Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings, including all recognizable characters, places, and ideas, belong to the Tolkien Estate. I made no profit from the writing of this tale.
Rating/Warnings: Teen; rated Teen for violence, adult themes, and mentions of rape.
Time frame: The first few months after Celebrian is rescued from the Orc den by Elladan and Elrohir.
A/N: I have been waiting for what I felt was the appropriate story to be my 50th fic here on . At long last, I believe I have written one. Honestly, it's hard to believe that I've been here for three years now, and have churned out more than 50 pieces of writing, many (if not most) of them in the Lord of the Rings/Silmarillion fandom. In fact, it's been over two years now that I've written consistently for Tolkien's great works. It's been an amazing ride, I can tell you that. So I hope that you enjoy this 50th fic of mine, and I would absolutely love it if you took the time to leave a review. Thank you all so much for journeying with me these past two years-I hope you'll continue on with me for another two. And now, enjoy!
=Bitter Rain=
"My lord?"
The voice was soft, muffled, as if drifting to him through a veil of fog. He looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the hard earth, hands folded neatly in his lap, and blinked dazedly.
"Ah, Aravadhor." His throat felt strange, his voice gravelly. As if he had not spoken for a long while. Or as if he had been screaming.
"My lord," the soft clink of armor shifting as Aravadhor knelt, "you are bleeding."
Elrond smiled grimly. "So I am." He could feel the warmth of the blood running down his arm and dripping from his elbow, the tackiness at his temple that warned him not to attempt standing too quickly.
"My lord," Aravadhor said softly, a gentle hand touching his uninjured elbow.
Elrond jerked his arm out of Aravadhor's hold and turned viciously on his captain. "Leave me be, Aravadhor," he snarled, and lurched to his feet. The world swam alarmingly at the abrupt movement, and he cursed himself for his stupidity as his vision narrowed in a field of darkness.
Again Elrond felt Aravadhor's touch on his arm, stabilizing him. Again Elrond pulled away, this time turning his back on the captain and striding away, ignoring the sickening squelch of his boots in the pools of congealing blood.
Aravadhor watched him go, misty blue eyes following his lord's retreating back. He did not miss the tight anger in his shoulders, nor the pain in the near-perfect stride. But this time he did not follow – he merely watched. And he mourned.
=oOo
They had come upon the Orcs unexpectedly. For an instant both parties had been utterly still, frozen in silence and the tenuous ice of shock. Hands still and eyes wide, the wind itself stood motionless among the clouds, as if heaven and earth waited with baited breath.
And then he had screamed – wild, furious, and heart-broken. He had screamed, and the wind had rushed down from the heavens in a swirling gale of vengeance, battering the broken stones and tearing at the yellowed grasses until they swam like a wrathful sea.
He had screamed, and then there had been blood.
=oOo=
Elrond stood with his back to the carnage and arms crossed, unheeding of the black and crimson blood that dried on his hands and wrists, that stained his forearms and the sleeves of his tunic. He stood, and he gazed across the rugged plain that stretched out beneath him.
The land before him stirred uneasily, as if waking from a long slumber. The long grasses of the rugged plain swayed and eddied at the breeze's touch, unknowing of the gore that stained their brethren, of the blood that soaked into the earth beneath their roots. Above, the thick clouds rolled and roiled, uneasy and fretful.
His thoughts were as disturbed as the land and the wind. Dark and bitter they were, tinged with hate and sorrow, and filled with wrath. Oh wrath, you cruel master. Oh hate, you fickle god. A bitter smile twisted his lips into a grim parody of a smile. You must be pleased this day, he thought silently. The earth is watered with blood, and fed with fury.
Elrond closed his eyes, blocking out the stormy light and the swirling grass. Yet the wind continued to keen, mourning and sorrowful, as it swept around him. He could feel its caress, the soft whisper of its breath against his skin.
And for an instant he dreamed he heard her voice lilting upon the breeze, her song one with the wind. For an instant…
But then there was only silence.
=oOo=
It was Elladan that carried her home. She looked like a broken doll, with her bruised face and matted hair, swallowed by her eldest son's cloak and wrapped tightly in his strong arms. She looked so small, so fragile, as if the merest breath of wind would shatter her porcelain skin.
She was unconscious as the group of warriors, led by Elladan and Elrohir, clattered into the main courtyard. Elrond was by her side in an instant, reaching up to take his wife in his arms as Elladan gently lifted her down from the saddle.
