It was a long and dark December
From the rooftops I remember
There was snow
White snow
Clearly I remember
From the windows they were watching
While we froze
Down below
When the future's architectured
By a carnival of idiots
On show
You better lie low
If you love me, won't you let me know?
It was a long and dark December
When the banks became cathedrals
And the fog
Became god
Priests clutched onto Bibles
Hollowed out to fit their rifles
And the cross
Was held aloft
Bury me in honor
When I'm dead and hit the ground
My love's opposed
But unfolds
But if you love me, won't you let me know?
I don't want to be a soldier
Who the captain of some sinking ship
Would stow
Far below
So if you love me, why'd you let me go?
I took my love down to Violet Hill
There we sat in the snow
All that time, she was silent still
So if you love me, won't you let me know?
If you love me, won't you let me know?
- Coldplay, without whose music my muse would run dry
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His mount, harsh black against the snow, stirred in agitation, its snorts solidifying into clouds of ice on the air. The world was a whitewashed sepulcher: white and silent and cold. The whole camp seemed to hold its breath, its inhabitants fighting to hide their shivers. His black-gloved hands clenched the reigns more tightly as he spun his mount around to make the rounds again.
They had been waiting for weeks, exterminating scouts and worthless stragglers. Where was the army? He could sense it lying in wait, the unseen viper hiding beneath the floorboards. The lie beneath the purity of the snow.
His ears twitched in unison with his mount's as someone nearby coughed. Even Elves were not meant to weather this kind of deep chill. This had to be the coldest winter they had ever experienced at Imladris. A few had already suffered frostbite.
"Elrond."
His marshal's hand lay on the mount's neck as he gazed up at him. Elrond looked back, fierce hostility already in his eyes, waiting for the inevitable rebuke. Captain though he was, herald to Gil-galad though he might be, Glorfindel was the one who knew the cold.
The marshal held his gaze for a few seconds, then sighed and turned to look at the horizon, towards the crest of the hill. Violet Hill. Regardless of the season, it always seemed to turn a shade of faint purple, like a bruise, when dusk fell. And now it was the site of their vigil, only a few miles outside of Imladris.
"They cannot last much longer," Glorfindel breathed.
"What do you want me to do?" Elrond hissed, his voice sharp and biting as the cold now invading his lungs. "He wants us to retreat. He is waiting us out. We go, and they will be on our heels in a matter of seconds. They will follow us back to Imladris, and we will be overrun."
In spite of his surroundings, his eyes burned with a feverish, consuming determination as he stared at Glorfindel.
"I know," the old Elf sighed. He patted the black's neck once, then moved off.
Elrond turned his sights back to the hill again, then spurred his mount forward, stopping only when they had crested it. The black shifted anxiously again, unnerved by the exposure. A wry smile twisted his mouth. It had more sense than he. Elrond the Wise, indeed. More like Elrond the Insane. This whole crusade was insane.
He shook his hair out of his eyes, a gust of wind doing the job for him and toying with the corners of his cloak. The black's ears twitched. The mad fever licked at his throat again as he shifted his weight with the horse.
Come on, coward, he snarled at the air, projecting his thoughts into the deathly silence. Try me.
There was, as expected, no answer. He swallowed forcefully, the knot of cloth against his throat sliding a little. He exhaled sharply, as though struck in the chest. The movement had disturbed the smell of her from the cloth, momentarily overwhelming him, filling his mind with his last memories of her.
They had stood in a hallway of Imladris, troops hurrying around them, preparing to leave. He, too, was ready to depart, dressed in his usual black uniform, but with layers of wool beneath for warmth. His cloak was around his shoulders, pinned with Gil-galad's signet.
"You have no scarf," she had said softly, a small smile on her lips. There was no fear visible in her clear eyes, only determination and understanding. She had a deep respect for the situation, for his situation. She would not weep and wail and beg them to stay. She herself would go to battle, if he would allow it.
"It would be too cumbersome," he explained.
"In battle, yes, but not traveling." She pulled a length of blue-gray cloth from beneath her fur-lined cloak and hooked it around his neck. "This will have to do."
He was momentarily overwhelmed by the closeness of her, by the feel of her hands deftly tying the cloth around his neck. She continued to smooth it long after the knot was finished, and he didn't stop her. He couldn't take his eyes from her, though her own gaze was fixed on the scarf, as though charging it to protect him with its life.
"Keep an eye on Erestor for me," he murmured. "His heart does not lie here, orders or no."
She nodded. "I will." She looked up. "You should go."
