Celeborn crouched down by his daughter, pulling of the mesh-mailed gauntlets, and gently cradled Celebrían against his shoulder. She clung to him, eyes wild. "Ada, help her, please! Ada, please, please….You cannot let her die!"

"Hush. I will do what I can. Celeb-el, listen to me. You must be silent."

Celebrían's strength was slowly breaking through the haze of anguish which she was endured, and she nodded, sitting straight. "There is no wound, Ada."

Celeborn's noble face was grim. "It is not bodily harm, Celebrían. Thuringwethil's fëa had intertwined into Arwen's, and when it was all taken away, there is a gap there. Surely you know now, that we fade not only because of sorrow when the one we love dies, but because of the anguish caused by part of their soul being wrenched away."

"Then what can we do?" Celebrían's voice was controlled, but her eyes still shone with the lurid flame of desperation.

"Give her to me." said Celeborn softly. "We must ride with all speed to Imladris. Gather the others."

"It will be slow. War has taken its toll upon us." answered a soft voice behind them. Galadriel was standing there, straight and tall as ever stood a warrior Queen of the Elder Days, but her eyes were sad. The crenulated edges of the leaf-mail glinted in the rising sun, as the fruit of Laurelin spread a fire of golden life across the corpse-field, and it almost seemed to mock them in all their grief.

Celebrían crouched down, watching as her parents spoke in low and anxious whispers, but she could hear no words. The surge of pain she had crushed done was rising, threatening to engulf her, when a gentle voice spoke to her. "Nana?"

She clutched Elrohir's hands, and then relaxed her grip as he winced. "My son." She steeled herself for Elrohir's sake, and slowly rose to her feet. "How fare you?"

Elrohir touched the side of his face and grinned wryly, the bandage crooked. "My looks still surpass my brother's."

Celebrían smiled weakly. "Where is Elladan?"

"He went to speak to Ada." Elrohir gestured out over the fields. Narrowing her eyes against mounting light, Celebrían saw Elrond at the edge of the field. He turned his steed around.

Galadriel's voice rang out across the field. "Warriors!" The Elves of Lothlórien turned upon hearing their Lady's voice. "What is the count of the slain?"

"Half a score." said a bitter voice in reply near her, and Celebrían saw an Elf-woman crouching by a lifeless body. "And those wounded?" asked Celeborn.

"Twice that."

"The ground is hard! We cannot bury our dead here, neither can we live for the carrion to feast on!" cried an Elf some paces away. His helmet lay by his feet, his dark hair matted and tangled with blood and gore.

Celeborn inclined his head. "Bear with me, Orophin. You shall gathered the wounded together, and bring all those skilled in healing arts. Those versed only in war, come with me."

It was a feverish hour for Celebrían. Her wounds had been bandaged, and now she waited in growing delirium. The world seemed to spin, the sun increase tenfold and the heat was too much. The words spoken to her now and then meant nothing to her, they were distant echoes, shells that signified nothing. She tried by all she had to force herself to other dreams, but it was useless. Vaguely she knew herself to be lifted upon a horse. Strong arms were about her. "Is she dead?" Her voice did not seem her own, thick and harsh to her ears, and yet diffident to the fate of her own daughter.

Somehow Elrond's voice brought no comfort to. "No, my heart."

"Good."

She laid her head against his broad chest and drifted into blood-darkened dreams.

Elladan's horse had been slain by an arrow, and it was among many other things that he grieved. The mare he now rode was good, but Gwaewing had been his companion from childhood, and the loss of the loyal beast was another blow. He and Elrohir rode side by side, a little behind their kin. "Are your wounds paining you?" he asked at last.

Elrohir, who had been unconsciously holding his forearm, released it with a pained expression. "I am well."

"I didn't ask that. I asked if your wounds were paining you."

"A little." admitted Elrohir reluctantly. "But did you escape the battle without a scratch?"

"No." replied Elladan. "But nothing grave." His neck was raw where the baldric had chafed it, and he had minor injuries.

"Do you think Arwen will live?"

Elladan looked at the sky. "I do not know."

Elrohir's voice was shaking. "I do not love her. She brought about this." he said, gazing backwards to where the battlefield was still in sight, black with corpses and crows. He drew a deep breath and looked towards Elladan. "And how can you?"

Elladan looked down. "I-I don't understand you."

"Yes, you do! Celloth is dead because-"

"I know!" The shout rang out louder than Elladan's had intended. He lowered his voice and leaned forward savagely. "I know that. And I do not wish to hear of her again, do you understand me?"

Elrohir had drawn away. "You are a fool."

"You wouldn't understand." hissed Elladan.

"I would try to help you, but you do not want it." said Elrohir softly.

"Not yours."