notes: First of all, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed last chapter! It was amazing to get all of those emails on my birthday.
Trigger warnings for suicidal ideation and discussion of suicide are in full effect for this chapter. This is probably the darkest chapter in the story though, so if you can make it through this one, you should be good for the rest of it! Also, there IS sex in this chapter.
I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 2
"What are you doing here?" Elrond asked.
"I should be asking you the same thing," said Celebrían. She was angry; Elrond could hear it in her voice, could see it in the stiffness of her shoulders and the jut of her chin. She sat in the same spindly chair Elrond had sat in earlier that day, when talking to Glorfindel, a candle in one hand. "I thought you went out riding."
"I did," said Elrond. "I was. Sort of…"
"Why are you here?" Celebrían asked. Her words were iron and ice.
Elrond slumped down onto the cot. "I wanted to surprise you," he said, burying his face in his hands. This was not going at all according to plan. "I know you love tournaments, and you have mentioned a few times the desire to see me ride in one."
Celebrían set the candle on the table and leaned forward. "Then why did you say nothing to me about it?" she asked. "I can hardly enjoy watching you ride in one if I don't even know it is you."
"I wanted to surprise you," said Elrond. "I thought...I thought—" He stopped. "It doesn't matter what I thought."
"Why?" Celebrían asked again. "Why did you lie to me, and go behind my back? I came here to ask Lîmrion why he had not come to tell me he was reembodied, and instead I find my husband hiding from me. Why, Elrond?"
"Because there is something wrong between us," Elrond snapped at last, hands falling from his face. He stared at Celebrían, slate silver eyes meeting sapphire blue. "Because that spark of longing and love and excitement and joy is gone in our marriage. And I thought that perhaps, just perhaps, this surprise could reignite that spark."
Celebrían opened her mouth to argue more, then snapped it shut. "Oh," was all she said at last. She looked at him silently for a long time. "Then you were really doing it for me?" she asked. "For us? Not just for yourself?"
"No," Elrond said.
"Oh," Celebrían said again. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then she rose and crossed over to the cot where Elrond sat, and knelt in front of him. Taking his hands in hers—and feeling their trembling—she squeezed gently. "I love you, Elrond," she said. "You do know that, do you not?"
"I know that," said Elrond tiredly. "But you cannot deny that there is something wrong in our marriage."
Celebrían reached up with her right hand and cupped Elrond's cheek. "There is," she admitted softly. "But I do not think it is something that we cannot fix."
"How?" Elrond asked.
"With time," said Celebrían. "And healing."
Elrond scoffed and pulled away. "Is that your answer to everything?" he asked. "Healing?"
"Is there something wrong with that?" Celebrían asked.
"No," Elrond said. Then, "Yes," he snarled.
Celebrían looked taken aback. "And why is that?"
"Because I can't heal," said Elrond. Then, softer, he added, "Because I don't deserve to heal."
This time Celebrían took Elrond's face in both hands, turning his eyes up to meet hers. "Everyone deserves to heal, Elrond Peredhel," she said firmly, willing him to believe it. "I did—and so do you."
Elrond shook his head against her hands. "But I lost—I failed—so many. My brokenness is of my own doing, no one and nothing else's."
"You are wrong," Celebrían said bluntly. "None of your hurt is of your own making. It was all things done to you, or done around you. Your pain is the consequence of others' thoughts, actions, and deeds."
"And because of my failures."
"Such as?"
Elrond bit his tongue. Such as you, he could say, but he had never confessed to his wife that he saw his failure to heal her as a personal failing. He was not sure how she would react to such knowledge.
"That's what I thought," said Celebrían. She rose, dropping her hands from his face, and sat down on the cot beside him. "You deserve all the healing in the world, my love," she said, once more taking his hands in hers. "You deserve all the love, all the care, all the loyalty and adoration that Aman can afford you."
Elrond turned to look at her. "All I want is you," he said softly, freeing one hand and reaching up to brush her cheek with his forefinger.