Her face was very close. In the back of his mind, he thought it amusing that she was the one reminding him it was time to go, that she was more focused on the crisis at hand than he was. This thought was swallowed by the scent of her, the feel of her breath, her hands still clasping the cloth at his throat.
He could take her in his arms right now, right here, in front of both his troops and her father's. Now would be the proper time to tell her, in light of the danger. There was a chance he would not return – there was always that chance. But then again, if he didn't return, what would be the use of telling her?
Her gaze was somehow imploring, however, holding him, rooting him to the spot. It was the look of knowledge, of demanding to be told something she already knew.
He exhaled softly, painfully, and she embraced him. The shock to his heart and brain was too much – he clutched her too him, grasping at her warmth, her steadiness, though his reason shrieked its protest.
Reason – the lord of his existence. Life was empty if not for reason. But what reason was there in loving her? None. She deserved a king, a god. And so loving her was only an emotion, to be swept aside, ignored.
And yet, she seemed to care for him; he could feel it in the way she held him. Though he was flawed, flawed in his emotions for her, she was not. There was no vice in Celebrían. And so what reason was there for her to love him?
His throat and chest burned, as though he had swallowed acid. It would be something to ponder on the way.
He broke the embrace.
"Blessings, and Godspeed," she had said, her voice smooth and soothing. "And stay warm." She had smiled.
Elrond sighed and turned his mount from the hill – that accursed hill. It held him here, in its cold and lying clutches. But then, if being here meant that he was keeping her safe, it would be easy to reconcile himself.
A fine time for Lothlórien to be visiting Imladris.
A whisper, a thud, and an explosion of pain in his shoulder. He grunted and looked down. The point of a black-headed arrow protruded through the leather of his jerkin. Head spinning, he tucked his arm against his chest and bent forward to lie as flat as possible against his mount, but it was already spooked. It screamed, reared, and he tumbled off, only to land on his already injured shoulder.
Somehow, miraculously, Glorfindel was suddenly at his side, helping him to his feet, shield raised to block another onslaught of black arrows. They slipped and slid down the hillside, even Elvish feet no match for the sheet of ice encrusting the snow.
The troops were already assembled when they reached the camp again, facing forward and in formation, though their eyes were straining to the side, keeping their captain in sight.
"Help me, Glorfindel," Elrond growled, snapping off the head of the arrow.
The marshal did not hesitate, but wrenched the rest of the arrow out from behind.
"Go," Elrond ordered. He was leaning against a tree and breathing hard, but he knew it would only be a matter of seconds until he could function again. Nevertheless, the seconds were precious. "I'm coming."
Glorfindel was immediately gone from his side and ordering the advance to the crest of the hill, where they would make their defense.
Elrond watched for as long as he could until a pair of healers pulled him into one of the nearby tents and stripped off his jerkin, tunic, and under layers. They packed and bound the wound quickly, redressed him, and handed him his sword.
It was at times like these that Elrond was grateful he was ambidextrous.
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"Hold the line!" he bellowed, barely flinching as a piece of flying debris cut a deep gouge in his cheek.
The Enemy had a serious advantage as a sorcerer and alchemist. His development of new and more powerful weapons was a devastating blow to the Eldar – weapons such as this explosive material that was now sending razor-sharp bits of tree into his troops. Fortunately, however, it was distributed among those least capable of utilizing its potentials. The Orcs more often than not wasted the material, rather than using it well and wisely.
Regardless, they were hard-put to quash this enemy. Though they had the high ground, the Orcs were relentless. Many continued onwards without arms and legs, or with their faces smashed inwards. The once-pure snow was now smeared with black and red, and dusk was about to turn it all purple. The bruise atop the wound.
Elrond surveyed his troops. They had been fighting for nearly three days and were tired. The Orcs did not know weariness. They were cold. The Orcs did not know cold. And it was growing dark. The Orcs fed off the dark. He had to make a move, and a decisive one.
"Glorfindel!"
The marshal materialized at his side immediately, panting.
"How thin can we stretch the line?"
Glorfindel stared at him. "Are you crazy?" he demanded, sounding furious. "If we stretch it any further, they'll break through. These creatures…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. "I do not know what drives them. They're half mad with bloodlust."
"I know," Elrond pressed. "Is it at all conceivable to thin the line? I need troops elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?" he repeated, starting to eye Elrond as though he, too, had gone mad. "Where else could you want them? This is the best position-"
"Listen," Elrond interrupted. "You see Misery?" He gestured at the hill west of and adjacent to Violet. Glorfindel nodded. "Violet is steep, but Misery is steeper. The Orcs are having enough trouble getting up Violet because of the ice. We make a hook formation out of the surplus and drive the enemy into Misery – they would not be able to climb fast enough to make any kind of escape."
