up, and let tears flow hot down his face. Anger and sorrow commingled. What did she know of sorrow? She had not surrendered her mother to the seas and her sister to death. She did not know pain like he did. But would she understand? If he let her. For years he had consciously placed a wall between that part of his memory and the bond they shared, that allowed them to enter each's heart and soul and fulfill the greatest show of love. As a son of Elrond, it was not hard for him to do this, and she could not break him down. This had wounded Itarille, but she had not spoken of it, and neither had he.
He could not let her in. To do that was to make her hear and see, to watch, helpless, everything emblazoned on his memory in that one day, that was repeated in his dreams night after night. She was too young, too innocent, too pure. He wanted to protect her from all the evil, all the cruelty. She was a flower, his flower, and he must keep her safe. But he was not. He had wounded her. Wounded her by his rejection. Wounded her just now, with a mindless jape.
Elrohir closed his eyes, trying to think, and when he opened them again he saw the Wargs. His horse screamed but did not rear. He was near the front of the line, and too well he saw their slavering jaws and yellow eyes. The leader leaped for Elladan's throat. Celebrían reached out her hands in a voiceless scream that was drowned by a peal of thunder.
A rondel glinted in a lightning flash, and the Warg chieftain fell back his throat slit. A morningstar hissed through the air, piercing the soft belly of a leaping beast, and it was gone over the cliffs.
Darkness poured down on them a shrieking wind and rank upon rank, billow on billow, a driving rain swept upon them. Elladan swore loudly, and the sound of swords being drawn for sheaths was drowning by the thunder and the low rumble of rocks from the mountaintop. A Warg slashed at Elladan's mount, and using the stumbling beast as impetus, leaped towards them. A hindpaw swept Elladan from his seat and he fell with his horse. Stunned, he lay over the brink of the cliff, his knee trapped under the carcass of his horse and the Warg pounced upon his brother. This time Elrohir's horse reared and beat the air with its hooves. This time Celebrían screamed.
~.~
Slowly his eyes came to focus on the Sunbearer above him. He lay blinking like a dazed owl for a few minutes, and as Arien spread her arms wide with the fiery fruit, he rose once more. His head spun. He would lower the barriers. "Itarille?"
There was no reply. The balcony was empty. Then, leaning over the balustrade, he saw her, a glimmer of white in the rose gardens. Hastily he clambered down and intercepted her as she wandered around the crimson flowered shrub. "Itarille!"
She looked at him in surprise. "What?"
The sunset met the moonrise. The twilight hour hung silently. Elrohir plucked a half-blown rose and gave to her, taking her elbow to draw her down on the grass. "Itarille, listen to me."
"What else am I doing?"
"Please," he begged, eyes searching hers. "Itarille, I-I made a wall surrounding that part of my memories because I did not want it to hurt you. I wanted to protect you. If I let you in, it will hurt you. You will feel everything I feel."
Her eyes were wide and earnest, lips parted. Finally, she leaned forward, and curls blew about her head in the evening breeze. "It will hurt you forever, Elrohir, if you do not let me share it. We can do it, you and I."
He too leaned forward till their foreheads touched, and took her hands, still holding the rose. He was trembling. Break the wall. Break the wall. "Are you ready?"
Itarille nodded mutely. He could feel her hands shivering. Elrohir clutched her wrists tightly and nodded as she let her fëa flow through heart and soul, going over the ruins of the crumbled barrier and entering…
~.~
Elrohir slid sideways off his horse, his mother in one hand, and they landed, on the side of the wall. He fumbled desperately with his tangled sheath. His steed was a wall for now, but not for long.
Water poured into his eyes, and the low rumble was growing to a mighty roar, as huge boulders rolled down the mountain side. There was a snarl and a scream. His mare fell and the Warg sprang on top of the body. There was no time to draw it now, he ripped his belt with a convulsive jerk, and using the sheathed sword as a club, hit the bloody-jawed beast a powerful blow.
The Warg whimpered, scrabbling on the slippery horse hide, and Elrohir struck it again. As he did so, the leather scabbard, already loosened slid from the sword and the blade descended, slicing the Warg's heads from its shoulders.
He had a shouted command. "Under the ledge! The slide's upon us!" Shoving his mother against the wall, Elrohir pushed forward instead, leaning over the horse's body, and seized his brother's shoulders, pulling him up. The front guard were keeping the Wargs from him.
Now the noise was a deafening crash. It swelled and thundered all about him as he tried to free Elladan's leg from the dead weight of his own stallion.
One of his guards was pushing past Celebrían to help him, but the ledge was too narrow in there. Rivendell's Lady suddenly returned from what dark caves she had been wandering, and pounced to her son. Elrohir stumbled back, lifting the horse carcass slightly, and Celebrían, gripping a handful of the leather jerkin, freed Elladan's boot. Now she teetered dangerously at the edge, Elladan's weight too much for her weakened state. Elrohir hauled them up, first pushing Celebrían under the overhanging ledge, and then dragging Elladan in.
