Bleeding

11th April, 3020 (Third Age)

Elanor pulled the soft, fleecy shawl about her with lips pursed in mild irritation. Rivendell, ordinarily mild and temperate, was beset by chill this particular spring morning. Striding along a dew-studded path, she wished she had chosen a warmer shawl in retrospect and angled towards her favourite spot within the gardens—a bench seat which wrapped around a mighty oak tree. That particular leafy giant had observed many pensive and introspective moments in the life of the Australian woman in the past eighteen months, beginning shortly after her arrival in Arda. She had grown very attached to it's comforting trunk and thick canopy.

Despite having spent such an extended length of time in Middle-earth, Elanor could not help but think of her home-climate with fondness. Even considering that summertime fell over Christmas in Australia, it would still be warm enough to swim at the beach in April, notwithstanding the fact it would be almost mid-autumn. The fleetingness of summer in the north was one gripe she felt she would never be quite reconciled too—even if the north meant Imladris and Glorfindel.

Still, Arda had it's charms; even despite her pique at the preternatural coolness of the day, Elanor could not gaze upon the fresh spring buds without that visceral delight which new life affords. Primrose and dogwood burst forth with all sweetness, whilst daisies scattered across the lawns in a form of delicate rebellion. The flowers were so minute compared to the fleshy variety Elanor had been accustomed to in her mother's garden that she could not help pausing en route to her bench seat and picking several. As she seated herself carefully, with due regard for preserving her skirts, she tucked these exquisite daisies into her long braid.

Still grumpy that it's cold? prodded her unshakable narcissist, with a sly grin.

No—though I'd give anything for a scorching day at Byron, swimming at Wategos…

The second voice—which had become irrevocably settled within her head over the last year and a half—merely laughed whilst Elanor settled herself comfortably upon the bench seat. Gazing upon the pristine gardens, it was difficult to remain cross for long, even as one born and bred in the sub-tropics.

Truth be told, her annoyance at the unobliging weather was merely a vent for other frustrations; frustrations Elanor had quelled for want of time and opportunity to be alone in previous weeks. There was a certain degree of trepidation as she curled up on the bench and allowed her thoughts to slacken to a slow and methodical contemplation. She fingered one of the tassels on her shawl.

…it's been a long time, hasn't it?

A year.

More than a full year since Sauron had been overthrown, Georgia had arrived, and Elanor had discovered Glorfindel's love for her; the desolate memories of her arrival in Middle-earth seemed indiscernibly distant. She and Boromir had known each other for some time now, and she had acquaintances which stretched from Gondor through Rohan, northwards to Mirkwood and Imladris and even the Shire.

Can it really have been only eighteen months since I first got here?

Eighteen months is a pretty damn long time…

Yeah, but still; I can't even remember—home is very far away.

You are at home, Elanor.

…yeah.

She glanced once more at the daisies, the careless thought of her mother's garden producing a flood of nostalgia. Kate Ravenscroft's garden had always been a haphazard affair, but Elanor had loved it. A year and a half had forced her memories of Australia so far distant that they no longer seemed like home.

And then, she thought tartly, the silly weather had to go and be cold and make me think of my old life! Ah goodness, why does it have to hurt even after all this time?

Does it hurt, though? Really? Does it hurt more than your memories of primary school, or of high school even though that's over? Elanor, you just turned twenty-three! Do you mourn everything that occurred in your life and is now finished? Besides, the motherly tirade continued, you barely think of Tim anymore, and you'd be silly to dwell on that forever. The pain of memory fades and becomes sweet and soft to behold.

She paused and chewed her lips, sufficiently chagrined by the scolding. All I'm saying is it's pretty weird thinking I've been here for so long, and it's my proper home! I've got roots here now, I'm properly settled and—it's a normal life. The whole crazy war is over, and I'm getting to live—live like I would have at home. With love and family and interesting things to learn. It's not a storybook anymore; it's life as I want it to be.

Except you'll never be quite satisfied, not knowing why on earth you ended up here.

Isn't it enough to think of it as fate? Like, God plopped me here because he knew Glorfindel was a better match for me than even Tim?

…how does that explain Georgia?

