Who Heals the Healer?
By Laura L.
Just playing in Tolkien's sandbox. With his toys.
Part One: "New to Grief"
It was in their hearts that Elves felt their mortality.
Arien reflected on this fact of nature as she stood before her lord, Celeborn, Prince of the Sindar. She had lingered, one of the rare heart- healers of her generation, longest in the Mortal Lands, and found that her role was now concluding, for she was leaving the lands of her birth on the Last Ship.
Another life awaited in the Undying Lands of Valinor, but like her lord, Arien found it a trial to find joy in the leave-taking from one to the other. It was not that she treasured her life in Middle-earth. No, indeed. The latest years had been the cruelest to her, and perhaps that was why she could find no joy in this passage; she had forgot how to feel joy.
It was in the heart that Elves feel their mortality, indeed. She had seen and felt that mortality in those last years.
"I, too, am reluctant," Celeborn said kindly, motioning with a slender hand for her to sit next to him. He held court on the foredeck of the ship, under the gauzy canopy erected in times of good weather. "Valinor is not the end, although you and I have perceived it as such, for both of us called Middle-earth our home. It is a place of new exploration, surely, for there are new forests to travel, new friends to make."
Arien nodded silent assent at this. She was not much in noble company, and feared that her unhappy mood would be taken as disrespect, and held her tongue. One was always careful around the eldest.
As ancient as he was, Lord Celeborn showed his long life only in his dark blue eyes that seemed as aged as the very world. Tall and long-limbed, both of them, with rare blue eyes in a race populated by gray-eyed people, and light haired as some Teleri were. She had forgotten the resemblance they shared, but now recalled with unease how it had been remarked how alike she and his daughter had seemed.
It had not been a comparison she relished.
Not for the first time she had pulled herself from sad lethargy below-decks to show her respect to the man who was her lord, and this time had brought with her a book of leaves that she had collected over her sojourns in her final years in Middle-earth. This Celeborn took in hand, examining every leaf with evident and unfeigned interest. He, too, had loved the woods too well. He said no word until he was finished, and returned the book, looking finally on her face with eyes unfathomable as the deepest lake.
"You are young and new to grief," he said finally, in that quiet way he had. "As a healer you have seen suffering, and in your own way have suffered as equally, but now you must bear your own griefs as we all must." He looked out upon the calm ocean, his eyes reflecting the waters. "I remember your parents."
Arien was glad of it. Both of her parents had lost their lives in the fall of Doriath, when Arien had been little more than a child. Her father's name was now legend; her mother's name lost in the winds of past history. But she had a good family name that harkened to Elu Thingol, one that she was proud of, and an allegiance to one just as noble.
"Arien Cúthalion," he said. "Did you know my daughter?"
"Nay, Lord, I did not," she said. Would that she did not know that name, or that name's sorrow. "I know of her, of course. I was his healer, as you know, My Lord."
He may have forgotten, but his look said otherwise. Celeborn the Wise, they said, did not forget. It was as much a failing as it was a strength. "You have her look, but you will be stronger, I doubt it not."
The story of his daughter, Celebrían, was well known, even to those who were not privy to the family's woes. Arien was rare in that she had known the husband, the Lord of Imladris, and had guided him through the heartbreak of his wife's leave-taking.
Celeborn was still a moment, then with eyes flickering, he inquired: "Who named you, Lady?"
"I know not, My Lord," she replied. "Some say my mother; others my father."
"I would lay odds on your mother," he said, but did not explain himself. "Have you never been given an epesse?"
"My given name always seemed apt enough," she said with a smile. Her name was rather unimaginative, but one of ancient origin, and optimistic.
"Celebarien," he said after a moment's thought.
For a moment, she did not understand his meaning, then she found herself smiling in pleased surprise. This was a great honor, and would have been presumptuous of a lesser man, but to his people, Celeborn was as a king.
"Celebarien," she repeated. Suddenly, a name she had thought as common took on a different stress, and it was lovely, so exquisite that she felt she might weep. "Many thanks, Great Lord," she breathed. "Silver light of the sun. I hope I shall carry the name graciously."
"As I, you will have to grow into it," the lord said, somewhat dryly. "I do not regret you your task, however. And a new name for a new land is not so hard a trial."
"No, indeed, Lord," she said.
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She stood behind with his knights and marchwardens as the ship passed Tol Eressëa (marked because Celeborn had been named for the silver tree that grew there) and Alqualondë, where many a well-remembering eye lingered, and slipped into the Bay of Eldamar.
When he saw his wife, Galadriel Lady of the Galadhrim, on the docks, his silvery blue aura sparked and flared. He seemed to stand taller, and a brightness came to his eye. Celebarien's healer's soul rejoiced in this newfound happiness, even as her own soul grieved. There was no kin, no father or mother there on the shore for her, no relatives, for many had died in Doriath's siege in ancient days. Only scattered cousins remained, many of them unknowable by face although she knew their names. She had been ward to the Healers House for time immemorial.
And sadder still, her healer's duty, the bitterest duty, was yet to come. Already, she perceived that there would be some left waiting on the dock, lingering for Elves who would never arrive, who had faded from despair or had willed themselves to death. It was her last responsibility to deliver the news of their loved ones' fates.