Celebrían stirred, then whimpered as she felt the foreign touch take her, lift her. She thrashed and cried out, her shadowed eyes flickering open in fear as she shrank in on herself. Elrond could feel her tremble through the thin cloak covering her nakedness.
It was all he could do to keep himself from collapsing to the flagstones then and there, with the broken body of his wife in his arms, and weep for the cruelty dealt to her.
=oOo=
They deserved this. They deserve to die, every single one of them. They are monsters; they are little more than animals. Every drop of their stinking blood that waters the earth is a gift, a blessing, for it is one less drop of their cruelty that can stain the world.
They deserve to die, every single one of them. They deserve it, for what they have done… for what they have done to her. They deserve to die, in the most gruesome ways imaginable.
=oOo=
The Orcs had not stood a chance. They fell howling and screeching beneath his blade, hewn down where they leapt and lunged like grass beneath the scythe. They screamed and swarmed, blinded with bloodlust and hatred – hatred for his voice, for his light, for the song his blood sang. They swarmed…and they died.
The rest of the warriors accompanying Elrond swept into the attack behind their lord, spears and swords glittering in the stormy light as the earth thundered with the pounding of their horse's hooves. They ploughed into the tangle of Orc flesh with deadly intent, cleaving a bloody canyon through the crush of hissing, seething Orcs.
None saw Elrond wounded. None saw him stagger beneath an Orc cudgel, nor tear himself off an Orc blade. None could see the dark rage in his eyes, or the bitter hatred in his sword.
But nonetheless they could feel it, taste it, as the wind howled around them as fierce as a dragon, as wild as a wolf.
=oOo=
She had screamed when he touched her face – screamed and clawed at him, tearing long, bloody gouges through his cheek and down his neck. He did not make a sound, merely caught her flailing wrists in one hand and set to carefully stitching the long, jagged cut along her temple with sure, steady fingers.
She screamed at him, cursed at him, and struggled against his touch as he carefully dressed her in a white nightdress. She had scratched and thrashed as he carried her to the bed they once shared, weeping sourly and beating uselessly against his breast with weak fists. And when he had set her down upon the soft mattress, she pulled away from him as if scorched, hiding her face in the pillows and curling into herself.
"You are safe now, Celebrían," Elrond whispered, kneeling beside the bed, one hand resting uselessly on the mattress beside her. "I swear to you, I will let no more harm come to you."
But she could not hear him.
=oOo=
Elrond gritted his teeth and clenched his hands, unheeding or uncaring of the pain that lanced through his wounded arm as he did so. "They deserved it," he told himself furiously. "They do not deserve even a speck of mercy…"
So why did he feel so sick at heart?
=oOo=
Glorfindel found him sitting in a chair beside the fire, his face buried in hands that still bore the stains of his wife's blood. He did not even look up as the great Balrog Slayer drew up a chair beside him and sat. He did not even flinch when Glorfindel laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"She did not even recognize me," he whispered at last, hoarse voice barely audible over the crackle of flames in the hearth. "She screamed and cursed, and she flinched away from my touch as if I had burned her." His voice broke, and Elrond fell silent, his fingers digging into the hair at his temples.
"It is only the first night," Glorfindel said softly. "As her body heals, so too will her mind."
But Elrond only shook his head. "You have not felt her spirit," he said, and at last he looked up. Glorfindel's heart sank at the look upon his lord's face – it was blank and bare, as utterly hopeless as the dark before a cold winter's dawn. And when Elrond spoke again, his voice was as bleak and broken as the rest of him. "She is gone," he whispered. "She is broken, Glorfindel – broken, and I do not think I can heal this sort of wound."
=oOo=
Elrond turned, and looked out over the ruin of the battlefield. Orc corpses lay dark amid the broken stalks of short, terse grass that grew in the thin soil on the bluff, sprawled brokenly over the bare rocks that jutted out of the earth with craggy fingers. Broken spears and shattered swords littered the pools of congealing blood, and a tattered black and maroon banner lay trodden in the gore of its bearer's intestines, the shaft still clenched in a clawed hand locked in death.
His men were moving slowly through the battlefield, dealing quick deaths to any Orc clinging to life and sorting through the weapons and trophies that the Orcs carried. Others came after, gathering the corpses and bearing them to a growing pile, where they could be burned together.
The corpses nearest to him had not yet been touched. Whether this was due simply to the pattern his warriors were using, or if this was them purposefully giving him space Elrond could not be certain. Yet either way, he was thankful.