Elanor had to grin at that. Her irascible sister was certainly a quandary, though she found it easy to love her whilst she was occupied in the south with Éowyn. Still, the younger Ravenscroft was expected to return at any time. The 26th of June was fast approaching, and Georgia had sworn to arrive in good time to help with wedding preparations.

Not that there will be many! It'll just be the foster-family and close friends—nothing major.

She suppressed a slight shiver of anticipation. It was amazing to think in less than three months, she would be a married woman, settled in Middle-earth, with an Elf, no less. Thus Elanor stumbled upon her second main predicament; her own mortality.

By nature, she was predisposed to overthinking everything. A year in Middle-earth had afforded her the ability to turn off that unfortunate characteristic at will—a mixed blessing and curse. She had managed to block the recurring worries about the compatibility of human and Elfkind from her mind for a full rotation of the seasons. In one sense that had afforded her great relief; in another, she was no closer to a resolution. Glorfindel had laughed off every mention of the subject with swiftness which made Elanor quite certain he was worried. She had been reluctant to broach the issue with Elrond; her foster-father no longer seemed to brood incessantly, but he was far more subdued than before. The time for his departure neared, and Elanor was resigned to the fact only his reuniting with Celebrían would bring back the old Master of Rivendell.

Will I ever see that, though?

It was hardly an easy question to ask: "Hey Elrond, could I possibly get a free ticket to Valinor? Or is there any way the Valar will give me longer years seeing as I got unwilling placed here? Any chance I won't have to die and leave my Elven husband alone?"

Yeah, not exactly the kind of request you want to pose to your half-Elven foster-father who's son-in-law wasn't allowed immortality, thus forcing him to lose his otherwise-Elven daughter. What would make you more special than Aragorn?

She almost laughed at the ludicrous nature of the idea. She could never ask Elrond such a potentially hurtful question, and Glorfindel would have to face the notion eventually.

Perhaps it'll be good when Georgia gets here; at least I can talk to her honestly about the whole thing! There isn't anyone else in Rivendell at the moment who knows where we come from.

Oh, I can't wait for Elladan and Elrohir to come back…

And you can expect Legolas and Gimli pretty soon too! That'll liven things up.

Elanor smiled softly, thinking on the cheery days which lay ahead regardless of the vital future decisions. They had no way of knowing precisely when all of her friends should arrive, but it had to occur before late-June. And, if she had her way, she and Glorfindel would journey to the Shire after the wedding to check in on the progress of the hobbits in freeing the land of Saruman's filth. Elrond had received rumours of the incident, and of their success. Elanor was determined she would not visit Bag End until she were quite sure she would experience the Shire in all it's New Zealand-esque glory. She did not want to have her view coloured by the havoc Saruman had wrought. Thus their visit was planned for the following fall.

And, she sighed, in the meanwhile, all I can do is leave the issue where it stands. Glorfindel will have to face facts eventually—how can he not, when I start looking like an old maid?

Yeah, that's not exactly a nice prospect. Elanor the cougar!

I'm the cougar, when I'm marrying an Elf who is thousands of years old?

Her snarky self pulled a sour expression.

Better pray that Eru sorts this one out!

She laughed aloud then, Trust me, if he can get me through that battle outside Minas Tirith—I think he can figure out what to do with me for the rest of my lifetime.

Breathing deep, she looked out beyond the eaves of the oak tree. Amazingly, she found that even such an intangible decision left her feeling rather peaceful. So much had been beyond her grasp since her life-shattering arrival in Middle-earth that she'd abandoned any hope of control. If she could make it through the horrors of the War of the Ring and she had Glorfindel, she was sure anything else could be negotiated—even if her fiancee seemed adamant that they would never be anything but light-hearted.

A tingly gust of wind caused goosebumps to erupt on her arms, despite the covering of a dress and her shawl. Admittedly, this dress was constructed as a kind of Elvish-Gondorian hybrid, and very much to Elanor's liking. The sleeves were fitted, the waist about her narrowest part, and it had a simple a-line skirt. It was pale yellow, the colour of primroses—her spring dress, and made of light fabric. Most definitely too light for the present climate, but she had been determined to at least pretend it was warm.