Glorfindel was already shaking his head. "Too much of a risk. If it fails, it will be a bloodbath."
"This cannot continue," Elrond snapped, gesturing at his troops and wincing as it wrenched his shoulder. "They will wear us down this way."
The marshal was still shaking his head. "It's crazy."
"Do you have a better idea?"
Blue eyes flashed angrily, but he didn't reply.
"Legion three, to me!" Elrond roared. "Fall back!"
His men obeyed, though the terror in their eyes and those of the other two legions almost held them back.
"Form a line parallel to the front," he ordered sharply, illustrating with his arm. "Two men deep. We're going to sweep the enemy into Misery Mount. Do not stop the advance, unless I give you an explicit order."
His troops stared at him, just as Glorfindel had, as though waiting for the punch line.
"Now!" he bellowed.
They obeyed, and he took his place at the fore to lead them downhill. It was true – his plan was ludicrous. He would take the same risk as the men who were placing their trust in him.
"What's your name?" he asked the Elf standing beside him.
"Erynion," he answered. His voice was hard, his eyes flinty – distinctly Noldorin. His features were obscured by a thick swath of cloth – a style many had adopted to ward off the cold, but his visible hair was Silvan, possibly Telerin. Elrond expected he had inherited his Noldorin parent's temperament, however.
He extended his hand to Erynion, who took it firmly. He glanced over his shoulder once to make sure they were aligned, and then started forward.
They bowed around to the east, giving the enemy a wide berth and hoping not to attract their attention prematurely. They were halfway down the enemy advance when Elrond realized their line would not be long enough.
"Thin it another half-man!" he roared. The officers repeated it until the line reassembled itself. Now the front was longer, and the line behind consisted of one man for every two. This time, they might reach. When one end of the line was still near to the eastern end of the line upon the hill, he called a halt. He paused, letting them form, and then ordered the charge.
At this point, the Orcs had, inevitably, seen them. A smattering broke off from the group and swarmed forward. But this was where the Eldar had their advantage: they were well-trained, organized, and moved as one. The Orcs had no formation, no strategy, no cooperation.
Elrond was smiling when the enemy reached them.
The Orcs collided violently with the line. It shivered once, but held, pushing the Orcs resolutely backwards. He hoped he had been clear when he had told them not to halt under any circumstances.
He sent up a silent prayer, momentarily parting his thoughts. With providence, his plan could work.
He didn't have a chance to find out. At that moment, a twist of Erynion's hair flickered in the failing light and caught his eye, distracting him. It had been silver before, like starlight, but it was momentarily gilded with burnished gold. It was lightly curled and looked soft and familiar.
The Elf named Erynion seemed to feel his gaze, because his face turned, and his swath of cloth slipped.
Elrond opened his mouth, shock and horror battling in his mind, and fell as the back of his skull seemed to shatter inwards and the world went as black and silent as a tomb.
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"It worked. I cannot believe it worked."
Elrond's hearing was the first thing to recover, but his sense of touch soon followed. He was buried up to his chin in thick blankets and very warm and comfortable – except for the heaviness in his head and a slight burning in his shoulder.
"We are lucky."
"Very. I did not expect us to succeed. Then again, he is uniquely innovative. Sometimes dangerously so. But he has never failed us before. He will be well?"
"Yes. He woke once before, but only for about a minute, and was quite confused in his mind – not completely here, I would say. All he would tell me was 'she was here.'"
"Hmm."
"Yes, that is what I thought. Now, however, I believe his sleep is purely from exhaustion. Nothing more."
"Good. He needs sleep."
"May I leave you with him, sir? There are others to whom I should attend."
"Certainly."
The tent flap rustled, and something heavy settled beside him. It took him several seconds to find his tongue.
"How many?"
"Elrond?" Glorfindel's voice was anxious. "Can you hear me? How do you feel?"
"Fine," he rasped quickly, only because he knew Glorfindel would not answer his question until he had made some statement about his health. "How many casualties?"
Silence. "Nearly a third of the third legion fell, Elrond, but not in vain. They succeeded."
Elrond sat up too sharply, and his whole body screamed in protest. He ignored it and threw off the blankets, stumbling half-naked to the tent flap.
"Elrond, what-"
"The bodies – I want to see them."
"They are already sewn up, what-"
"Then the survivors!" he roared. "Bring the remainder of legion three to me! Now!"
Glorfindel's hands landed lightly on his shoulders, pulling him back from the tent entrance. "Elrond, you are not in your mind-"
Elrond threw off his hands. "I order you to bring the legion to me." He stared at his marshal, daring him to disobey.