"And you have me," said Celebrían. "I will never again stray from your side, Elrond Peredhel. Ever."
Elrond smiled, though the gesture was sad and forlorn—and then leaned in to kiss Celebrían. She met him halfway, lips opening against his, tongue sliding into his mouth as she deepened the kiss. Elrond lifted a hand to cup her face, and Celebrían pressed herself closer to her husband, narrowing the space between them, her own hands coming up to grip the front of his tunic.
They broke apart after a long moment. Celebrían was smiling, and Elrond's lips were curled up at the edges, although there was still something distant and sad in his eyes.
"Elrond," Celebrían said, flattening her palms against his chest, seeing that he was no longer looking at her, but at something far distant. "Elrond, come back to me. Please…"
Elrond blinked—and abruptly, and to Celebrían's alarm, began to weep.
"Why?" he begged her in a hoarse voice. "Why?"
What he was asking for, Celebrían did not know.
"Elrond," she murmured, sliding her hands up his chest to cup his chin and cheeks once more. "Elrond, my love," she said, and leaning forward, kissed away his tears. "Tell me, what hurts?"
Elrond leaned into her touch, lifting his own hands to press them against hers. "I couldn't save her. I couldn't save you. I couldn't save any of them. And yet people still feign to love me. Why? Why? Why even pretend? Just let me fade already, dammit."
Shock coursed through Celebrían. "You do not mean that," she chastised gently, after a moment in which she battled away sudden fear for her husband. "Elrond…"
"What life is there left to live?" Elrond asked. "I've lost everything and everyone I loved, in one form or another. I have you back now—but how long until something else happens, and you are ripped away from me yet again? How long until a fresh hell happens upon me? I cannot bear another tragedy, Celebrían—I cannot. Would it not be better to simply fade away to nothing? To become a ghost in Mandos's Halls?"
"You are in Aman now," said Celebrían. "The pain and devastation and loss and tragedy have come to an end. Now is the time for healing, for reparation, for hope and joy and life."
But Elrond shook his head. "Such is not my lot."
"It is now," said Celebrían fiercely. "I will make it so, if I must go petition Manwë himself to intervene on your behalf."
Elrond was silent for a terribly long moment. His weeping ceased slowly, and Celebrían rubbed one thumb up and down his jaw in a soothing gesture.
"How?" Elrond asked at last, once his tears were dry. "How do I heal from this—from everything?"
"You let me help you," said Celebrían softly.
"How?" Elrond asked again.
"Let me love you," said Celebrían. "Let me guide you. Let me show you that love and hope and light are not gone from your life."
"I want to believe that," said Elrond quietly.
"Let me show you," said Celebrían.
She slid her right hand beneath the waistband of Elrond's breeches, then into his loincloth. She ran the palm of her hand up and down the length of his cock, and Elrond shuddered—then caught her wrist, halting her.
"Do you not want this?" Celebrían asked, surprised.
"I do," said Elrond, not quite meeting her eyes. "But I don't deserve this."
"And why not?" Celebrían asked, her hand still cupping his cock.
"Because—á ercat, Celebrían. I lost our daughter. And I might have lost our sons too."
"It was Arwen's choice," said Celebrían, "just as it will be Elladan's and Elrohir's. I knew when I married you that, if we were to have children, this was a possible eventuality. You cannot blame yourself, or begrudge yourself for the sake of their happiness."
"I failed so many others too, though," said Elrond. "So many died on my watch and under my care."
"And you saved countless others," Celebrían rejoined. "You brought so much new life into this world, forestalled so much life from leaving it, brought so much healing and hope to those who had none—to those who had lost theirs. You were light, bright and shining, in a sea of darkness. You were a bulwark against the shadows, and a fortress against despair and death."