But as her eyes strayed idly through the assembled crowds on the shore, past the Lady's entourage, she caught a grouping clad in sky blue, and a tall male with sunset-auburn hair among them. Yávië? Was it Yávië, she wondered, for few had that coloring, and that sky-blue color was the healers' color. If Celebarien were forced to name one person who had succored her in the place of her deceased parents, it would Yávië's name she would utter, and happily.
Why so many in healer's blue, she wondered, unless they too understood the last duty here? It certainly wasn't for her arrival. Oft the bitter wellspring of her memory reminded her how little she had been regarded, left in Middle-earth for the harshest of duties, alone among the healers to take on the burden. No one had stayed to help shoulder that task.
A swell of welcoming cries greeted Celeborn as he glided down the ship, but Celebarien and his household held back on deck; no one crowded him as he approached his wife as she stood in the forefront of the welcoming throng. In fact, a hush fell. Theirs had been a strange romance, more often apart than together, two personalities more often at odds than at peace. The lady Galadriel was as powerful, ambitious and perilous as she was beautiful, but her husband's retiring and deep-thinking nature seemed to counter-balance those traits in her even as his pale silver coloring complemented her golden hair.
Lord Celeborn took his wife's hands and raised them briefly to his lips. Ah, he was happy, she could see, and the lady herself was pleased to see her lover. More than pleased, if Celebarien read that shining aura rightly. And why not, to have a husband such as he return at last?
"Ah," someone sighed behind her.
She was one of the last to leave the ship, an eye to see if the horses were being unloaded and the other eye on the group of blue-garbed healers. Indeed, it was Yávië striding purposefully forward.
It was then, strangely, she realized there had been two conspicuously absent from Celeborn's welcome, and one of them had been his beloved daughter.
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"How should I interpret this welcome?" she asked Yávië, taking his hands.
"No interpretation required," the healer replied with a bright smile, "only that we have waited for your arrival for these many years."
Celebarien nodded to the healers behind her friend, recognizing some faces from Lothlórien's healers' enclave. Her eyes strayed to the docks, where the Lord and Lady were mounting to leave, shipping masters unloading baggage and animals from the hold, and a few Elves stood, waiting.
Waiting for someone who would never come. She blinked and tightened her grip on Yávië's hands and the healer made a soft sound of commiseration.
"It is my obligation," Celebarien told him. "Will you wait?"
"I will do better," he replied. "I will help."
And so it was that Celebarien Cúthalion, the last healer from the Last Ship, dispatched her final duty laid upon her by the lands of her birth, and told the closing tales of those willingly left behind to the ones most destroyed by the hearing.
She had long ago left her family's horses in the care of the Lothlorien stable master, for a healer rarely had need of a horse, especially a horse bred to the hunt and fight, as her family's were apt to be bred. Her favorite, Morrillë, she had seen debark for the Galadhrim's stables, and so allowed herself to be mounted on a more placid steed who would follow her companions without complaint.
They had established themselves in the greater Woods of Orome, woods much like those as they had in Middle-earth in the early years when Lothlórien had been young and fully preserved by Elvish power. Yávië told her that most Elves lived in cities in Valinor, Tirion and Alqualondë in particular, which made the woods open domain for tree dwellers like themselves and the Elves out of Mirkwood, who had also taken up their old ways deeper in the interior.
"There are such trees here as you would love," she was told. "And some still think and move, even talk. There are mallorn high and stately as ever they had been in Lórien. The expanse is wider, and the healers have their own quarter a little deeper into the woods; it is quiet and perfect, and there is a river."
Yávië's descriptions brought her out of her melancholy enough to glance about. It might have been Middle-earth ages in the past, a paradise of perfectly artistic roads, fields yellow with wild flowers, woods standing vast and old, where no ax had been felt, ever. She found herself blinking about, waking a bit. She was in Valinor, and no one had died here but by his or her own will for thousands of years, and all was plentiful.
In the early evening, they turned south and passed under the eaves of a great forest, and she could see that there were mallorn interspersed among the smaller trees. Here and there, Galadhrim marchwardens, armed in the particular way of her people with bow and knife, stood among the trees, watching their passing. In Lórien, they would have been guards, but now they just watched. One of them she recognized.
"Haldir," she murmured, and reigned in her horse as the dark-haired Galadhrim lord stepped out from under the shade of the trees into the path. Haldir had known her father and had taught her the bow and arrow. He was more uncle to her than any of her real kin.
"Arien," he said. "Or pardon, Lord Celeborn said you have a new epesse."
Her companion healers looked at her in askance; she had not gotten around to explaining that detail.
"Celebarien," she said, to them and to him. "I like it well."
He helped her down and they embraced. Then he set her back and bit and studied her face with an acute eye. "I see why he gave you that name," he said after a moment. "You look like her."
There was a stir among her friends and he glanced at them, lifting a brow. "You haven't told her?"
"Nay," Yávië muttered. "We were hoping not to add to her grief today."
"It is inevitable," he returned. "The lord and lady will summon her tonight; doubt it not."
"What has happened? What haven't you told me?"
"It concerns Lord Celeborn. His daughter, the Lady Celebrían (after who you were named, I am sure), willed herself to death less than a moon ago. Once off the road, I'm sure he will be told; he might already suspect, because neither she nor her husband, Elrond, were among the welcomers today."
