Twelve Songs In Rivendel.
An Elrond Romance
by The Fox.
Chapter Four
From Mordor
Let Me Sail.
Early Autumn
Estel wasn't on Rivendel, but scouting the North with his Rangers, and all Rivendel missed him. Elrond did, grudgingly,
and as he sat at the window of his study, looking the golden trees shed their clothing, shyly at first, into the wind turning
Rivendel's soil into gold he knew part of it was missing Arwen's laugh, that easy, free laugh she only indulges herself near
him.
The winter was coming, and Elrond was getting nervous. Mithrandir has come back at end of summer, drained and spent from
his last travel to Dol Guldur. Their worst fears were confirmed: it wasn't an Ulairi, a Nazgul, as they feared, but the Dark
Lord himself who had risen in the Forest, and was waiting to strike.
Despite Saruman's assurances, Elrond knew deep inside that it was now and never, before he took hold of the Lost One Ring.
It must now.
Mithrandir rested in Rivendel, healing. But the Fire Ring suited him well giving him strength and energy, and he planned to do a
last trip to Bree, the Shire and beyond for a birthday party he said he couldn't miss.
Elrond would have thought he was joking, didn't he know him.
Crazy old man. We are planning a desperate battle and he is worried about presents and fireworks.
The quick rush of horses took him out of his musings. He recognized Elfaroth, Arien's horse, and then the laugh of Arwen,
happy as he hadn't heard for a long while. For that, if only, he was glad of the Gondor's lady arrival.
More laughs, Elladan and Elrohir's. If them were in home, surely…
… Was that Estel's? Yes.
Wouldn't Arwen be delighted.
And then, five blurs passed under his window, black, brown, white, white, and brown. Elladan had lost the race, apparently,
he thought with a smirk. I wonder what it was at stake.
He hurried to the balcony, smiling, suddenly happy. They were in home, safe and sound, and suddenly he was aware he was
glad for the Gondor messenger's safety no less that for his sons.
They were still in their saddles, laughing and shouting, confusion at the foot of Rivendel's stairs. Estel looked well and rested,
laugh open and free as stood near Asfaloth. Elladan was arguing with Elrohir, as Arwen shook her head smugly, long black
tresses free in the wind.
And Arien…
… Arien was dismounting, face hidden, dressed in heavy leather gear for traveling, her hair in a long braid, and when she
looked up…
Elrond left the balcony and went down the stairs as quickly as he could, lifting the hem of his robes as he downed stairs three
by three.
She needs help, now.
She bowed, as Estel, Elladan and Elrohir shouted they greetings. But Elrond passed them swiftly, and putting a hand in Arien's
arm, stared deep into her face.
She was pale, with that kind of translucence that only the deepest exhaustion brings. Her lips where only faintly tinted with
peach, but it looked almost red in her white face. Her hair fell like lifeless, her eyes surrounded by dark circles were haunted
as she tried to smile.
Haunted by Darkness.
Where the hell Saruman sent her this time!?
- Greetings, my Lord.- she said with a faint voice that tried to be cheerful, and emerged heart-breaking.- I have come, to give
you the White Lord and the Lord Of Gondor's answers…-
He took the letters, and preceded her to his study, eyes on her.
Wouldn't knew where the Nine Rings are, I've thought she had one, and was fading in my sight, he thought with
sadness. She looked beyond sickness. How could my sons, how could Arwen doesn't see it and *race* her, Elbereth's
sake?
He tore open the letters, and his eyes quickly scanned the elegant handwriting of Saruman, the stiff writing of Denethor.
"… I'll support you, and if all of you, wise elves, had took this course of action I, as Head of the White Council will not only
approve but join my efforts of mind and power to your goals…"
Blah, blah, blah. Galadriel was so right: Saruman was a mouth and power with a devious mind, more inclined to
himself than anything. And he tries to swoon me with nice words, the arrogant.
"… Saruman the White agreeing and assuring the fact it's time the battle took place in Mirkwood, I can't help but agree and
wish you well…."
Blah, blah, blah. Denethor hadn't changed since his petty hate to * Thorongil*. Always Gondor, Gondor, Gondor.
How can't he see farther, an Oesternesse man?
THUD.
Elrond wondered what had fallen, still scanning the letters.
- Father!-
Can't you see I'm busy?
*More urgent*- FATHER!-
- What is it, Arwen?!-
He lifted his eyes, to see Arwen knelt by an unconscious Arien.
Oh, damn you, Curunir.
- Let me sail… let me sail…-
-What is she saying…?- Arwen, worried, had put her in bed, revealing a bunch of bruises and cuts not healed in a too thin
body. She shook, feverishly, and whispered in her delirium, as Arwen braided the hair wildly around her head, preventing it to
knot as she moved in her fever.