Eyeing him warily, Glorfindel left the tent, leaving Elrond to sink onto the floor, reeling. A third. The odds… the odds…
He mustered the last of his strength and left the tent with Glorfindel when he reappeared. The cold stung his bare skin, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the throbbing in his head and shoulder. His eyes scanned the assembled with a feverish haste, up and down, up and down, again and again, but the Elf named Erynion was not there. He turned to the officer of the legion.
"There was an Elda," he said sharply, "one Erynion. I fought beside him. Where is he? Is he injured? Fallen?"
The officer stared back at him, his expression shuttered, his eyes wary.
"Forgive me, my lord, but there was no Elda by that name in my legion."
He slumped against Glorfindel's arm.
"You did well," he said, addressing the legion. "I thank you for your loyalty, and ask your forgiveness for your loss."
They each put their hands on their breasts and bowed slightly to him. Some had tears on their faces.
Elrond could barely stand when he entered the tent again – his legs did not seem to want to hold his weight.
"What is going on?" Glorfindel asked softly, helping him back to the cot.
Elrond shook his head, numb with disbelief. How could he not have seen? His fault now… his fault…
"Who was there, Elrond? Who is she? I cannot understand you."
What other 'she' was there in the world? Who else mattered? And now she was gone….
"Who is gone? Elrond, you took a blow to the head. You are imagining things."
If only… if only…
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"I am fine, Glorfindel, truly."
The marshal did not look convinced. "You had quite a fit of raving-"
"That was nearly a week ago." He met his friend's gaze reassuringly. "I am well now." He turned forward on his mount again, facing home, prepared for what he would meet there.
He knew what he had seen on the battlefield of Violet Hill, but then again, another small part of him doubted himself. It was true that he had been hit in the head – had he dreamt the whole thing, then? Was Glorfindel right?
He supposed he would find out soon enough.
Imladris was a welcome sight, and in spite of himself, it eased the tightness in his chest, the bitterness burning in his throat. It always did. She was his child and his mother, his friend and his lady. She was his, and he hers, and she soothed him as nothing else did.
Both his people and those from Lothlórien met them as they entered, many weeping for the loved ones they did not see among the living. Elrond, however, had eyes only for the figures on the steps.
Galadriel stepped forward first to take his good hand, and embraced him warmly when he dismounted – an uncharacteristic gesture. Erestor was hot on her heels, but Elrond knew that he knew to hold his questions for later. Behind Erestor was Celebrían.
She greeted Glorfindel first, as Elrond was still with Erestor, but she turned to him as soon as his advisor had stepped aside. She was smiling.
"Well done," she murmured, taking his hands. "Ah, you are cold. Come inside – you are weary."
He reeled.
He followed her inside, unable to take his eyes of her for a moment, drinking her in, reveling in the living warmth of her hands.
And then, quite suddenly, he was angry. Furious. How could she deceive him so? And then ignore her own deception? Or was he crazy, after all? If so, then he was furious with himself for being crazy. He had no time for insanity.
Celebrían, Galadriel, and Erestor led Glorfindel and him to their quarters to change. Erestor watched him questioningly, but Elrond shook his head infinitesimally. He could manage himself.
Part of him wanted to skip the reunion and hide between the sheets of his own bed until the spring, but the other part forced him onward, pushing one foot in front of the other. He would not allow himself to fall short of his duties.
Nevertheless, he was hard put to be genial and attentive during the audience. He remained by the hearth, leaning against the mantle while Glorfindel spoke with Erestor, Galadriel, and Celebrían. He felt their gazes every now and then, but ignored them. He knew he looked brooding. He didn't care.
As soon as it was somewhat acceptable, he excused himself for the evening, but did not return to his quarters. He needed to be distracted.
There was a fire already burning in his study – someone knew him well. He poured himself a glass of wine from the cabinet near his desk, lit a candle, and disappeared into the bookshelves.
"My lord?"
He turned. Celebrían stood at the end of the aisle, holding her own candle. Her expression was steady, but concerned. "Are you well?"
Elrond did not look up, but continued to examine the book he held in one hand. He snapped it shut abruptly.
"Did you know it is possible to drown yourself without being submersed in water?" he said flatly, pushing the tome back into place.
She did not react. "No."
"It is medical fact," he continued, running one of his fingers down the spines of his books. "Drinking too much water will kill you. Drowning." He pulled out another volume and let it fall open in his hand.
"Please come out and speak to me," she said softly. "You barely said a word in the drawing room."