"But I failed," Elrond insisted. "I failed Elros, and Maedhros and Maglor, and Ereinion, and...and you. Eru, Celebrían, I failed you. How can you ever forgive me for that? How can you even look me in the eye, let alone want any closeness with me? I damned you, and—"
Celebrian leaned forward and silenced Elrond with a savage kiss. He resisted, not fighting her but not kissing her in return either—until she pulled back just enough to whisper to him, "Do you love me?"
"Yes," Elrond replied.
"Then kiss me." Celebrían reached up and gripped Elrond's face, her eyes boring into his. "Then kiss me," she ordered.
Elrond kissed her, gently at first, chaste and sweet and barely daring. Then she cupped the back of his head with one hand and drew his mouth harder against hers, forcing open his lips and tasting his teeth and tongue. The kiss grew firmer and more demanding, hungrier and more needy—until, at last, he was kissing her with as much vigor as she was kissing him.
He needs this, Celebrían realized, though she had already suspected as much. He needs this even more than I do.
He had gone so long without touch, without companionship, without intimacy—had gone so long without hope, without anything but duty and demand keeping him moving forward—that Celebrían reasoned he had likely stripped himself of the belief that he deserved those things: touch, companionship, intimacy.
He had said as much, had he not? That he blamed himself so wholly and so entirely for the tragedies that had befallen him throughout the Ages that he did not deserve intimacy and love?
Celebrían dropped her hands to the button on his breeches. With a twist and a pull she undid it, and slid both of her hands into his pants once more. He groaned at her touch, and for a second she felt his hands flutter against her wrists, ready to halt her again.
"Do you trust me?" Celebrían asked him, lips still pressed against his.
"Yes," Elrond said hoarsely.
"Then trust me when I tell you this: that you deserve my love—and my body, even—when it is freely given. And I give it freely right now, with all the desire of my heart."
Elrond groaned again—but did not resist when Celebrían gently pushed him down onto the cot with one freed hand, the other stroking his shaft beneath his loincloth. He lay down, dark hair spreading across the pillow beneath his head, silver eyes wide with desire, with trust, with desperation, with love.
Celebrían pulled his pants and loincloth over his hips, and he kicked the clothing off of his ankles. Then she gathered the skirt of her own dress in hand and dragged it up and over her head. She dropped it to the barren earth beside the cot, then undid her breastband and hooked her thumbs in the sides of her underwear, drawing them down her legs as well.
She sat on his hips, naked in the dim candlelight, her only crown her silver hair. For a long second, Celebrían allowed him to simply admire her—drink in the sight of her, as he so clearly wanted to—then she leaned forward to undo the laces on his tunic. She pulled the collar open and ran a hand down his chest, fingertips trailing from skin to cloth and making him shiver. He half-rose, and Celebrían gathered the hem of the tunic in her hands and drew it over his head, depositing it onto the ground along with her dress and underclothes.
Celebrían lay down on top of him, pressing her chest against his and fitting her hips into the narrow V of his legs, his hardened cock pressing into her lower belly. "Do you love me?" Celebrían asked.
"Yes," said Elrond, and Celebrían kissed his chin, his jaw, his throat.
"Do you trust me?" Celebrían asked again.
"Yes," said Elrond. "More than anyone."
"Give me your hands," Celebrían ordered, and Elrond obeyed. She placed his palms on her breasts as she sat up, shifting so that she was kneeling over his cock. Meeting his eyes, she smiled—and slid onto him.
She cried out as he filled her, a rush of relief and joy spearing through her: relief that this was happening again, at long last; and joy at the union that had been so long denied them. It had been so long—so very, very long—since she had been joined with her husband in this way, that she had nearly forgotten just how it felt—just what it meant. In this moment, in this second, they were one, in a way that had been denied them for over 500 years. It was a uniting of their fëar as well as of their bodies, a unification of spirit and flesh that transcended any other.
Celebrían shifted her hips, sinking deeper onto her husband's cock, eliciting a groan from him. For a second she was still, holding his hands to her breasts, merely bearing down upon him. Then she began to move, riding first with slow, purposeful movements that made him grind his teeth and whimper deep in his throat, then faster—then faster still, until he groaned again.