The time seemed to pass with uncanny swiftness under the tree; realising it was drawing near to lunch, Elanor stood. Elrond and Glorfindel were both busy, so she had requested to dine alone in her rooms. Rivendell did not require a great amount of administration, but what little was necessary would be undertaken that morning. Generally, the Elves managed the household with a great deal of independence and care; it was not necessary for the Master to dictate detail as Arwen and the housekeeper had fallen to doing in Minas Tirith. Those who prepared meals used their discretion and ingenuity, whilst all were obliging and willing to lend a hand. And, not surprisingly, the Elven house managed to run with infinitely less disruption than the fortress of men.

The air had warmed fractionally by Elanor returned outside after lunch. She had reluctantly abandoned the yellow gown for leggings, a soft shirt and a sleeveless over-tunic which came to her mid-thigh. Her boots laced halfway up her calves and were soft and supple. She felt decidedly less pretty, but the warmth and comfort almost made up for it.

She strode briskly along the gravelled path for a time, stretching her legs and revelling in the satisfying crunch her shoes made on the ground. Feeling restless, she angled towards the grassy field upon which the inhabitants of the Last Homely House might practice their weapon-craft.

The stretch of grass where the archery targets were set up was as unblemished as the emerald surface of a pool table. An Elf Elanor did not recognise was lazily sending arrows into the perfect centre of the targets.

A small stone building to one side of the field held a variety of weapons for general use. Elanor did not own a bow or knives, and ambled towards this structure. The archway was softened by climbing ivy, and she smiled slightly as she paused in the threshold.

Even the most ordinary weapons created by the Elves were exquisite. The room held nothing to a real armoury, but half a dozen swords of varied lengths and shapes were held in displays upon one wall, a rack of spears on another, bows rested unstrung in one corner and there were many barrels full of arrows. Said arrows were beautifully fletched in different colours, and Elanor hesitated a moment in admiring the beautiful workmanship. Glancing upwards, her eye fell upon the row of swords.

Five of the six were far too large for her; one was scarcely longer than the elegant blade Elrond had given her, the one she had bitterly christened Naeth. It lay in the bottom of her wardrobe, untouched since her return from the south.

Cautiously, Elanor moved across the stone floor to where the smallest sword lay. She picked it up with a slightly furrowed brow, and unsheathed it with the awkwardness of one who has not performed an action in some time. The blade glittered before her eyes, cold steel with the silvery lightness in it's temper she had come to associate with Elven weapons. It's razor edges flashed cruelly, and with an anguished look Elanor shoved it awkwardly into the scabbard. Images of mortal wounds, of dying men and screams of wordless pain . Fumbling, she did not realise she had cut her hand until the weapon had been placed roughly back in it's place. Covering the slice and swift-pooling blood with her other hand, she hurried out of the small weapon's room with a hunted expression.

The Elf outside was still shooting with casual precision, and did not turn his head as the woman with her bright golden hair half-stumbled away from the practice field. Once she was some thirty metres away, she paused. Blood seeped out from between her fingers and she gingerly pulled her other hand away to inspect it.

She had managed to cut across part of her left palm, between her thumb and forefinger but very close to the joint of the latter and partway round the side of her hand. It was bleeding a reasonable amount, but after an experimental wiggling of her hand Elanor decided it was fairly trivial. There was no numbness either, so evidently she had not severed a nerve.

Which is pretty amazing luck, really, considering how small your hand is…

There was little pain from the injury as yet; obviously the shock of cutting herself had not registered with her body. Angry with herself for being careless with a razor-sharp length of metal, Elanor gripped her left hand to stop further blood floor and strode quickly back towards the main house.

Leaping awkwardly over a flowerbed to save herself time going the long way round, she was startled when her foot caught on a gnarled vine. Her stomach plummeted as she catapulted forward and fell heavily on her right shoulder, both hands occupied with the sword cut and unable to break her fall. Her side met the ground with a solid thunk, driving all the air out of her. Gasping for breath and alarmed by the abruptness of the incident, she sat up hurriedly and immediately regretted it. Oxygen rushed back into her lungs but her shoulder throbbed indignantly at the sudden exertion, and she could feel blood seeping through her clothes from the gravel in various places.