With slow steps, Elrond crossed the half dozen paces to the nearest corpse. He knelt beside the dead Orc, ignorant of the gore that stained his knees, and as if in a dream, reached out and seized the Orc's uneven chainmail shirt, rolling it over onto its back.
The Orc flopped over, as graceless in death as in life, revealing a belly shorn open and a chest half caved in. Its mouth was open, lips and teeth stained with black blood, murky eyes glassy and staring into the emptiness of the Void.
Elrond could not tear his gaze away from the Orc's face. Its eyes were empty in death, and yet its twisted expression was one of cold fear and agony. Could it have known it was about to die, and feared that darkness? Or was it fear of the one who killed it?
Who had killed this Orc? Could it have been him? Elrond's eyes drifted to the ugly wound that had claimed the Orc's life. It had been dealt as one blow, he judged, the brunt of the blow's force striking the Orc's lower rib cage, breaking the ribs and caving in the chest, before slicing down and across the Orc's stomach, spilling its insides to the ground. It must have been a terrible blow, to so completely destroy the Orc. Was he even strong enough to deliver such a blow?
But Elrond knew the answer to that question, even as he wondered. Yes, he thought, I am. In my rage – my hatred – I am more than capable. He grinned, feral and bitter. "I am capable of far worse," Elrond hissed at the Orc. You deserved as cruel an ending as you had – slow and agonizing.
The dead Orc did not reply; it merely stared at Elrond blankly, its twisted fear etched into its flesh for the rest of time.
=oOo=
He held Arwen as she wept, bitter and full of sorrow, and carried her to bed when she fell asleep in his arms.
He stood silent as the twins screamed at him in anger and fury, and said nothing when Elladan shoved him against the wall, the elder twin's hateful words echoing in his ears and in his heart. "If you had ridden out with us, you may have been able to save her. But you did not, you coward, and now you can't!"
Night after night, he sat beside her bed – the bed they once had shared – and he guarded her restless sleep. When the nightmares came he was there to take them from her, and guided her back to more peaceful paths of sleep. And when the nightmares came too thick and fast, and her screams began, he would sing and speak, telling her tales of happier times when the world was yet bright and full of joy.
But still she flinched at his touch.
=oOo=
A hand touched Elrond's shoulder, snapping his fixed attention from the corpse's face. He looked up quickly, shoving away his tumble of thoughts behind the cool, calm mask he had perfected beyond question in the past month and a half. It was Aravadhor once again, and his expression was somber, his eyes full of sorrow.
"We found Mornecthel's body," the captain said softly. "He looks to have been dragged from his mount and swarmed. A spear was still lodged in his chest when we found him."
Elrond felt himself go cold. Mornecthel dead? The Elf who had saved his younger son's life during that ill-fated journey to Mirkwood so many years ago? The Elf who had gone from an almost-enemy to Elrohir's fast friend and staunch supporter? No, he thought frantically, this cannot be. He cannot lose someone else so soon.
Aloud, Elrond said, "Where is he?" He rose, once more fighting back a wave of dizziness before turning to fix a hard look on Aravadhor.
Aravadhor watched his lord carefully, a tense look on his face. "Are you sure, my lord?" he asked tentatively. "I am not-"
"Do not try to coddle me," Elrond snapped, eyes blazing as he rounded on Aravadhor. "What do you think I am?"
Aravadhor drew himself up to his full height, eyes flashing in response to Elrond's challenge. "I think that you are grieving," he replied evenly, though his jaw was set in a stubborn line. "I think that you are angry, and afraid, and have already lost much – too much, perhaps." He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he was about to say. "I fear for you, my lord Elrond," he said at last. "I fear what you will become, if you lose yourself to this hate blooming in your heart."
"How dare you?" Elrond snarled, taking a threatening step forward to tower over the smaller Elf. "You have overstepped your bounds, Captain. You would do well to remember to whom it is you speak."
Aravadhor's jaw flexed, but he remained silent. Instead, he took half a step back and bowed. "As you say, my lord," he said stiffly. "Forgive me my concerns."
Elrond felt sick. What am I doing? he wondered. Have I truly fallen so far into darkness and despair that I am turning on my own people now?
"Aravadhor," he tried, reaching out to touch the captain's shoulder. But Aravadhor was just out of reach, and Elrond's hand fell dumbly back to his side as Aravadhor bowed again. "Aravadhor, please forgi-"
"No, my lord was right," Aravadhor said coldly. "I must needs remember my place. Forgive me, my lord. Let me show you to Mornecthel."