Celebarien rubbed her arms as if to ward off a chill. She had seen too many Elves will their deaths, and yet could not feel complacent over such a deed. "Why?"
"She was never the same after the Orcs took her. Even coming here did not completely heal her, and now that her sons are full grown, and her father assured to return, and all safe, she must have thought it her time to go."
Yávië sighed. "It is not uncommon here, .Celebarien. The happiness of this place sometimes has the opposite effect on those scarred by their lives in Middle-earth."
Celebarien closed her eyes, envisioning a fair, grave face, long lengths of black hair and eyes clear and gray. How she had avoided thinking on him! "How has Lord Elrond taken it?" She knew that this was the worst thing for him, after his children had decided to remain on Middle-earth. The ultimate of defections, leaving him alone.
"Hard. He was ever hopeful that she might one day return to herself, and for a time, when he came to these shores, she seemed to be happy. But it soon passed. Her pain was inside, where no one could touch it, not even him."
Haldir sighed. "We all fear Lord Celeborn's reaction."
"He loved his daughter very much," Celebarien said. "Am I not proof of that? He gave me a special place on the voyage, and named me for her. Oh, poor our lord! I cannot stand to think how he will suffer."
"He will call for you tonight, I am sure," Haldir replied, and helped her remount. "I will come to your encampment, when you are summoned."
They bid each other farewell and the healers continued their trek into the new forests of the Galadhrim, the woods of Loreryn.
The summons came soon after sundown, and Celebarien followed a grave Haldir into the new home of the Galadhrim, the center of the vast forests. There, the mallorn grew so tall, they far surpassed the great trees of Lothlórien, and their golden flowers bloomed large and bright in the dimness of the darkening night. The flets upon these trees were familiar in design, but the power of the Valar was in their making, and they seemed one with the trees that supported them. Here, the power of Galadriel was also visible, and it had grown in proportion to the power of Valinor. Celebarien wondered if Celeborn, himself Sindarin and a "dark Elf," would also find power here, having never once seen the Light of the Trees, nor ever set foot in this land before this day.
In that way, her own fate and her lord's were entwined, both strangers, both grieved by the pain inflicted upon them by the only home they ever knew.
But poor her lord! To lose one's child must be the sharpest of all torments, for children were rare, and he had only the one in his whole life. It was true that after a certain amount of time, many of their people lost the need to procreate and turned their passions to other areas of their lives. There was still love in the arms of their mates, but their energies went elsewhere, and there were fewer children.
Haldir was silent at her side, his eyes seemingly turned inward on some solemn thought, but as their steps brought them into the main clearing and in the sight of the greatest mallorn, he said: "Be of comfort to him. No wound is upon him, but his heart ."
The climb was long but there were known faces as she passed others on the steps, though few she knew by name. She had not, or ever had been, a fixture in the court surrounding the Lord and Lady, her only contacts being with those other healers and those whom she had tended.
But each gaze she met with her own held the sad understanding of why she was here, and what her purpose was. Towards the top, one visage arrested her, its familiarity momentarily stunning her. For a moment she battled for breath, but long practice gave her the semblance of calm.
This one was no stranger, for he had come to her in times past, visiting the land of his father-in-law, his heart minutely scarred by the defection of his wife.
Elrond, formerly lord of Imladris and husband to the esteemed Lady Celebrían.
Their eyes met and he stepped forward, stopping her. His expression, pale and pained, somewhat reassured her healer's heart with its mildness. Despite the sturdiness of his heritage, the lord was rather oversensitive and introverted, and had not purged his grief and guilt over his wife's torments and departure. It warmed her that he seemed to be dealing well with his emotions now, his eyes still clear, meeting hers without flinching.
"My lord," she said, inclining her head, her heart quickening its pace, part panic, part some other unacknowledged emotion.
"I would not delay you," he said, and held out a hand to a companion next to him. He brought up a circlet of small mallorn flowers, cunningly plaited, and placed them on her crown. He was tall and she did not have to lower her head. "Be welcome, Lady. I hope you can bring heart's ease to my father as you have to me in the past."
"You are kind," she returned. "And would that I had hours to ask after your own heart, but I fear it is not to be."
"I am not the one who needs you most," he said with a little, pleased smile. "But we will have those hours, never fear." He offered his arm, and Haldir relinquished her in deference to the other lord.
They came into the greatest inner chamber, and it was not as she feared; there was a small select company here, not the crowds she had dreaded. Elrond brought her straight to the seated Lord and Lady. "The Lady Celebarien," he announced unnecessarily, and stepped away, her last prop vanishing.
She dropped into a deep obeisance, and rose to find the two watching her, their hands joined between their close-standing chairs.
"I had forgotten," the Lady murmured in her husky voice. "Beleg's daughter. you have been too long away from the center of our kingdom, ensconced among your own kind."
There was a pause, to which Celebarien responded: "I have not the nature of a courtier, great lady."
"Nor do many healers," Elrond said from his seat, himself a healer and wise in such matters. "We put them away like delicate flowers, their nectars to be cherished when need arises." There was a strange emphasis on "need" but Celebarien could not pursue it.
Celeborn raised his free hand to her, and motioned to the empty chair at his side. "Come, and do not make yourself rare for us now."