The storm burst upon them. A curtain of rocks poured down on them, jagged edges as they bounced over the ledge and down into the abyss below. He could hear nothing else but the deep grating sound that rolled with echoing crash upon crash down, until with such force boulders splintered. He covered Elladan with his body and pressed against the wall.
Then there was silence. The low, desolate cry of the wind rose and fell, a moan like a mother bewailing her children. Rain trickled down, but the storm had stopped.
"Gods." It was a low exclamation that rang.
"What is it?" Elrohir called out.
"The overhang dwindles for a space, my Lord. The path has been covered in stone for five feet before the ledge extends again." came the answer.
A groan of despair rose on the black air.
"We wait until morning!" ordered Elrohir. "See none of you fall off."
He sat down on the narrow ledge, crossing his legs so his boots were not hanging over the drop, between his mother and brother. Elladan had not yet wakened, and Celebrían, although conscious, was so weakened he feared that she might drop.
One hand holding Celebrían's shoulder, he fumbled in his pouch for a flask of Miruvor. Elrond had given them both a small flagon before they had set up, but he could not get to Elladan's, or he would have.
"Mother?" he whispered.
"I am awake," she said dully.
"Drink this then, please." he murmured, setting the glass vessel in her hands. He could feel her movement, and felt assured she had taken some. He turned to Elladan. He could feel a bloody gash that ran over the back of his brother's black head, and he was still senseless. Setting the flask between his twin's teeth, he forced some down his throat and then cried out softly. "Are there wounded?"
"Calharn was bitten."
There were no other replies, and Elrohir, reaching over Elladan's body in the direction of the voice, felt the flask taken from his hand. In a few minutes, it was passed back with muffled thanks.
Only then did Elrohir drink, letting the warmth of the cordial flow throw him. His arm throbbed where the Orc had cut it, and other, smaller wounds, plagued him, but those were berry-bramble scratches compared to the agony he felt on seeing his mother. The filth had not taken her life, but they had stolen her soul. They had inflicted such pain they had forever wounded her soul. Celebrían did not let go of life because of them, but her blue eyes were dead. He gripped her hand and prayed for dawn.
When it came, red and hard as a dying coal, Elladan stirred, staring into the crimson rays that blinded them. Elrohir left him to care for Celebrían and inched his way along the ledge, until where a great pile of shale and tumbled boulders and granite lay, blocking the path. He tested it with a foot. It slid down treacherously, bouncing down the cliff. He kicked the shale mound angrily. Using a large boulder that lay in the middle of the mound, he levered himself off, keeping close to the ledge wall. It was possible, he decided, as he slid down the other side. But the horses could not go. Or if they did, they would go last and alone, following their masters out of love. They could not endanger lives.
He announced his plan to the Guard Captain, who shrugged in disconsolate agreement. Levering Celebrían over was the hardest. The horses did come. Only one steed fell, Calharn's beast, a nervous filly that the Elf had raised from a newborn foal. He pressed his lips tight together as he looked down but said naught. Elrohir clapped his shoulder and mounted the wounded on the remaining horses. They had left many behind for mountain ravens to feast on. The fit went on foot, down the dizzy descent, and there was great relief when they landed in the holly-wooded heaths of Eregion. Elrohir risked a fire that night, and let the healer bind his wounds. He found Celebrían crouched in front of the dancing flames. She smelled of salves. He sat beside her. "Are you hungry, mother?"
She tilted her head. Nestànu had cut off some of her hair in order to care for the head wounds, Elrohir noted sadly. "No, starling. Not at all."
Elrohir smiled at the name. He had originally been dubbed it as a demeaning form of star, and he had sensed mockery and hated it, but when he had made an attempt at flight, his mother told him he was a starling bird and had called him such ever that. "Not at all?" he persisted.
"Not at all," she confirmed quietly, but in a tone of finality. She sat with the right side of her head torn towards him. Half of the leaf-shaped ear was gone. A long, jagged gash ran down her cheekbone. The rest of her was hidden in shadows, except the flames reflecting in the blue eyes.
"Are you thirsty?"
"Yes."
Elrohir rose eagerly. "What can I fetch you?"
"I thirst for salt-water and sea wind, Elrohir," Celebrían answered sadly. Her eyes were wistful, forlorn.
He sank back down. His head was light. His eyes swam. He knew his mother was speaking but he could not hear her words. All was black about him, black, cold, agonizing.
~.~
Itarille's nails were digging into his palms. He saw her jaw clench and forced himself to close his eyes and continue. Her grip had relaxed now, and her fingers caressed his wrists.
~.~
Elrond met them in Hollin, and Arwen as well. She seemed to bear it up braver than any of them until she saw the quay. With the backbone of steel, she sustained all their weight of grief through all the time of healing, but when her horse's nostrils flared at the tang of salt and they saw the gulls and the ship, she collapsed them. Steel snapped into brittle shards, and she wept as though she would never see Celebrían again.
In vain Celebrían assured her it was not forever. She warmed her daughter's hands in her own, kissed the black hair, but these caresses meant nothing to Arwen.