Not knowing what else to do or say, Elrond merely followed Aravadhor across the bluff. They picked their way carefully around the corpses still lying, bloating and buzzing with gathering flies, toward the far edge of the battlefield, two dozen paces from where the Orcs were being gathered to burn.
A single still form lay stretched out upon a patch of bare rock, a navy blue cloak draped across its full length. A splash of browning red dotted the hem of the cloak, as if it had been dragged across the soiled ground, but otherwise the cloth was clean and untorn. It could not be Aravadhor's cloak, Elrond knew.
Aravadhor stepped back, giving Elrond space to go forward. He did so, and knelt beside the still body, peeling the cloak back from Mornecthel's ashen face.
He was still in the way only an Elf in death can be still. Eyes closed, flesh pale and unnaturally dim, Mornecthel could appear to all the world as if he was merely sleeping – merely sleeping, but for the grey shadows that lurked beneath his skin, and the fact that Elves do not sleep with eyes closed.
At least he looks peaceful, Elrond thought. That is more than the Orc had. But he knew the truth, deep in his heart and very soul. He had killed Mornecthel, just as surely as he had slain the Orc.
Is this what hatred brings? Is death the only thing left for me now? My death, and the deaths of all those around me? I cannot save anyone, he thought bitterly. Not Celebrían. Not Mornecthel. Not even my own children. Are we all doomed to this fate? This darkness?
=oOo=
"I must go, Celebrían." His voice was soft, little more than a mere whisper in the muffled silence of the room. "Your mother and father are coming, and I must go out to meet them, to escort them safely to the Valley. The mountain passes are safe no longer," he added bitterly.
Celebrían, sitting propped up against the pillows, did not look at him. Her gaze remained on the cloth doll in her lap – the doll that had once belonged to Arwen, as a child. Elrond suspected that the doll reminded Celebrían of the past, Before, when there was peace. He had tried to take the toy from her once, needing to attend to her wounds, but she had screamed and bit him, and snatched the doll from his listless hands. Since then, he had not even dared to touch the doll, and Celebrían seemed the happier for it.
"Celebrían?" he asked now, gently. "Can you hear me?"
Mutely, Celebrían gave a small nod of her head. Her fingers twisted tighter around the doll's right hand.
"Good," Elrond said with a small smile. "Glorfindel will be here, if you need him, as will Arwen and the twins. I will be home again in only a few days," he promised. Again, Celebrían merely nodded, and her fingers twisted tighter and faster around the doll's crimped hand.
Elrond stood slowly, so as not to startle Celebrían, and then made his way to the door. But before he could reach for the latch, a tremulous voice, soft and hoarse, halted him abruptly.
"E-El?"
Elrond turned quickly, heart leaping into his throat as looked back, wondering vaguely if his sanity had at last snapped and he was now hearing her voice. But no, she was looking at him, fiddling mindlessly with the doll still in her lap as her haunted, ice blue eyes lay on him.
"Yes, my love?" Elrond asked, crossing back to the bed to kneel before her.
Celebrían did not reach out to touch him, or take his hand, but for the first time, she did not flinch or draw away. She looked at him, fear and something else warring painfully in her eyes. Elrond waited patiently, hardly daring to breathe.
At last, Celebrían seemed to give in. She shrank back against the pillows, and her eyes fell from Elrond's and back to the doll. But then, as soft as a summer breeze, Elrond heard her speak again. "Please," she whispered brokenly, "come back?"
=oOo=
"Come back."
He had promised her – had promised her that he would return. For the first time since he had known she had been taken – for the first time since he had Seen the Orcs drag her from her horse and carry her, kicking and biting and fighting, down into their den – he had felt a small glimmer of hope.
What have I done?
Elrond bowed his head, eyes clenched tightly shut to keep the tears at bay. Had he squandered what little hope he had? Death can only bring more death. He knew that – when had he forgotten it?
When I felt her dragged down into the darkness, he thought. When I felt her raped, and beaten, and raped again.
His hands clenched into fists, and he pressed them to his forehead. What have I done? he asked himself for a second time. These hands were meant for healing… What darkness have they wrought? Of course I could not heal her – how could I, with this sickness in my soul, this perversion in my heart?
Damn you, he whispered silently, violently. Damn you, Elrond, and your arrogance, your bitterness, your anger. What has it cost you?
But he knew the answer to that as well. Everything – it had cost him everything.
"What have I done?" he whispered, voice as broken as his heart. "Forgive me, Mornecthel," he pleaded. "Forgive me, Celebrían."
Forgive me, Father, he prayed, for I have sinned.
And at last, the tears spilled over, and Elrond wept.