Disclaimer: All of Arda belong to Professor J. R. R. Tolkien.
Note: Great thanks to Nemis for beta-reading, and to Rose Red for giving me the idea.
The Courtship
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One
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The late sunlight slanted between the green-draped hills, flashing among the trees. In the reflected glow, the road into the valley shimmered like a mysterious, flowing river. On the road was a solitary rider, his shadow lengthening over the river's dappled surface, black hair fluttering out in the wind. He held his gaze straight ahead, lost in thought, as the road bent gently and dipped, and the fair forests of Lórien rose beckoning on the horizon.
In another Lórien he had once danced upon the sweet grass, sweeping Celebrían up in his arms, spinning and spinning, until she clung to him for breath, ringing with laughter, and the glittering stream of her hair was a starry blur. They slipped away from the crowd and embraced upon a carpet of golden malinornë flowers.
Malinornë, lairelossë, taniquelassë dusky with low-drooping boughs, yavannamírë clustered in a snowstorm of blossoms. It was spring. The air of Valinor was alive with birdsong and the music of falling waters. And he thought of Imladris with its riotous rivulets, and Celebrían sitting alone on the bank, her face half turned away from him, a book open on her lap. That time, he had stood long and still in the distance watching her, his heart born aloft by such a feeling of tenderness, that he never imagined the future, never imagined that he would betray her.
Seven springs in the Blessed Land. The world brimmed over with beauty; at times he could imagine being at peace here, at times he could almost imagine happiness. If only Celebrían...If only. If only. Those thoughts were nothing but disjointed and fragile whispers in his mind, and he kept--as always--to his silence.
Five hundred and nineteen springs since he had lost all peace. Once more, he saw the lights of the fading year in Middle-earth, felt the terrifying pain in his shoulder that had enveloped him in one searing instant, as a poisoned arrow, many miles away, found its mark. His own voice, unrecognizable with fear. Celebrían. The Redhorn Pass. Ambushed. The frantic thunder of galloping hooves, tearing into the dank fog that hung heavy over the mountain-range. At first, he had still heard Celebrían's tortured screams reverberating inside his mind, crying out to him, struggling to hold on in a dark desperate place. But it had been much worse when the screams faded, faint and intermittent, and finally fell silent. He had not been there for her. She had bled to death on the cold filthy floor of a cave in the mountain's black belly, alone.
Taking a deep breath, Elrond lifted his head, and kept his eyes resolutely on the road in front of him, now narrowing to a winding path through the woods, and on the young emerald leaves that were beginning to merge on the branches above, trembling softly and blurring in the sunset. If he were not to go completely mad it would be best to think only of the brief moment ahead, only of the here and now. He shook his head. Here and now. Someone must have decided that he needed healing. He would have tried to smile at the thought if he had the heart.
The summons had come by courier, a few courteously-worded lines in a strong flowing hand, requesting his presence at the Gardens. It is curious, Elrond reflected, that out of all the varied means the Master of Dreams possessed to bring him to Lórien, the Vala had chosen one that was somehow at once the least mystical and the most mysterious. For a long while, he had sat by his desk staring at the note, struggling to push away the strange agitation that kept bursting uninvited upon him, wondering whose doing it could have been. He could envision all too well the expression of rueful concern on Erestor's face, and Glorfindel--Glorfindel would just have insisted upon coming along. As for the others...He doubted that he could have managed being comforted again just then, so in the end he had simply packed a few things, and slipped away without a word.
A single petal, dancing slowly in the breeze, settled on his shoulder like a sigh. Above, the boughs were heavy with flowers, pale and blushing, bending low, brushing against his hair. The laced branches were closing over his head, and soon a living tunnel of leaves and blossoms formed before him, wavering and whispering, stretching into the blue dusk. Dismounting, he stood facing the tunnel's gate for a moment, then walked in, leading his horse after him. The ground underfoot was soft and smooth with grass, and each leaf of the forest seemed to murmur with its own voice. Behind his back, the world disappeared without a sound.