Sitting on the edge of a garden with a sliced hand and numerous grazes, Elanor realised she was perhaps the most pitiful and ungainly creature on Arda at that moment. Her entire right side was beginning to ache and sting simultaneously, whilst the thudding of her heart had caused her hand injury to bleed faster. With the air of a woebegone child, several tears seeped out of her eyes onto her cheeks.

This only served to alert her that she had grazed the side of her face as the salty tears stung furiously.

Kind of like one of those comedies where the heroine has an inordinate string of bad luck, falls over, and looks like a giant idiot because—

The few tears turned into frustrated sobs. Her tumble had merely added insult to injury, and had she not felt quite so battered she might have flopped backwards onto the ground and had a good howl. As it was, she sat crouched over and cried until her cuts and abrasions grew too prominent to ignore. Standing was a laborious task, but eventually she was on her feet, feeling hard done by and excessively clumsy.

Thanks to her shortcut—slight misfire though it was—Elanor was now close to the house. The path angled directly to a flight of stairs and thence to a columned walkway which led directly to the guest wing in which her room was situated. Eager to get out of her now-bloodstained attire, Elanor attempted to quicken her pace. Just as she reached the foot of the stairs, she glanced up. Glorfindel was just about to hurry down towards her.

"Elanor," he smiled. That expression faded swiftly as he caught sight of her grazed face. "Elanor! Are you all right?"

In one fell movement he leaped from the top of the flight of stairs to the bottom, landing catlike and rising to grasp her shoulders before she could say "Gondolin". She had not seen such a look of horror upon his face since he had berated her for riding to battle in the Houses of Healing. One hand clamped over the graze which extended from shoulder to elbow, and Elanor cried out and pulled away. The touch left Glorfindel with a stripe of blood across his palm. His fair face grew whiter.

"Elanor, please, are you—"

"I'm fine," she managed, through gritted teeth. She met his concerned look with the animosity of a wounded bear, her arm smarting sharply from where he had unknowingly grabbed her. "Geez, you didn't have to touch my arm though! I've got grazes everywhere, be careful won't you?"

The caustic retort only served to deepen the lines of worry upon his face. "What happened, El?"

She shook her head impatiently. "I cut my hand on a sword—" Glorfindel moved as if to touch her again and then jerked his arm back "—and then tripped badly and ended up sliding along the gravel path on my face for a bit, so I've got quite a few grazes, in case you didn't notice." As if to emphasise this, the blood seeping from the scrape on her face formed a rivulet which dribbled past the corner of her mouth. The taste was acrid.

Glorfindel merely stared at her for a moment, taking in the tattered right-hand side of her attire, the various bloodied parts of her anatomy, the determined hold upon her injured hand and the fierceness inspired by pain which kindled in his fiancee's eyes. He held out his own hands somewhat helplessly, as if he did not know how to react to the animal defensiveness she was displaying. Too piqued to apologise for her own brusqueness, Elanor tossed her braid over her shoulder with a practiced movement and challenged him with her gaze.

Having taken in her appearance from top to bottom, Glorfindel seemed to realise she was not mortally wounded and gave a short nod.

"Where did you fall, if I might inquire?" he asked quietly.

Standing as regally as she could manage in the circumstances, Elanor raised one eyebrow. "I tripped on something in the garden, I don't know. I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention. I was just trying to—" She broke off indignantly, for in place of sick concern, Glorfindel's eyes were now beginning to kindle with amusement. "What?"

He waved one hand, lips pressed firmly together to suppress mirth.

"Are you laughing at me hurting myself?" she asked, dangerously low.

Glorfindel shook his head emphatically, an action which was swiftly negated by the smile which crept onto his face. "El, you tripped over a bush. I was thinking you'd fallen a dozen feet down some stairs, or off a roof, or a small cliff—"

Running, Elanor discovered then, was indeed possible. With a poisonous look, she fled up the stairs two at a time, hot tears beginning to form in her eyes.

How dare he! How dare he! How could be so mean?!

"El!" came the contrite cry, "Elanor, forgive me! I merely meant it in jest. Please, Elanor, do not be—" Glorfindel's long legs and Elvish agility soon overhauled her, and he reached to stop her with a gentle hand—on her right arm.

Excessively irritated, riled and already throbbing, even the fondest touch on her gravel-rash was enough to cause her to explode.