She obeyed, aware of eyes following her every motion, and so focused was she on making it to that chair without fault that she too audaciously took the hand offered. Too late she wished to take back such a bold gesture, but Lord Celeborn's hand tightened on her own, and she was once again arrested by a grief-stricken visage.
Lord Celeborn was older even than Lord Elrond was, and the grief was only in his eyes, but it was enough to strike to the heart of her, its bleakness. Her own eyes welled in sympathy, and she shut them, but it was too late. Tears spilled against her cold cheeks.
Celeborn's voice overlaid the amazed murmur of the witnesses about her. "What is this, Lady? You have no need for tears."
Galadriel's voice replied for her: "Indeed, she does, for she weeps for you, dearest lord. Hers is a sensitive heart."
Celebarien blinked and looked surprised upon the Lady of the Galadhrim, whose eyes were unexpectedly kind.
She let hands guide her to sit down, and took at cup pressed into her hand. A respectful silence had fallen, and she dared not look up for fear of seeing herself as the center of attention.
"Let no one suppose that Lady Celebarien is some overnice novice," Elrond said. "I myself am in her debt, and many among the residents and visitors of the Galadhrim who knew the wounds of grief have much to thank her for. Hers is a talent not ever duplicated in Middle-earth since the Ring War, a true heart healer. If you imagine that we treat our healers gently, than a heart healer herself should be handled like so much delicate glass."
She looked up to protest and caught a small smile from the peredhel echoed in Celeborn's weary face. She shook her head and laughed for his benefit. "My work is not to hide in a velvet box, Great Lord, as well you know. Indeed, in the last years I was everywhere between Mirkwood and Fangorn in the name of duty."
"Indeed," Celeborn agreed at Elrond's raised eyebrow, "she was tending those who would not return and giving hope to those who were undecided."
"And collecting leaves along the way," Celebarien added with a smile. "I was even honored to come across a Tree Shepherd on one occasion; not Fangorn himself, but one of the lesser. Fangorn had moved west, towards the lands of the Shire."
"Good news.indeed the best," Galadriel exclaimed, pleased for some reason that eluded Celebarien. "One can hope his kind would find those long- sundered in history."
Celeborn raised his lady's hand to his lips briefly. Celebarien sipped her wine before setting it aside. Turning in her chair, she looked at her lord, and he, interpreting her look, turned fully toward her and gave forth his hands into hers.
A hush fell. Celebarien closed her eyes, centering herself in time and space behind her closed eyelids, feeling her soul rooting deep in the center of her being, branching up through her diaphragm, and sending tendrils of energy through her limbs and out through her eyes. Then she looked deep into Celeborn's eyes, eyes so bottomless that she thought she could see the awakening of the Quendi in them. Elves of his age who had weathered through the ages were as mountains with deep roots. Adversities crashed uselessly against them, inflicting hurts that did not sink deep enough to truly wound them. But every once in a while those seemingly impervious mountains would take a strike that tore away at their core, and those around them could only wonder why that grief was the one to wound when so many others had glanced off with hardly a scratch.
The curious act of heart-healing was never something she could describe. It had the feeling of falling into another, and yet she could not consciously say what she saw, except what came to her in the moment she spoke. Whatever her own heart saw, it would translate into the words that would mend. "My Lord," she said quietly, "dwell only on how she was in life. Recall that she loved you. Then, Dearest Lord, set her free. She was ever caged by her life no matter where she went. She had to find her happiness elsewhere."
A soft sound behind her gave her to know that Elrond had taken that like salt to a wound. Inwardly she winced. Her injunction could have been to him as equally as Celeborn.
Her lord bowed his head, his eyes closing. How tender and fragile he seemed suddenly!
"This is the land of renewal, is it not?" she murmured. "Shall we not cast off our griefs together, and look about us as if we were children? "
Dark blue eyes rose to meet hers, brightened with spilling light. Fingers gripped hers desperately. She never had the gift of thought-speech; her talent was within the compass of feeling, not words. This profound connection she felt went beyond anything she could recognize. It reminded her of only one other, with whom she had briefly shared a vaguely similar rapport during the course of his healing. She suddenly knew that this connection meant that she had reached her lord, and that his soul was responding, just as Elrond's had. But there was no threat to it, and indeed she welcomed it.
There was a soft murmur. Celebarien blinked, focused once again on blue eyes much like her own. Celeborn was smiling, and his grip had softened and turned. Celebarien tried to smile, but she found it shaky, and the familiar trembling set in, until her lord's grasp tightened in concern.
There was a movement behind her, and Elrond's dark head leaned over her shoulder, his hand at her elbow. "Lady? Are you too drained to stand?"
"A moment," she murmured. The cup was pressed in her hand, and she sipped it, not wanting to compound her weariness with the softening effects of alcohol. But to her surprise, she tasted miruvor. She slid a glance at Elrond, whose concerned expression lightened in response. "Yes, please," she whispered to him, and he helped her up.
Celeborn stood with her, taking her hand briefly before letting Elrond lead her away. The flet and its people blurred in her eyes. Just outside, she grabbed the hard arm of the Half-elven as her knees gave way. The world tilted, and she knew he had swung her up into his arms. A susurrus of voices distorted and paled, just as vision and feeling washed away.