Looking up, he glimpsed a point of warm yellow light in the distance, flitting towards him along the path. At first a mere twinkling firefly, it gradually resolved into a slim form carrying a lamp.
"Master Elrond?"
A young Elf stood before him, long hair flickering gold in the lamp's glow.
"Welcome to Lórien, my lord." He bowed with a smile. "Please, follow me. Lord Irmo and Lady Estë are expecting you."
The twilight darkened around them as they went. To Elrond's questions, the youth would only reply that the Master of the Gardens would explain all. About their feet, a delicate mist began to spread in swirling filigrees, illumined by the small shifting pool of lamplight and the occasional star-gleam filtering through the leaves. It seemed to Elrond that he was crossing a great distance with each footfall. He was walking on dreams.
The evening was already deep when the woods suddenly parted, and he emerged from an arch of rustling boughs into a downpour of starlight. He was standing in a little grassy clearing, speckled with tiny nodding flowers, yellow and silver. On one side, the ground sloped gently down to the shore of a vast, shining lake, dotted with shadowy islands. His guide had gone.
Behind him, someone was approaching with quick, silent steps. Turning around, he saw white dress and golden hair glimmering in the light of the newly-risen moon. It was Galadriel.
How irrational it was, Elrond thought, this inexplicable apprehension that descended so abruptly upon him at the sight of her. It was not so unimaginable, or even so unlikely, that she would come also to the Gardens. Not at all. Stifling the unexpected wings that trembled inside his chest, he strode across the grass to meet her. Yet those wings were still fluttering when he was at her side, taking her hand in his, bending his lips to it. But Galadriel pulled him into an embrace.
"Elrond, ion-nîn," she murmured. Her eyes were bright, more so than he had ever remembered seeing, and it was with a small inward shiver of surprise that he realized that they were lit with the reflections of recent tears. But she was smiling.
"Come."
She took his arm and began to lead him across the glade. The first drops of dew were glistening on the grass, and the beams of the moon spilled about them, brimming over from the lake's silvery surface, mingling softly with the mist. Glancing at Galadriel beside him, he found her looking thoughtfully ahead, not meeting his eyes or his questions. He could hear his own heart beating harder with every step. There was some change in her that he could not or dared not fathom, in the smile on her face and the tears in her eyes, in the almost-tremulous touch of her hand on his arm. Finally, as they came beneath a tall bank of fragrant lavaralda overflowing with new tendrils at the clearing's edge, he halted his steps and went no further.
"What is it?" His words were a mere whisper.
Stopping also, she turned to face him, and all of a sudden it was again the Galadriel he knew so well before him, standing tall and flawlessly composed, her gaze as grave and piercing as the stars upon his face. A long moment passed wordlessly. He did not know if she found what she sought in him, but she seemed to come to a decision.
"Celebrían has returned from the Halls of Mandos," she said at last in a low clear voice.
Despite the madness of what he would only later recognize as his hope, it took him a moment to regain his bearings. At first, he was certain that it was all an illusion, and that he was being tormented again. But as he stood there Galadriel remained in front of his eyes; he could feel the pressure of her hand against his arm. And the Gardens of Lórien--the whispering voices of the trees, the glistening grass, the air--everything remained around him and did not fade. It came to him that this was real. Her words were thundering in his ears. Celebrían. The Halls of Mandos. Returned.
"Where is she?"
Galadriel shook her head. Her fingers tightened slightly on his arm.
"You will see her, Elrond. Soon." She paused, searching carefully for the words. "But not yet. One cannot come back from death without loss and sorrow, ion-nîn. She is not the same, and neither are you. Are you ready for her return?"
"Where is she?" he repeated. The pounding of his heart was such that his chest was about to burst wide open any instant now.
"Ah, Master Elrond," said a soft voice behind them.
They both turned. Galadriel let go of his arm. Slowly, Elrond let out a long breath that he did not know he had been holding. The lady before them was slender and grey-eyed, robed in deep blue; her dark hair cascaded down loose and liquid about her, mingling with the cool spring night. She was as still and luminous as the lake rippling towards the horizon.
"Master Elrond," said Estë gently, "Celebrían does not remember you now."