"Ow," she screamed, snatching it away with more force than was strictly necessary as she whirled to face him. As he stood several steps below, she was afforded opportunity to stare directly into his face. "Don't touch me," she half-sobbed, caught between anguish and fury. "That hurt!"

Glorfindel's face crinkled in surprise. "Elanor!" he gasped.

"No," she said, stumbling back half a step. "That was horrible, Glorfindel."

"El, I didn't mean—"

"Don't tell me that!"

"What else must I say? I did not mean it as you appear to have interpreted it," cried he, helplessly. "I did not desire to hurt you—I have never desired it, nor shall I."

"Well," sniffed Elanor, quelling her hurt, "you did. We're not all Elves, perfectly graceful and agile and faultless and with the pain tolerance of a cave troll—" this was punctuated with rolled eyes and an abundance of sarcasm "—unfortunately! Some of us are mortals. We fall over, we're a bit clumsy, we bleed, and we don't live forever. Or did you decide to conveniently forget that you're marrying one? That you're going to exist indefinitely and I'm going to die?"

Caught in the heat of the moment, Elanor was brought abruptly down to earth by her fiancee's stony silence. It was louder than a cacophony of cymbals.

He looked at her. He simply looked. And as he did so, it was if an opaque veil descended and hid from her the multitude of thoughts darting through his clever mind.

"How could I forget? Tend your wounds," he said coolly, turning and continuing away from the house into the gardens without an instant's hesitation.

As his proud form retreated, Elanor's tears returned with a relish. Feeling as if her pleasant morning was crumbling about her ears, she turned and fled inside.

An hour later, Elrond Peredhel's foster-daughter was sitting calmly upon her bed. Indilwen, mistaking her tears as stemming from pain, had fussed over her mightily. The grazes had been washed and daubed with a kind of herbal antiseptic cream, and the cut on her hand lightly bandaged. Altogether her injuries looked trivial after she had bathed and dressed herself for the third time that day. The grazes were rather large but not deep, and the cream had soothed the stinging.

Her physical concerns attended to, Elanor turned her thoughts to the looming issue of her fiancee. Hot anger gave way to cold, sheepish guilt. In her riled state she had been unforgivably acid and cruel.

This always seems to happen, she moaned inwardly. You're grumpy, someone is concerned for you, and you snap at them mercilessly! You're always sorry ten seconds later, but it's too late now. It's like a flash temper, one big spark and it all disappears and you're contrite! And admit it—you would've looked hilarious when you fell over.

That was true enough. It was also true that there was little worse she could have said to her betrothed—Glorfindel was abundantly aware that she was mortal, and to drag the fact before him as an accusation was, to say the least, spiteful and feckless. He loved her. To throw her mortality at him as if he were not aware of it was an insult to his intelligence—and, most probably, was like salt in a wound. You were only thinking this morning that he probably hadn't said anything because he was very worried about your future together and losing you! For goodness' sake Elanor, what made you say that?!

She decided it was safer not to answer that question.

I'll just have to apologise; after all, he did grab my arm—that hurt a lot—and he did laugh at me. I'm sure it'll be fine.

Taking a deep breath, Elanor nodded to herself. Her natural instinct was to rush straight after her fiancee and resolve the issue immediately. However, past experience had taught her that where Glorfindel was concerned, it was better to wait. He preferred to contemplate in silence and alone, and—seeing as she was undeniably in the wrong this time—she would restrain herself and leave him be.

At least until dinnertime.

Dinner being served around seven in the evening, this left Elanor some two hours to occupy. Her stomach was somewhat queasy with all of the tumult, and she clambered off the bed in search of a distraction to while away the hours.

It felt rather like trying to fall asleep when the mind is in a state of aggressive wakefulness. Minutes dragged by, and queasiness beleaguered her stomach. She read fitfully and with little success for half an hour, then rose and paced her bedchamber. This was succeeded by fifteen minutes of scrutinising her facial injuries intently and checking for blackheads and pimples. More reading. More pacing. Ten minutes staring blankly out a window.

Then finally—the dinner gong.

Elanor scrambled off her bed with alacrity and brushed her skirts free of rumples and threads. She glanced expectantly at her open door, then paused—he normally comes to escort me…

She chewed her lip. Glorfindel had, without fail, appeared at her door promptly after the dinner gong every night to lead her to Elrond's dining hall on his arm. Yet, in lieu of their fight, should she go down without him?