Just playing in Tolkien's sandbox. With his toys.
Part One: "New to Grief"
It was in their hearts that Elves felt their mortality.
Arien reflected on this fact of nature as she stood before her lord, Celeborn, Prince of the Sindar. She had lingered, one of the rare heart- healers of her generation, longest in the Mortal Lands, and found that her role was now concluding, for she was leaving the lands of her birth on the Last Ship.
Another life awaited in the Undying Lands of Valinor, but like her lord, Arien found it a trial to find joy in the leave-taking from one to the other. It was not that she treasured her life in Middle-earth. No, indeed. The latest years had been the cruelest to her, and perhaps that was why she could find no joy in this passage; she had forgot how to feel joy.
It was in the heart that Elves feel their mortality, indeed. She had seen and felt that mortality in those last years.
"I, too, am reluctant," Celeborn said kindly, motioning with a slender hand for her to sit next to him. He held court on the foredeck of the ship, under the gauzy canopy erected in times of good weather. "Valinor is not the end, although you and I have perceived it as such, for both of us called Middle-earth our home. It is a place of new exploration, surely, for there are new forests to travel, new friends to make."
Arien nodded silent assent at this. She was not much in noble company, and feared that her unhappy mood would be taken as disrespect, and held her tongue. One was always careful around the eldest.
As ancient as he was, Lord Celeborn showed his long life only in his dark blue eyes that seemed as aged as the very world. Tall and long-limbed, both of them, with rare blue eyes in a race populated by gray-eyed people, and light haired as some Teleri were. She had forgotten the resemblance they shared, but now recalled with unease how it had been remarked how alike she and his daughter had seemed.
It had not been a comparison she relished.
Not for the first time she had pulled herself from sad lethargy below-decks to show her respect to the man who was her lord, and this time had brought with her a book of leaves that she had collected over her sojourns in her final years in Middle-earth. This Celeborn took in hand, examining every leaf with evident and unfeigned interest. He, too, had loved the woods too well. He said no word until he was finished, and returned the book, looking finally on her face with eyes unfathomable as the deepest lake.
"You are young and new to grief," he said finally, in that quiet way he had. "As a healer you have seen suffering, and in your own way have suffered as equally, but now you must bear your own griefs as we all must." He looked out upon the calm ocean, his eyes reflecting the waters. "I remember your parents."
Arien was glad of it. Both of her parents had lost their lives in the fall of Doriath, when Arien had been little more than a child. Her father's name was now legend; her mother's name lost in the winds of past history. But she had a good family name that harkened to Elu Thingol, one that she was proud of, and an allegiance to one just as noble.
"Arien Cúthalion," he said. "Did you know my daughter?"
"Nay, Lord, I did not," she said. Would that she did not know that name, or that name's sorrow. "I know of her, of course. I was his healer, as you know, My Lord."
He may have forgotten, but his look said otherwise. Celeborn the Wise, they said, did not forget. It was as much a failing as it was a strength. "You have her look, but you will be stronger, I doubt it not."
The story of his daughter, Celebrían, was well known, even to those who were not privy to the family's woes. Arien was rare in that she had known the husband, the Lord of Imladris, and had guided him through the heartbreak of his wife's leave-taking.
Celeborn was still a moment, then with eyes flickering, he inquired: "Who named you, Lady?"
"I know not, My Lord," she replied. "Some say my mother; others my father."
"I would lay odds on your mother," he said, but did not explain himself. "Have you never been given an epesse?"
"My given name always seemed apt enough," she said with a smile. Her name was rather unimaginative, but one of ancient origin, and optimistic.
"Celebarien," he said after a moment's thought.
For a moment, she did not understand his meaning, then she found herself smiling in pleased surprise. This was a great honor, and would have been presumptuous of a lesser man, but to his people, Celeborn was as a king.
"Celebarien," she repeated. Suddenly, a name she had thought as common took on a different stress, and it was lovely, so exquisite that she felt she might weep. "Many thanks, Great Lord," she breathed. "Silver light of the sun. I hope I shall carry the name graciously."
"As I, you will have to grow into it," the lord said, somewhat dryly. "I do not regret you your task, however. And a new name for a new land is not so hard a trial."
"No, indeed, Lord," she said.
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She stood behind with his knights and marchwardens as the ship passed Tol Eressëa (marked because Celeborn had been named for the silver tree that grew there) and Alqualondë, where many a well-remembering eye lingered, and slipped into the Bay of Eldamar.
When he saw his wife, Galadriel Lady of the Galadhrim, on the docks, his silvery blue aura sparked and flared. He seemed to stand taller, and a brightness came to his eye. Celebarien's healer's soul rejoiced in this newfound happiness, even as her own soul grieved. There was no kin, no father or mother there on the shore for her, no relatives, for many had died in Doriath's siege in ancient days. Only scattered cousins remained, many of them unknowable by face although she knew their names. She had been ward to the Healers House for time immemorial.
And sadder still, her healer's duty, the bitterest duty, was yet to come. Already, she perceived that there would be some left waiting on the dock, lingering for Elves who would never arrive, who had faded from despair or had willed themselves to death. It was her last responsibility to deliver the news of their loved ones' fates.