And the ship lanced away and the waves parted for it and sobbed despairingly at the curved prow.
It was slowly that her brothers tried to heal Arwen and themselves. Guilty, they would weep, all three, and their guilt would multiply on seeing how they increased each other's sorrow.
When the clash of steel was upon him, Elrohir found solace. When blood trickled from war wounds, he felt as though drop by drop he paying back the debt he owed Celebrían for delaying her rescue so long.
But they were healing. War-lust faded with the years. The wind grew softer and flowers sweeter. The three wandered through woodlands and found joy skipping stones in the river, watching the leaves create shadows on the singing waters.
"Three jumps."
"Four!" sang out Arwen, watching her flat stone bounce halfway over the pool into which the waterfall tumbled.
Elladan snatched up a piece of flat shale and with a flick of his wrist sent in flying. But he misjudged, and it ended dismally at two bounces when it careened into the cascade of white waters.
Arwen giggled victoriously. Elrohir picked up another stone.
"Five! Defeat that, sister!" he exclaimed, as his skipping stone skidded across the pool, reaching a bounce farther than where Arwen's stone had sunk.
Elladan tried again, reached three bounces and lay down in a beam of sunlight that came through an opening in the trees. Arwen waded into the pool this time, searching for a better stone and Elrohir crossed his arms as she teetered on the slippery bed, fighting the growing temptation to give her a push. But now did not seem the time for frivolous jests. She seemed nervous, for all her forced gaiety. He caught her chewing her lip, stealing glances at them as if she was trying to tell them something.
"I'm betrothed," she blurted at last, waist deep in the rippling waters.
"To Legolas? Calharn?" queried Elladan heedlessly, hands behind his head. She shook her black head miserably. Elrohir listed off other names of eligible suitors when she interrupted him. "Estel," she muttered, turning around to face them.
There was a long quiet. The fall of water into the pool was suddenly silenced. The midsummer breeze was still.
"Oh."
"Oh," echoed Elrohir.
Arwen was wading out of the pool now, her hands empty, her sodden dress hindering her movements. Elladan lifted her onto the bank, and they stared at her in silence, until she shrank away from their gaze.
"I am sorry," she said jerkily. The sound of water splashing into the water was very loud now.
Their words of joy and blessings rang hollow and empty in their own ears, but they could not keep from saying them, not when her eyes held a sweet joy. Love had deafened her ears to untruths, so she believed them, and was happy.
That night, he heard her singing as he paced the gardens alone. She was standing at the window, brushing her hair and staring out into the night.
"Take me away to the shining lands, oh wind, carry me to my love.
O'er the sea, o'er the waves. He's watching me in the stars above." Her voice rose high and fell into a gentler strain.
"Take me away to the shining light, o'er the waves peaceful at night
Wind, take pity on me, for I wooed sorrow and fought the fight.
Take my ship beyond the sea, take me beyond the skies above
Carry me to my love…" Once again her voice ascended to follow the tune of the song.
"So soar wind, carry me to my love. For I know he's waiting for me
So soar wind, soar wind, take me high, for I know my love is waiting for me.
So wind, O wind, fly high and carry me to my love."
The song ended in a sweet murmur, and Elrohir moved on.
~.~
"I always thought the song she chose to sing was strange. It speaks of a lover being reborn in the Undying Lands. But of course, you know that." Elrohir finished with a low laugh. "You know all the songs."
Itarille's forehead was touching his, she was staring into his eyes. "Yes." She smiled slowly, a smile that brightened her eyes. Elrohir covered her hands with his. He could feel their bond strengthened, even now. Relief came over him, poured over him like a sea wave. Leaning forward he kissed her, and she replied likewise.
When at last they broke apart, she was still smiling, but he sobered slightly. "I was afraid you would….dream too. I did not want that."
"I shall be sure to wake you," she said teasingly.
He paused. "And Itarille?"
"Yes?"
"Please….only my mother may call me starling."
She smiled understandingly and gripped his hand. "I understand."
~.~
"Wake up, Master Sluggard!" cried a cheery voice, and Elrohir opened his eyes and ears to the sun and Itarille's laughter.
He sat up and saw the dawn rising in a glory, spilling gold over the white torrent and into the tree-shaded pool below. The rose gardens were bright. And he had not dreamt.
He took Itarille's hand and led her out and down into the fragrant blossoms, the dew under their unshod feet, and seated in an arbor covered with climbing roses, Elrohir plucked flowers and Itarille made them into a crown. She placed it on his head, and whispered in his ear "I didn't dream."
He could not refrain from lifting her in the air as if she was an Elfling and she giggled and squealed as he spun higher.
The morning bell rang and he sat her on her feet. She straightened his rose circlet. "Who shall make the bed today?"
"It is your turn," he reminded her, lifting his hand gingerly to feel the flower crown.
"But you were learning so well!" she giggled, tucking his hand into her arm as she led him to the hall. With his free hand, Elrohir took off the rose crown and placed tenderly on his wife's head.
The dewdrops on the blossoms were gleaming in the sunlight. The night was gone. Dreams were gone.