After a minute's agonised deliberation, she clenched her fists and moved to the door.

Of course he's not coming, you guys had a fight—rounding the corner and taking three steps along the corridor, she was startled to catch sight of her fiancee coming toward her.

Like a sudden flood, Elanor was acutely aware of how handsome Glorfindel was. This particular night he wore a tunic of softest white silk, embroidered in silver and tiny beads at the neck and sleeves. His leggings were a muted grey and well-fitted beneath knee-length boots, and his hair seemed to glinted like white gold. Apart from the sharp blueness of his eyes, he might have been wrought of nothing more than shadow and light. The well-formed chin was lifted slightly, lending him an air of utmost kingliness and causing the candlelight to fall on his cheekbones to best effect. About him was cast an aura of the fey, of magic and other-worldliness. The breath caught in her chest and she gazed at him with the wide eyes and parted lips of one utterly smitten.

Yet there was something missing—the smile, the twinkle about the eye, the slightest quirk of the lip. And Elanor's spirits fell along with her gaze, coming to rest on the stone floor.

"Are you ready for dinner?" The neutral tone shattered her composure like glass as tears rushed to fill her eyes. Through the prisms of salty water, Elanor caught sight of a proffered arm and reached numbly to grab it. It was stiff. Without a word Glorfindel proceeded forward, and she kept her head lowered so he would not see her tears.

The absence of ordinary caresses were suddenly thrown in Elanor's face, icy cold and unpleasant. Rather than tucking her hand possessively between his arm and side and securing it with his other hand, he allowed her to rest her fingers at his elbow and held it aloof and distant from his body. The pace he set was brisk, as if he desired nothing more than to arrive in the dining hall so he would not have to prolong the physical contact.

All Elanor's preprepared speeches about their conflict fled her mind like wraiths in the night. She found herself tongue-tied and at the brink of tears. The walk to the feasting hall felt impossibly long.

Oh goodness… well, we may as well cancel the wedding now…

He has clearly not forgiven you…

The table and meal was something of a blur. Glorfindel was dutiful, attentive and polite—frighteningly so. Elanor would have been profoundly relieved were he to turn to her and make some kind of playful jest about the state of her face, and whether humans ordinarily looked like that. She possessed vague memories of civil conversation with other Elves as to her injuries, and painfully poignant images of Glorfindel passing her a plate of roast vegetables, coupled with a gaze of such cold indifference that she nearly lost her little appetite completely.

At length it was over. Having caught several questioning glances from her foster-father, she desired nothing more than to escape. Glorfindel evidently despise ed her, yet was gentleman enough to perform his duty with clinical detachment admirable in a surgeon, and less than delightful in a lover. He was still a noticing being, and turned to her.

"Do you wish to retire?"

Elanor nodded mutely. Glorfindel rose with his cat-like grace, spoke a few quiet words to Lord Elrond, and then offered her his arm once more. She took it and they began the mechanical journey back to her rooms.

Her powers of speech did not appear ready to return to her. Thus, Elanor confined herself to biting back tears and sighs and staring at the shadows they cast upon the ground.

How easily things had gone from wonderful to utterly miserable! She had known that Glorfindel was having difficulties with her mortality, yet this—this! They had stooped to bickering, and neither of them had the courage or inclination to remedy the situation!

And it was such a petty quarrel too… if I'd just asked him at a better time what he was thinking about managing our different kinds and their lifespans, it probably would've been fine… but then you had to go into the armoury and…

With thoughts of the armoury came a resurgence of the horrors which had surfaced earlier that day. Sickening memories—war, death, blood, screams—caused her to shudder involuntarily.

Is this PTSD?

Had Elanor been looking upwards, she would have seen her fiancee glance down upon her head at that moment. The small hand on Glorfindel's arm quivered slightly, and her shoulders shook. After a moment she righted herself, and the briefest flicker of agony on his countenance had passed.

It's like when he came and yelled at me about riding into battle again…

Yeah, except this time he hasn't been keen to hug it out…

A moment later they arrived at Elanor's chamber and she withdrew her hand woodenly and moved towards the door, feeling more like an automaton than a human. Stirred by a sudden impulse, she turned at the threshold to look back.