But as her eyes strayed idly through the assembled crowds on the shore, past the Lady's entourage, she caught a grouping clad in sky blue, and a tall male with sunset-auburn hair among them. Yávië? Was it Yávië, she wondered, for few had that coloring, and that sky-blue color was the healers' color. If Celebarien were forced to name one person who had succored her in the place of her deceased parents, it would Yávië's name she would utter, and happily.
Why so many in healer's blue, she wondered, unless they too understood the last duty here? It certainly wasn't for her arrival. Oft the bitter wellspring of her memory reminded her how little she had been regarded, left in Middle-earth for the harshest of duties, alone among the healers to take on the burden. No one had stayed to help shoulder that task.
A swell of welcoming cries greeted Celeborn as he glided down the ship, but Celebarien and his household held back on deck; no one crowded him as he approached his wife as she stood in the forefront of the welcoming throng. In fact, a hush fell. Theirs had been a strange romance, more often apart than together, two personalities more often at odds than at peace. The lady Galadriel was as powerful, ambitious and perilous as she was beautiful, but her husband's retiring and deep-thinking nature seemed to counter-balance those traits in her even as his pale silver coloring complemented her golden hair.
Lord Celeborn took his wife's hands and raised them briefly to his lips. Ah, he was happy, she could see, and the lady herself was pleased to see her lover. More than pleased, if Celebarien read that shining aura rightly. And why not, to have a husband such as he return at last?
"Ah," someone sighed behind her.
She was one of the last to leave the ship, an eye to see if the horses were being unloaded and the other eye on the group of blue-garbed healers. Indeed, it was Yávië striding purposefully forward.
It was then, strangely, she realized there had been two conspicuously absent from Celeborn's welcome, and one of them had been his beloved daughter.
+++++++
"How should I interpret this welcome?" she asked Yávië, taking his hands.
"No interpretation required," the healer replied with a bright smile, "only that we have waited for your arrival for these many years."
Celebarien nodded to the healers behind her friend, recognizing some faces from Lothlórien's healers' enclave. Her eyes strayed to the docks, where the Lord and Lady were mounting to leave, shipping masters unloading baggage and animals from the hold, and a few Elves stood, waiting.
Waiting for someone who would never come. She blinked and tightened her grip on Yávië's hands and the healer made a soft sound of commiseration.
"It is my obligation," Celebarien told him. "Will you wait?"
"I will do better," he replied. "I will help."
And so it was that Celebarien Cúthalion, the last healer from the Last Ship, dispatched her final duty laid upon her by the lands of her birth, and told the closing tales of those willingly left behind to the ones most destroyed by the hearing.
She had long ago left her family's horses in the care of the Lothlorien stable master, for a healer rarely had need of a horse, especially a horse bred to the hunt and fight, as her family's were apt to be bred. Her favorite, Morrillë, she had seen debark for the Galadhrim's stables, and so allowed herself to be mounted on a more placid steed who would follow her companions without complaint.
They had established themselves in the greater Woods of Orome, woods much like those as they had in Middle-earth in the early years when Lothlórien had been young and fully preserved by Elvish power. Yávië told her that most Elves lived in cities in Valinor, Tirion and Alqualondë in particular, which made the woods open domain for tree dwellers like themselves and the Elves out of Mirkwood, who had also taken up their old ways deeper in the interior.
"There are such trees here as you would love," she was told. "And some still think and move, even talk. There are mallorn high and stately as ever they had been in Lórien. The expanse is wider, and the healers have their own quarter a little deeper into the woods; it is quiet and perfect, and there is a river."
Yávië's descriptions brought her out of her melancholy enough to glance about. It might have been Middle-earth ages in the past, a paradise of perfectly artistic roads, fields yellow with wild flowers, woods standing vast and old, where no ax had been felt, ever. She found herself blinking about, waking a bit. She was in Valinor, and no one had died here but by his or her own will for thousands of years, and all was plentiful.
In the early evening, they turned south and passed under the eaves of a great forest, and she could see that there were mallorn interspersed among the smaller trees. Here and there, Galadhrim marchwardens, armed in the particular way of her people with bow and knife, stood among the trees, watching their passing. In Lórien, they would have been guards, but now they just watched. One of them she recognized.
"Haldir," she murmured, and reigned in her horse as the dark-haired Galadhrim lord stepped out from under the shade of the trees into the path. Haldir had known her father and had taught her the bow and arrow. He was more uncle to her than any of her real kin.
"Arien," he said. "Or pardon, Lord Celeborn said you have a new epesse."
Her companion healers looked at her in askance; she had not gotten around to explaining that detail.
"Celebarien," she said, to them and to him. "I like it well."
He helped her down and they embraced. Then he set her back and bit and studied her face with an acute eye. "I see why he gave you that name," he said after a moment. "You look like her."
There was a stir among her friends and he glanced at them, lifting a brow. "You haven't told her?"
"Nay," Yávië muttered. "We were hoping not to add to her grief today."
"It is inevitable," he returned. "The lord and lady will summon her tonight; doubt it not."
"What has happened? What haven't you told me?"
"It concerns Lord Celeborn. His daughter, the Lady Celebrían (after who you were named, I am sure), willed herself to death less than a moon ago. Once off the road, I'm sure he will be told; he might already suspect, because neither she nor her husband, Elrond, were among the welcomers today."
