A/N: My thanks to Alku04 for giving me this idea in her lovely review of Shared Dreams. This is for you, my friend. :)
Rain splashed on the stones of the courtyard, beating against the heavily curtained windows of Imladris. Outside, all was cold and grey, lighting sparking through the thick clouds, heralding a sudden peal of thunder.
All was deadly silent in Elrond's House. Even the noise of the storm was but a background thing, the wailing moan of the wind melding with the disquiet in the hearts of the Elves.
Celebrian was gone. Tortured, maimed, stricken beyond any of Elrond's powers, she had not possessed the strength to remain in Arda. Her sons had borne her broken body tenderly in their arms as they galloped into the courtyard of their home – her home – leaving behind them the empty wastelands and the cry of the eagles through the mountaintops, echoing the terrified screams of the Silver Queen.
Now she was gone, and her family's world was shattered.
Elrond had sought refuge in his work, afraid of idleness for even a second – idleness, and the faint memories of lilting laughter brightening the corridors, or a light step tripping through the gardens she had so loved.
Elladan was changed – no longer did he take joy in the embrace of his grieving family, but he rode out far abroad, seeking retribution for his mother's pain. A terrible fire that had lain dormant for centuries now sprang up with renewed vigour and flared forth from his stormy eyes, his glittering sword.
Oh my son, do you not see that by anger you hem yourself in, leaving no escape...
Elrohir sat brooding, gazing deeply into the crackling fire. His eyes were hooded, and he wore an outward mask of impassivity, concealing his pain, his fear, his grief... He did not know that all who looked upon him, all who knew him best, had seen his vulnerability. And they pitied him.
He did not understand.
Memories of a laughing Arwen, a foolish tale long forgotten, wounds that had healed outwardly but left him scarred without. The words of his brother, seeking to soothe his childish fear of a nightmare that was reality.
Of a father's embrace, a sister's naiveté – memories he had sought to bury as the years passed with agonising swiftness.
A memory of a screaming woman, fear-stricken eyes, that had imprinted on his heart their cruel mark from which there was no relief...
He let out a long sigh and covered his eyes. It had been no more than a haunting dream then – but now it was reality: cold, hard reality. It was his burden to bear, and also his guilt.
No, he did not understand. He did not wish to. And the pain – the anguish of the sundering of a mother's bond – would never die.
Then from the doorway there came a voice, low and pleading, and hearing the words, he shook his head. A shadow emerged, a pale face framed by great masses of sable hair, quick steps leading her unerringly to her brother's side.
"Elrohir."
He looked down upon her face as she knelt before him, hearing the tremor of unshed tears thickening her soft voice. The sudden warmth as his cold hands were wrapped in smaller hands, and finally, four words.
"I miss her too..."
Then she was in his arms, her trembling form held firmly against his chest, and she wept.
The tears that had for so long refused to flow came at last, and brother and sister sat there long into the night, taking comfort in each other and the dying glow of the fire.
THE END