Glorfindel stood there, watching—just watching.

Elanor willed herself to meet his eyes.

They stared back, unfathomably blue.

She pressed her lips together, striving desperately not to cry and forming a rather moving picture with her thin, pale face and wide green eyes pools of moisture. When her betrothed gave no indication of emotion, she felt a prick of frustration.

Doesn't he care at all? It's not like it was all my fault!

Her backbone returning with annoyance, she threw her hands out in an exaggerated shrug.

"What do you want me to say, Glorfindel? I'm sorry! I'm sorry I was grouchy and rude and said horrible things!" she cried, ignoring the small voice in her mind which reminded her candidly that apologies were not generally delivered at a shout.

It was like watching a high-speed video of an ice cube melting in the 35 degree Australian sun. The barriers Glorfindel had positioned himself behind disintegrated faster than dandelion seeds beneath a breath of air. His face softened, and he stepped towards her.

"Elanor," he said, softly. For a moment his Elvish grace was replaced by awkward uncertainty, and he appeared to stop himself from embracing her only by great effort. Instead, one hand reached cautiously out to brush the uninjured side of her face. Elanor almost wept from relief at the familiar caress.

"I'm sorry," she repeated in a whisper.

Glorfindel appeared not to hear her, but instead glanced at the graze which stretched from cheekbone to pointed chin. Elanor could see his pupils darting back and forth as he leaned close and gave it the attention of a doctor, never meeting her eyes. His touch was gentle, yet restrained. The Elves were by nature a chaste kind, but Glorfindel ordinarily possessed a demonstrative way about him which was now held firmly in check.

"Who treated this?" he inquired, still scrutinising the scrape.

"Indilwen," Elanor murmured.

"She has done good work," acknowledged Glorfindel, moving back a fraction and withdrawing his soft touch. "May I see your hand?"

Meekly, Elanor proffered her left hand. Within seconds the carefully-wrapped bandage was pulled away and he was observing the red line stretched . After a moment he shook his head.

"By the gods, Elanor! You came perilously close to losing full use of your hand," came the disbelieving mutter.

"What?" Elanor replied, raising an eyebrow.

"You could have lost—"

"No, I just didn't expect you to say that," she half-retorted half-laughed, caught between pique and relieved amusement. "I thought maybe you'd say how worried you were, or that you're glad I'm ok, but—"

Glorfindel looked down into her green eyes with perfect earnestness. "Elanor, I was worried. My heart was full of dread to see you approach with blood and tears mingling upon your cheeks. Yet you rebuffed me for my concern. I am relieved beyond words you did not lose the use of your hand, however—your fingers are exquisite and deft and clever and I adore them all. I am filled with remorse for having caused you grief in my laughter or by causing you physical pain—something I should never dream of doing had I been aware."

This speech was delivered quietly and with utmost tenderness, and Elanor felt a pang of remorse once more at the hurt she must've caused him. Taking one of his hands in her uninjured one, she raised it to her lips and kissed it, featherlike.

"And I am so sorry I snapped at you. I won't excuse that, though you did hurt me awfully when you grabbed me. And I was so worked up and grumpy because I'd fallen, and in the armoury—" she broke off.

Glorfindel's eyes were full of love as he squeezed her hand in return. "All is forgiven, dearest."

"And I am very sorry for what I said about Elf-kind and mortal-kind," Elanor continued resolutely. "I know this is an issue we need to work out, but I shouldn't have brought it up like that, nor thrown it at you like an accusation. It's hard for me but I can imagine it must be harder for you, and I guess we can work it out another time. I was worried about it I guess, and when you laughed and I was hurt and grouchy and everything—it just kind of spilled out."

A frown flickered across Glorfindel's countenance, and the transparency of moment's before was lost. He did not withdraw, yet Elanor saw the warning in his gaze and knew that he would not endure any discussion of her mortality that evening.

Will he ever?

Knowing it was futile at that time, Elanor gave a nervous smile. "Are we all right, Glorfindel?"

The Elf frowned slightly, though one side of his mouth quirked in his characteristic grin despite the faint shadow in his eyes. "What do you mean by that, El?"

"Is everything right between us?"

"Of course," he smiled graciously.