Celebarien rubbed her arms as if to ward off a chill. She had seen too many Elves will their deaths, and yet could not feel complacent over such a deed. "Why?"
"She was never the same after the Orcs took her. Even coming here did not completely heal her, and now that her sons are full grown, and her father assured to return, and all safe, she must have thought it her time to go."
Yávië sighed. "It is not uncommon here, .Celebarien. The happiness of this place sometimes has the opposite effect on those scarred by their lives in Middle-earth."
Celebarien closed her eyes, envisioning a fair, grave face, long lengths of black hair and eyes clear and gray. How she had avoided thinking on him! "How has Lord Elrond taken it?" She knew that this was the worst thing for him, after his children had decided to remain on Middle-earth. The ultimate of defections, leaving him alone.
"Hard. He was ever hopeful that she might one day return to herself, and for a time, when he came to these shores, she seemed to be happy. But it soon passed. Her pain was inside, where no one could touch it, not even him."
Haldir sighed. "We all fear Lord Celeborn's reaction."
"He loved his daughter very much," Celebarien said. "Am I not proof of that? He gave me a special place on the voyage, and named me for her. Oh, poor our lord! I cannot stand to think how he will suffer."
"He will call for you tonight, I am sure," Haldir replied, and helped her remount. "I will come to your encampment, when you are summoned."
They bid each other farewell and the healers continued their trek into the new forests of the Galadhrim, the woods of Loreryn.
The summons came soon after sundown, and Celebarien followed a grave Haldir into the new home of the Galadhrim, the center of the vast forests. There, the mallorn grew so tall, they far surpassed the great trees of Lothlórien, and their golden flowers bloomed large and bright in the dimness of the darkening night. The flets upon these trees were familiar in design, but the power of the Valar was in their making, and they seemed one with the trees that supported them. Here, the power of Galadriel was also visible, and it had grown in proportion to the power of Valinor. Celebarien wondered if Celeborn, himself Sindarin and a "dark Elf," would also find power here, having never once seen the Light of the Trees, nor ever set foot in this land before this day.
In that way, her own fate and her lord's were entwined, both strangers, both grieved by the pain inflicted upon them by the only home they ever knew.
But poor her lord! To lose one's child must be the sharpest of all torments, for children were rare, and he had only the one in his whole life. It was true that after a certain amount of time, many of their people lost the need to procreate and turned their passions to other areas of their lives. There was still love in the arms of their mates, but their energies went elsewhere, and there were fewer children.
Haldir was silent at her side, his eyes seemingly turned inward on some solemn thought, but as their steps brought them into the main clearing and in the sight of the greatest mallorn, he said: "Be of comfort to him. No wound is upon him, but his heart ."
The climb was long but there were known faces as she passed others on the steps, though few she knew by name. She had not, or ever had been, a fixture in the court surrounding the Lord and Lady, her only contacts being with those other healers and those whom she had tended.
But each gaze she met with her own held the sad understanding of why she was here, and what her purpose was. Towards the top, one visage arrested her, its familiarity momentarily stunning her. For a moment she battled for breath, but long practice gave her the semblance of calm.
This one was no stranger, for he had come to her in times past, visiting the land of his father-in-law, his heart minutely scarred by the defection of his wife.
Elrond, formerly lord of Imladris and husband to the esteemed Lady Celebrían.
Their eyes met and he stepped forward, stopping her. His expression, pale and pained, somewhat reassured her healer's heart with its mildness. Despite the sturdiness of his heritage, the lord was rather oversensitive and introverted, and had not purged his grief and guilt over his wife's torments and departure. It warmed her that he seemed to be dealing well with his emotions now, his eyes still clear, meeting hers without flinching.
"My lord," she said, inclining her head, her heart quickening its pace, part panic, part some other unacknowledged emotion.
"I would not delay you," he said, and held out a hand to a companion next to him. He brought up a circlet of small mallorn flowers, cunningly plaited, and placed them on her crown. He was tall and she did not have to lower her head. "Be welcome, Lady. I hope you can bring heart's ease to my father as you have to me in the past."
"You are kind," she returned. "And would that I had hours to ask after your own heart, but I fear it is not to be."
"I am not the one who needs you most," he said with a little, pleased smile. "But we will have those hours, never fear." He offered his arm, and Haldir relinquished her in deference to the other lord.
They came into the greatest inner chamber, and it was not as she feared; there was a small select company here, not the crowds she had dreaded. Elrond brought her straight to the seated Lord and Lady. "The Lady Celebarien," he announced unnecessarily, and stepped away, her last prop vanishing.
She dropped into a deep obeisance, and rose to find the two watching her, their hands joined between their close-standing chairs.
"I had forgotten," the Lady murmured in her husky voice. "Beleg's daughter. you have been too long away from the center of our kingdom, ensconced among your own kind."
There was a pause, to which Celebarien responded: "I have not the nature of a courtier, great lady."
"Nor do many healers," Elrond said from his seat, himself a healer and wise in such matters. "We put them away like delicate flowers, their nectars to be cherished when need arises." There was a strange emphasis on "need" but Celebarien could not pursue it.
Celeborn raised his free hand to her, and motioned to the empty chair at his side. "Come, and do not make yourself rare for us now."