He came quickly. Celebrían felt his release within her, and she smiled to herself; she had nearly been undone as well—nearly, but not quite. She pulled off of him, then climbed up his body until she was half-lying on his chest, and lying half-propped up on one elbow on the cot's edge. His hands were still on her breasts, to Celebrían's delight; she liked the feel of his calloused hands against her skin, the cool pads of his fingers against her nipples. Even as she thought that, she felt him take one of them in his fingers and roll it gently between them, causing her to shudder.
"Two can play at this game," Elrond told her with a small smile. Then, very suddenly, Celebrían found herself dumped on her back on top of the cot, Elrond rolling over so that he was lying above her, holding himself up with his hands to either side of her body.
He leaned down, capturing her lips with his, and moved one knee between her legs to open them wider. Celebrían obliged. Elrond sat back, and a second later, she felt his fingers—long, thin, deft, and cool—slide into her wet folds. He toyed with her for a long moment, stroking and rolling and pinching gently, before sliding a single finger into her body. He pumped in and out once, twice, three times—then a second finger joined the first. Celebrían groaned, arching her back and thrusting her hips forward, pushing against his hand.
"Faster," she begged in a breathy voice. "Faster, please. I want…"
"I know what you want," Elrond said with a small smile. His left hand trailed down her stomach, causing her to shiver, until he reached the dark strands of her hair. He played with it for a moment, still pumping in and out with his two fingers, before sinking his left forefinger into her folds to find her clit.
Celebrían gasped in pleasure as he at once rubbed her clit and pumped steadily in and out of her. She grasped at the thin sheets covering the cot, fighting to keep from grinding herself against her husband's hands. She was close...so close…
She came with a cry. The orgasm unspooled in her body, filling her with warmth and release and pleasure all at once. For a long moment, it felt as if her skin was too small to contain her body—her paper-thin flesh too frail to withhold the burning of her fëa, so complete and whole and unburdened was she.
It was only when the high of her orgasm had faded, her fëa sinking back into her blood and bones once more, that Celebrían saw Elrond sitting on the edge of the cot.
Celebrían sat up, and swung her feet down to the floor beside him. Reaching out, she took his right hand in hers, and squeezed gently.
"What is it, meleth nîn?" she asked.
"I shouldn't have— I mean, it's not that we shouldn't have—we are married after all—but…"
"But what?"
"But how dare I do that to you?" Elrond asked. He refused to look at her.
"Do what to me?"
"Hurt you like that."
Celebrían laughed. "You hardly hurt me, Elrond," she said. "Quite the opposite in fact."
"But," Elrond floundered, clearly trying to say something. The words, it seemed to Celebrían, were simply getting stuck in his teeth and in his throat. "But I'm unworthy of you," he said at last. "I've sullied you now—I, who have already damned you and cursed you, have tarnished your body irreparably."
"We're married, Elrond," said Celebrían dryly. "You've "tarnished" me already. Many times. Many glorious and memorable times."
Elrond unclasped his hands from his lap and stared at them now, holding them before his face. They were trembling.
"What wrath and ruin these hands have wrought, though," Elrond said. "What pain and death."
"And also what life," said Celebrían, reaching out to touch the knuckles of his right hand.
Elrond jumped at her touch, then pulled away. He stood abruptly. "I must feed Avasath," he said, and stooped to pull on his breeches. Then he was gone, the tent flap falling down behind him, hiding him from view.
Would he come back?
Celebrían could only hope so.
~*x*~
Elrond stood at Avasath's head, stroking her neck thoughtfully as she ate, the crunch of oats between her teeth loud in the near-silence of the night. There seemed to be no one around—everyone was still at the feast, Elrond supposed—and that suited him just fine. He wanted—needed—time alone, to think and consider and reflect on what had just happened.