She raised an eyebrow archly. "Then why, loveliest of lovers, have you neither embraced nor kissed me this evening?"

Glorfindel threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing about the corridor like hearty, pleasant music. "You do not speak in hints or riddles, El."

"I'm not very good at hints or riddles," she replied frankly. "But I would like it if you kissed me."

"I should very much like to kiss you," smiled he, with equal brevity, "though I am gladdened to hear you say so, for I confess I was uncertain this evening. You were so vehement in telling me not to touch you that I have been at a loss since the afternoon."

Elanor flushed in embarrassment, though not because of the hand which slipped about her waist nor the fingers which rested beneath her chin.

You were quite forceful and temperamental…

"I am very sorry for that as well," she admitted, slowly, her lashes lowered in unfeigned shyness. "I love to be held almost all the time, though at that moment you discovered the unlikely occasion in which being touched only incensed me. I regret that I was so angry about it."

Glorfindel didn't respond—he merely kissed her. It was a sweet, lingering kiss, and Elanor could not harbour any doubts about her fiancee's affection as he brushed her lips the last time.

"What were you doing in the armoury, El?" he asked quietly, cupping her jaw so their foreheads and noses were pressed together and their breaths mingled, warm and fragrant.

Elanor opened her eyes and sighed. Glorfindel released her.

"Just looking," she shrugged.

Her fiancee raised an eyebrow, gaze piercing to her soul.

Gee, for someone who plays the "just don't go there" card when it comes to mortality, he won't let you brush him off with any excuses!

"I was just looking—I was out for a walk, and thought I should do some kind of exercise, and I didn't know… I wanted to see if I could face it."

"Fighting again?" he prompted.

"Yes."

"Oh Elanor," he breathed, grasping her and tugging her towards his chest. For her part, she did not resist. The sound of his heart throbbing in his chest was comforting and stabilising; his breath tickled the loose curls about her face and all she could smell was his scent, with it's faint hint of pine. He spoke some words to her, but pressed against his white tunic as she was, she could not hear them.

"What?" she mumbled, lifting her head away from the skin-warmed fabric so his chin rested on her crown and she could hear better.

"Do you continue to have nightmares, dearest?"

Confused, Elanor withdrew further so she could look at him. His face held grave concern. "How did you—"

"When we were journeying back from Minas Tirith, I heard you speak in your sleep—you were restless and muttered and sometimes you woke, though you didn't know I observed you. Do they still trouble you?"

"Yes, but not as often," she admitted a trifle reluctantly. She had done her best to hide any traces of the horror which still plagued her. Glorfindel had been distraught to find she had ridden upon the Pelennor, and she feared his disapproval. Rather than lecture her, however, he merely tucked her head beneath his chin again.

"If you are ever awake in the night and cannot sleep because of these dreams—do not endure the darkness alone. Elves do not sleep as humans do; call for me, and we shall walk beneath the stars or sit before a fire until you are again at peace. Will you promise to do this, and not hesitate on account of disturbing me, Elanor?"

"Yes," she murmured. "I will."

And, she muttered inwardly and with unshakable certainty as he held her tight, I will get you to talk about my mortality. I'm glad we made up, but don't think for a moment that you're getting away with leaving this question unanswered.

He can't ignore it forever.

Woo! Chapter 43!

I had this half-written almost immediately following Chapter 42, but I needed a bit of inspiration to finish it. My greatest problem was that I felt that it was somewhat melodramatic. Still, I feel like Elanor is normally so demure but she is a very touch-oriented person - she loves Glorfindel's physical attentions but when he hurt her (even accidentally) she flared up. That, I felt, fit with her character, as did her swift desire to apologise. The reason this fight was not so quickly resolved as the others (Glorfindel and Elanor both being fairly frank and good at conflict resolution) is because of the underlying problem; Elanor's mortality (as I'm sure you realised). So that's something I'll be tackling in the next few chapters. :D

To come, we have the return of the other guests, the wedding (naturally) - and trying to work out how Elanor and Glorfindel can reside together knowing that one of them will die and leave the other to live forever.

I hope you're still enjoying this, sorry for the long hiatus. Please leave reviews! I love hearing from ya'll about what you think.

Happy reading. x

Finwe.