She obeyed, aware of eyes following her every motion, and so focused was she on making it to that chair without fault that she too audaciously took the hand offered. Too late she wished to take back such a bold gesture, but Lord Celeborn's hand tightened on her own, and she was once again arrested by a grief-stricken visage.
Lord Celeborn was older even than Lord Elrond was, and the grief was only in his eyes, but it was enough to strike to the heart of her, its bleakness. Her own eyes welled in sympathy, and she shut them, but it was too late. Tears spilled against her cold cheeks.
Celeborn's voice overlaid the amazed murmur of the witnesses about her. "What is this, Lady? You have no need for tears."
Galadriel's voice replied for her: "Indeed, she does, for she weeps for you, dearest lord. Hers is a sensitive heart."
Celebarien blinked and looked surprised upon the Lady of the Galadhrim, whose eyes were unexpectedly kind.
She let hands guide her to sit down, and took at cup pressed into her hand. A respectful silence had fallen, and she dared not look up for fear of seeing herself as the center of attention.
"Let no one suppose that Lady Celebarien is some overnice novice," Elrond said. "I myself am in her debt, and many among the residents and visitors of the Galadhrim who knew the wounds of grief have much to thank her for. Hers is a talent not ever duplicated in Middle-earth since the Ring War, a true heart healer. If you imagine that we treat our healers gently, than a heart healer herself should be handled like so much delicate glass."
She looked up to protest and caught a small smile from the peredhel echoed in Celeborn's weary face. She shook her head and laughed for his benefit. "My work is not to hide in a velvet box, Great Lord, as well you know. Indeed, in the last years I was everywhere between Mirkwood and Fangorn in the name of duty."
"Indeed," Celeborn agreed at Elrond's raised eyebrow, "she was tending those who would not return and giving hope to those who were undecided."
"And collecting leaves along the way," Celebarien added with a smile. "I was even honored to come across a Tree Shepherd on one occasion; not Fangorn himself, but one of the lesser. Fangorn had moved west, towards the lands of the Shire."
"Good news.indeed the best," Galadriel exclaimed, pleased for some reason that eluded Celebarien. "One can hope his kind would find those long- sundered in history."
Celeborn raised his lady's hand to his lips briefly. Celebarien sipped her wine before setting it aside. Turning in her chair, she looked at her lord, and he, interpreting her look, turned fully toward her and gave forth his hands into hers.
A hush fell. Celebarien closed her eyes, centering herself in time and space behind her closed eyelids, feeling her soul rooting deep in the center of her being, branching up through her diaphragm, and sending tendrils of energy through her limbs and out through her eyes. Then she looked deep into Celeborn's eyes, eyes so bottomless that she thought she could see the awakening of the Quendi in them. Elves of his age who had weathered through the ages were as mountains with deep roots. Adversities crashed uselessly against them, inflicting hurts that did not sink deep enough to truly wound them. But every once in a while those seemingly impervious mountains would take a strike that tore away at their core, and those around them could only wonder why that grief was the one to wound when so many others had glanced off with hardly a scratch.
The curious act of heart-healing was never something she could describe. It had the feeling of falling into another, and yet she could not consciously say what she saw, except what came to her in the moment she spoke. Whatever her own heart saw, it would translate into the words that would mend. "My Lord," she said quietly, "dwell only on how she was in life. Recall that she loved you. Then, Dearest Lord, set her free. She was ever caged by her life no matter where she went. She had to find her happiness elsewhere."
A soft sound behind her gave her to know that Elrond had taken that like salt to a wound. Inwardly she winced. Her injunction could have been to him as equally as Celeborn.
Her lord bowed his head, his eyes closing. How tender and fragile he seemed suddenly!
"This is the land of renewal, is it not?" she murmured. "Shall we not cast off our griefs together, and look about us as if we were children? "
Dark blue eyes rose to meet hers, brightened with spilling light. Fingers gripped hers desperately. She never had the gift of thought-speech; her talent was within the compass of feeling, not words. This profound connection she felt went beyond anything she could recognize. It reminded her of only one other, with whom she had briefly shared a vaguely similar rapport during the course of his healing. She suddenly knew that this connection meant that she had reached her lord, and that his soul was responding, just as Elrond's had. But there was no threat to it, and indeed she welcomed it.
There was a soft murmur. Celebarien blinked, focused once again on blue eyes much like her own. Celeborn was smiling, and his grip had softened and turned. Celebarien tried to smile, but she found it shaky, and the familiar trembling set in, until her lord's grasp tightened in concern.
There was a movement behind her, and Elrond's dark head leaned over her shoulder, his hand at her elbow. "Lady? Are you too drained to stand?"
"A moment," she murmured. The cup was pressed in her hand, and she sipped it, not wanting to compound her weariness with the softening effects of alcohol. But to her surprise, she tasted miruvor. She slid a glance at Elrond, whose concerned expression lightened in response. "Yes, please," she whispered to him, and he helped her up.
Celeborn stood with her, taking her hand briefly before letting Elrond lead her away. The flet and its people blurred in her eyes. Just outside, she grabbed the hard arm of the Half-elven as her knees gave way. The world tilted, and she knew he had swung her up into his arms. A susurrus of voices distorted and paled, just as vision and feeling washed away.