He had meant what he told Celebrían. He had hurt her, in some form or fashion, surely—had he not? He was ruined, a broken and tarnished shell of the man he had once been. There was nothing left to him but pain and misery, nothing but heartache and heartbreak. He did not deserve Celebrían's love, or her intimacy—and, worse, by sharing in that with her, did he not inflict his own brokenness upon her?
"Oh, Avasath," Elrond murmured, pressing his forehead against her sleek neck, "what have I done?"
Celebrían did not seem to think that he had harmed her—that he had inflicted anything but pleasure upon her. But by joining with him, in body and in fëa, how could her soul not have been stained by his? The coupling made them one—and now she had been made one with someone wholly, utterly, and entirely destroyed.
It would be better for him to leave, to flee to Melian's forests or, perhaps, to Mandos himself, in spite of what he had told the old Elf in the bath house. If he died, and refused to be reembodied, then Celebrían would be free to remarry—to find joy once again, in someone and something other than his shattered and withered heart. Would that not be better for her? Would that not be the kind and gracious thing—the loving thing—to do?
He could do it. He would do it. He would kill himself—cast himself from a cliff, or take a scalpel to his forearm as he had done once centuries ago, or...
There came from behind Elrond the rustle of footsteps and the swish of a robe against the grass. He straightened and turned, regretting not grabbing his tunic as well—and found himself face-to-face with a tall and terrible man with long, slightly curling black hair and eyes blacker than the night. His skin was unnaturally pale, and his broad shoulders were hidden beneath a robe as dark as shadow but embroidered with intricate silver threads. His brow was high, his chin pointed, his cheekbones pronounced, his lips full and grey.
Elrond collapsed to his knees, bowing his head. He knew who was standing before him—knew it in the song in his blood, in the ache of his bones, in the roaring in his head.
Námo.
"My lord," Elrond gasped.
"Rise, child," said Námo. His voice was thunder and the crack of mountain roots, the darkness of Ages deep, and the terror of futures unseen and unspoken.
Elrond rose.
"What can I do to serve you, my lord?" Elrond asked, keeping his head bowed.
"What is it you want, Elrond Peredhel?" Námo asked by way of answer. His voice was terrible, but there was a strain of something soft to it—something heartwrenching, something wrending. Something kind.
Elrond chanced a glance up at the Vala. He was looking down at Elrond with face impassive and unreadable, but his eyes were surprisingly warm. Elrond had expected them to be cold and empty, dark and eternal like the Void—and dark and eternal they were, but burdened with empathy.
"What is it you want, my child?" Námo asked again.
Elrond opened his mouth, then closed it again.
What did he want? He wanted freedom from this pain. He wanted the darkness to peel away and for the day to shine through. He wanted to forget his sorrows, his agonies, his heartaches and heartbreaks. He wanted to escape.
Looking down at the ground, he at last said softly, "I want to die."
"That is what you think you want," said Námo. "What is it you truly want?"
Silence—a long, terrible moment of silence. Then, even softer, Elrond whispered, "I want the pain to cease. I want to stop feeling as if I am shattered, as if I am standing on two broken legs, as if I am clinging to a cliff wall with bloody and cracked fingernails. I want...I want to feel whole again—if I ever did."
A hand fell on Elrond's bowed head. He did not look up, but Elrond knew that it was Námo's.
"Come with me then, my child," said Námo. "You will find your healing in my Halls."
That was what he wanted, was it not? That was what he had just been considering: fleeing to Mandos's Halls. Yet something—something dark and small and violent—rebelled in him at the thought of leaving, of following Námo away, of abandoning everything for the sake of the Halls.
It was Elrond's Ages-old instinct to fight to survive, sharp and biting and pressing. No, it shrieked. No, you cannot give in. To do so would be weak, would be cowardly, would be unforgivable. You must continue to fight.