- She's singing…- Erestor, best disciple of Elrond in the arts of healing which he had mastered tried to still her, putting a damp
cloth to her fevered forehead, but she clawed it away.- Why she fights so…-
- She's fighting to live.- Elrond sighed.- She is just like when I met her, but worse.-
- Can you save her, father?- Arwen's eyes were worried, angst there. Elrond was surprised: Arwen never grew attachments
so quickly.
But it was supposed neither I do, but here I am.
- She had been under the shadow, undoubtedly.- Mithrandir was worried too, as he took the claw like hand that shook as
Arien, eyes clenched, moaned like in deep, piercing pain.- And more than a time. What it is Saruman thinking…- he said,
sorrow in his voice.
- The venom of the Nazgul and Sauron turns voice to ice, and life into a cold, painfully drowning flickering candle.- Elrond
continued, brow frowned.- Had she been in Mordor, where the Nazgul hides, or in Dol Guldur, the result is the same. And she
is far too weak and exhausted. I only can wonder how far she had traveled this time.-
The room was dark: Arien had been writhing in pain for hours, pain that didn't look like vanishing even under all of Elrond's
skills. It wasn't only the pain of the Darkness: her body was exhausted beyond relief, too weak, too tired to grab hold into a
soul suffering so much. She was near surrender, and even Elrond couldn't help.
- I don't really know, Arwen.- he sighed, putting another asea arannion into hot water, and imposing his healing hands into
Arien's naked shoulders, thin as bird's wings, the soft white sleeping robes Arwen had changed her in sliding from her body,
twisted and ripped in her convulsions.
Please, Arien of Gondor, come back from the darkness, do not dwell there. Fight and come back, to the sunlight, were
I am waiting to take you back home.
I debt you an afternoon in my library.
You debt me an answer. Is this what haunts you? Is the memory of Darkness? What are what your eyes long for?
Come back to me…
… Elbereth, lady of stars, as you lighted long ago the night with your gift to us, light again into her the light of life…
show her your light…
Elrond sat in her side the whole night. The autumn night was quiet, and barely one leaf moved outside as the stars which
power he had invocated shone over a black sky. Her fight had ceased at sunset: with the last dying sunray, she had
succumbed into deep sleep, a sleep that was the hallway to death as Irmo's Lorien was the garden to Namo's Mandos. Her
skin was paler and paler, and Elrond waited there, with only the starlight clearing the shadows, a pale moon too thin still to
light.
It was midnight, and the Lord of Rivendel watched the Shadow choke the last of life out of that body, shadow he wasn't able
to chase away.
Where have you been, Arien?
Would you vanish, woman of short life, taking with you your shining spirit I liked so much, bright sun in our sunset?
Open your eyes…
… to me…
A whisper…
… she was singing, singing slowly, an old, old song, whose words now doesn't mean nothing, but that eons ago meant so
much…
A song so sad of the Second Age where kingdoms and songs where still bathed with the Memory of Trees, where the ones
who never went and the ones who came back dreamed to go home…
She barely whispered with hoarse voice, but Elrond recognized the desperate need and longing of his kind.
let me sail, let me sail, let the snow of Sirion flow,
let me reach, let me beach on the shores of Alquelonde.
let me sail, let me sail, let me crash upon your shore,
let me reach, let me beach far beyond Vinyamar Sea.
And as she did, starlight shone on her pale skin, through the veil of flesh. She shone like a pool where the moon reflects herself
suddenly, like a snowed peak where the stars reflects.
She shone like an powerful elf, yet she is human.
Elrond rose, and watched her, eyes open, singing in valinorean with tears on her eyes, hands lifted as she begged…
from Ossiriand to Doriath - in the shade of Melian,
from Nargothrond to Nevrast and the Isle of Balar,
from Thargelion to Dor-Lomín hear the power of Gondolin,
from Himlad to Dorthonion - far beyond Hithlum.
She sings as she knows what it means. She sings like her sole song would be enough to make her one of us and grant
her passage to Eressea…
from the Est to the West, beyond Tol Eressea,
from the deep sea of Clouds to the Island of the Calacirya,
carry me on the waves to the lands I've never been,
carry me on the waves to the lands I've never seen.
She begs…
… it feels like she begs to me…
we can sail, we can sail...
we can steer, we can near with Vingilot at the sight,
we can sigh, say goodbye Sahta Arda and her light…
we can sail, we can sail...
Slowly he took her hands, and for a last time emptied all of his mighty will of healing into her.
Please, let it be enough…
Suddenly, heat and power, and her life sparkled to life, as the Shadow was chased away and erased for Elrond's will. He
blinked, and saw Gandalf with her other hand in his. And the Fire Ring, Narya, shining in his hand like a living flame.
Vilya shone blue in answer.
And Arien fell into deep, resting dreams.
- Great is the joy to see you back into life and hope again, my beautiful Lady!- Mithrandir, still weak too, but smiling, saluted
the next day, seeing a uncertain, disheveled, still pale but smiling Arien step into the balcony of her room, directly above the
terrace where the Istari and Elrond played a table game, Arwen not far, stitching. They were enjoying the faint sunrays of
autumn, and soft breeze moved Arien's long white sleeping robe, her hair free and loose, the ends curling again.