"When I left you," Elrond drawled, "you would not have whined and complained at me for remaining silent during a private audience. Have you become a sour old shrew in these few short weeks?"
"Would you prefer me to shriek at you?" she demanded sharply. "Or knock both wine and book out of your hands? You are being quite rude."
He snapped the second book shut, too. "Of all the people to be rude to, you most certainly deserve it," he said coolly, striding past her and into the sitting area of his study.
"What have I done?" she growled in exasperation, following him. "I can hardly have offended you in the five hours we have been together again."
He stopped and turned sharply, and she skidded to a halt to avoid colliding with him.
"You were counting?" he breathed, a cruel smile curling his mouth.
She looked at him steadily, unfazed. He chuckled and turned away, but she seized his arm.
"Tell me why I deserve this treatment," she said softly.
His smile widened. She was most dangerous when she spoke softly.
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, still smiling. "You do not deserve to be told, lovely."
The anger peaked in her face, then softened slightly. "Why?" she murmured reproachfully.
He released her chin reluctantly and, setting his glass on a nearby table, gripped her arms. "Were you at Violet Hill?"
She frowned. "What?" she whispered. "Of course I was not. Why would you-"
He tightened his grip and pulled her closer. "The truth, Celebrían. Were you at Violet Hill?"
"No," she said, holding his gaze steadily. "Are you feeling well, Peredhel?"
A snarl pulled at the corners of his mouth, his hands shaking furiously. "If you are lying, woman, so help me-" He paused for a long moment, conquering himself, then released her, took up his wine glass again, and strode to the hearth to lean heavily on the mantle.
"Why would I lie to you?" Celebrían asked imploringly, raising her arms, then letting them fall to her sides again.
"You tell me," Elrond growled, covering his eyes with his free hand.
"Elrond-"
"Damn it, Celebrían!" he roared, flinging the goblet across the room where it smashed against the stone wall, spraying red wine onto the flagstones. "I saw you there! And so if you are telling the truth, I am going crazy, but if you are lying… if you are lying…" Trembling violently, he halted, running one hand over his face. "I thought you were dead," he muttered once he had calmed somewhat. "This whole time, I was sure you were dead. You were not among the living… and so many died, nearly a third of the legion…."
She slipped quietly to his side and placed one hand on his shoulder, the other on the side of his face to turn it outwards to hers.
"I would not lie to you," she said firmly.
He studied her carefully, drinking in every detail of her features, her stance, searching behind her confident eyes. "Even if it were for my own good?"
She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "I cannot think of a situation that would warrant."
His fury went out like a candle in a breath of wind, and he held her carefully, not too close, but close enough that he could feel her warmth, feel her breathing.
"Why are you so determined to think that I am lying?" she murmured into his shoulder. "You could easily have made a mistake. And you hit your head quite badly, according to Glorfindel. You could have dreamt it."
"Because even the great and the good lie, dearest," he said softly. "Even you."
She raised her head. "But I know I cannot fool you," she said with a small smile. "So why would I try?"
"Because you knew you could use that argument against me."
She chuckled quietly. "You are far too cynical for your own good, my friend," she hummed contentedly. She watching him for several moments, her expression impassive, and then frowned. "You are exhausted," she whispered, raising a hand to brush his hair back from his face and touch the dark circles beneath his eyes. "I wish you would not work yourself so."
"What else do I have to live for?" he smiled. "If not my work?"
"So many things, Elrond Peredhel," she murmured intensely. "Your life, your King, Glorfindel, Erestor, Imladris. Aren't all these things more to live for than your work?"
"But I serve them and express my gratitude through my work. I protect my life, my King's life, their lives, Imladris, you."
She sighed heavily. "Alright, dark one. You win, for tonight. Now will you please retire?"
He shook his head, releasing her gently. "I am not ready yet. I-"
"You are quite the fool, Peredhel. Come here." She took his hand and led him to the couch in front of the fire. "Sit with me."
She sat, but he remained standing for several seconds, observing her refined, determined features.
"As you wish," he sighed finally.
She moved to the side when he sat, however, and pulled a folded blanket from the back of the couch and laid it on her lap. "Lay your head here," she ordered firmly.
"Celebrían," he frowned, "that is hardly appropriate-"
"Propriety be damned," she said sharply. "Now do as I say. You will rest, and you will rest now."
He relented with another sigh and laid his head on the blanket. Silence fell, her fingers gently combing through his hair as they watched the fire.
"You are sure you are not lying to me, Celebrían?" he breathed, eyelids closing against his will.
"Hush, dear one. Have a little faith, for once."
"I am… not sure I believe you."
"Goodnight, Elrond."