But how much longer can I fight? Elrond asked himself. I am utterly ruined, standing on two broken legs, clinging with bloody and broken nails. Why cannot you just let me give in for once and accept the easy way out?
And what of Celebrían? another voice asked. You would refuse reembodiment for her—but would she ever truly move on from you?
Finwë moved on from Míriel, Elrond told himself.
And look where that landed history.
"Is there any way for me to heal without coming with you?" Elrond asked, looking at the ground, surprising himself.
Through the hand on his head, Elrond could feel Námo smile.
"Yes," said Námo.
"How?"
"If you will not come to seek the healing of your fëa with me, child, then you must let your wife aid you. She is bonded to you. You are one. You can not corrupt her, you cannot damage her, save by damaging yourself."
"Will I hurt her, if I were to go with you?" Elrond asked.
The hand moved from his head and tucked beneath his chin, lifting Elrond's head until his eyes met Námo's. "Yes," Námo said bluntly. "And she is not the only one."
Elrond swallowed thickly. "I do not wish to hurt her," he said. "Above all else, I do not wish to hurt her. I would bear a thousand tortures before I inflicted any more pain upon my wife."
He blinked, and tears filled his eyes for the second time that night. "But please, my lord—I cannot bear this much longer. I cannot. I will surely break. Tell me, please: do I have hope?"
"All who reside here have hope," said Námo. "Such is the way of this land."
Elrond pulled away from Námo's touch and turned, hunching his bare shoulders against the chill of the night air and the Vala's gaze. "So they say," Elrond said bitterly—before suddenly remembering to whom he was speaking. Turning again, he fell to his knees and bowed his head. "Forgive me, my lord," he said quickly, "I meant no offense—"
"None was received," said Námo. With a flourish of his robes, he knelt in front of Elrond, and once more tucked his hand beneath Elrond's chin, lifting his face to meet his eyes. "I have looked into your future," Námo said then, "and I will give you a gift I have given only a few."
Elrond stared at him, eyes wide and breath stilled in his throat and mouth.
"In your future, I saw sunlight, bright and brilliant and golden. I saw a hidden valley full of those would would follow you unto death, a silver-crowned elleth at your side. I saw love, and joy, and peace, and above all, healing.
"But I also saw a path of darkness. I saw despair, and endless wandering. I saw shackles formed by fear and desperation. I saw desolation, and a barren plain from whence there was no escape. I saw judgment, and paranoia, and loneliness. I saw only stunted healing, twisted and broken and warped, never complete, always ravenous, always hunting for something to fill the void within you.
"Which future is yours depends on what now you choose—what you decide, in this very moment."
"And which choice will lead to Celebrían's greatest joy?" Elrond asked.
Námo smiled a terrible smile. "That I will not tell you."
Elrond looked skyward, his eyes falling on the stars.
What did he choose? If he chose wrong, he would doom himself to a life of misery and despair for no reason, a life of half-healing and stunted regrowth. If he chose wrong, he would damn Celebrían as well.
She was bound to him, just as Námo had said. Did that then mean that he would damage her by damaging himself? And if he did damage himself—and consigning himself to a life of fear and desolation, of shackles and tomb-like plains, would be damaging himself—would he not be consigning her to that same life of fear and desolation, of shackles and tomb-like plains?
So what did he choose? Did he choose to stay in the hopes that Celebrían would be able to guide him in his healing? Would be able to show him how to unwind his broken path and straighten out his crooked spine?
Or did he go to the Halls of Mandos in the hopes that Celebrían would be able to once more live a life of joy, free of the burden that he was? For if he went to the Halls, Elrond had no intention of returning.
Námo had said that going to his Halls would hurt Celebrían, though. Would that be the beginning of the end? Or would that be the start of healing for her, even if not for him?
Would her pain be fleeting? Or would it be all-consuming?
"Have made your decision?" Námo asked.
Elrond was fairly certain that he knew which choice would lead to which outcome that Námo had professed—was certain, at least, that his choice to go to the Halls, and therefore to stay in the Halls, would lead to the second one. But which choice would bring Celebrían the most joy?
If he were to heal, then she would be joyous and complete. She would not be bereft of him, or suffer the wounding of their parting. She would not have to overcome his loss, or move on from him.
Did he therefore dare to risk it? Did he dare to risk everything on the hopes that the first outcome—the light, the sun, the joy for both he and Celebrían—was certain?
Was he brave enough, still, and strong enough—and willing enough to fight—that he would risk all for the possibility of joy for them both?
Elrond's shoulders slumped. "Yes," he said softly, making up his mind. He did not know if he was brave, or strong, or willing to fight, but for Celebrían? For Celebrían, who would be hurt by their parting? For Celebrían, who wanted to share her heart and her bed with him? For Celebrían, who he loved more than life itself? For Celebrían, he would try. "Yes. I have made up my mind.
"I...I will remain."
"Very well," said Námo. He bent, and to Elrond's surprise, kissed him on the forehead. "Remember what I told you, Elrond, Lúthienion," he said. "Allow your wife to aid you—she can, and she will, if you allow her. You will not break her with your sorrows, nor damage her with your pain." Námo straightened. "Farewell now, Elrond. Until our next meeting."
Elrond blinked—and Námo was gone.
Elrond sank to the ground, boneless and weary. He had met the Vala once before, when Elrond and Elros had been summoned before the Valar for their Mortality or Immortality to be pronounced. Though Mandos had spoken to him then, it had not been a private, personal conversation.
To be the subject of the Vala's intense focus was overwhelming and draining—the topic of their conversation even more so. Elrond felt as if all of his energy had been sucked from his body, his strength sapped and his vigor swallowed. He felt empty and barren, his skin hollow and scraped thin.
Avasath nudged him, having finished her meal. She whickered gently, questioning.
"I am well," said Elrond hoarsely, petting her cheek. "I am well…"
Was he, though?
He had nearly killed himself. He would have, if he had been given the chance—if Námo had not come. Had that been Námo's purpose for coming? To convince him not to do so? Had Námo known he would not go with him to his Halls? Or had he come to genuinely give Elrond the choice of whether or not to leave?
Elrond shuddered and stood.
He had made his choice. He had decided not to go to Mandos's Halls—and now he had to face the consequences of that choice. He had to face Celebrían. He had to—what? Heal? Move on? Get better?
But how?
"Allow your wife to aid you—she can, and she will, if you allow her," Námo had said.
But how? Elrond wondered, turning back toward his tent.
By letting her love you, a voice whispered in his mind, just as she told you.
I will hurt her, Elrond thought, despairing and desperate.
Námo said you would not, another voice rejoined. And is Námo not the Doomsman of the Valar, privy to knowledge of the future more than any other being, save Ilúvatar Himself? Would not Námo know if Elrond would destroy his wife with his burdens?
Trust her, a shard of Elrond's heart, which he had heretofore been ignoring—been quashing and crushing, smothering and destroying—wailed. Trust her, and let her help you!
What other choice did he have? What other option was left to him? He had refused healing in Mandos's Halls, had turned his back on was left to him, other than going to Celebrían and allowing her to try to heal him?
I cannot do this on my own, Elrond thought. I need help. And was not Celebrían bonded to him? Was she not part of him, in a way that no one else was? Was she not entwined with his fëa, a half of his whole?
Who else, but her, could help him heal?
Had that not been his goal in joining the tournament, in any case? Had he not been doing it in an attempt to seek healing and rejuvenation in their marriage? And what was more broken in him than the jagged wound Celebrían had left when she had been attacked, and then when she had sailed?
Go to her, the crushed voice wailed at him. Let her love you. Let her help you. Let her help you heal.
Elrond knew what he had to do.
He did not return to the tent with shoulders squared or chin lifted; he did not return strong and determined, ready to face and fight. But he did return: to the tent. To the light.
To Celebrían.