- I couldn't thank you enough, my Lords, Lady Arwen.- she said, softly. Arwen put her work aside to go to her, and Elrond
looked up and smiled.
Arien's eyes were clear again.
- You went through many things to take this letters to me, my lady. The less I can do is help you to recover from your
exhaustion.- he said, gently.- But please, go back to bed. Days are fresh now, and I'll go to see you soon. You have to recover
your strength, now.-
She bowed, and disappeared from view. But Gandalf stared at Elrond.
- She is so weak, I think a whisper would take her away.-
- More reason to keep her here. If Saruman send her again to hell, she would not made it.- Elrond spoke with anger, and
sadness. And Gandalf peeked to his gaze, to say with a lighter tone:
- Not all the Istaris are like that, do you know.-
Elrond shrugged.
- I hope.- he said, feigning a miffed expression.
Rivendel nor was only a place of healing: it was THE place of healing in MidEarth, as Lorien was the place to forget. And
Arien stayed two weeks, awaking every morning to the bird singing and the whisper of Bruinen that was Rivendel's essence
in autumn. A blanket of gold leaves blowing in the fresh air of morning, air that was healthy and new, whirled her hair and
stayed there, like a promise of spring.
A routine blossomed as a flower, and Arien enjoyed very early walks in the beautiful forests, surrounded by pine and
rosewood. She wandered around, sometimes meeting Mithrandir, who always coaxed laughs from the lady, or the early-riser
Estel was, the fine young man gentle and calm, and sharing with her the knowledge and memories that traveling the same
paths for years come with.
When the sun was finally up, she came back, a white shawl Arwen gifted her whirling in the picking wind, to Elrond's
library. There, the lord of the house was always already, head bent over parchment and books, the pale sun casting teasing
glints in his circlet, a warm mantle enveloping his form. They rarely talked, as he worked and Arien sat in silence, comfortably
in a lounge near the fireplace with a tome or two of dense valinorean or teasing Quenya, picking her way through the flowing
handwriting that sometimes was Elrond's own.
Elrond sometimes suspended his work to stare her tense concentration, her joy finding words about Luthien from
Doriath or Idril Celebrindal from Gondolin, her sighs as she searched methodically book by book in a patience that amused and
amazed Elrond. They stood like that till noon, where the bells called them to lunch, and they walked to the Hall together, talking
about this or that affair, discussing philosophy, so different Gondor from Rivendel's thought schools where, or epic poetry
about the Noldor, something she had a knack for. But mostly of the time they avoided the themes of Saruman or Dol Guldor:
Arien didn't told him how she went over the shadow, and he didn't ask. They simply enjoyed their walking together,
sometimes she answering a question of the lord about the places and cultures she had visited, or he clarifying a point of the old
legends of the obtrusive Quenya she was still to grasp the meaning for.
Arwen was always glad to snatch Arien from her father after lunch, and kidnapping her into quiet places to do a bit of what
she called teasingly " girl talk". The two ladies, almost exact opposites enjoyed their time together, talking and walking, singing
or dancing in a clearing under the clad in yellow trees. Arien never tired to walk through Rivendel beautiful, free lands, and she
was lost by herself long hours, striding or in horse, meeting with the land where the rime had stopped. It had a bit of
everything: Elrond had made through the years a place where always what was beautiful in Arda had a representation there,
and Arien saw into that little Arda a memory of everyplace she had met. It was the diminutive painting of the world of Eru,
and Elrond, powerful and benevolent was the fount of all those things, his eternal soul reflected there like another Manwe,
Lord of Wind, his breath the touch of heaven keeping all that things alive and young.
Rivendel has hidden spots everywhere, hits of sight that left you breathless. She went to the Bruinen's falls, where the water
made a silently white veil over exuberating dark green vegetation so alike beautiful Eregion, and to the fertile fields, so alike
the happy Shire. She watched the bed of flowers the hills were, mapped with tiny little flows, or the brilliant forests of gold and
green, so alike Ithilien and Lorien. And she wandered around, the wanderer that had found and loved every secret of the
Midearth finding her heart's desire. It was like a picture of her travels all together in the same place, filling his mind with the
most beautiful memories, hers mixing with the memories of times long ago lost but still existing in this magical valley. It was
Arda like it must have been before Morgoth and Sauron's staining, like only good things had survived and left their memory
here…
It spoke to her from herself, too, to a deep place where she recognized every leave, every design into her heart. It was her
reflection. And she sung, as she walked, an old song that came to her mind like a expression of her joy, of her reviving
strength, and more than all, of the feeling to have finally came home.
There's a heart that must be free to fly
That burns with a need to know the reason why
Must there be a secret me I'm forced to hide?
I won't pretend that I'm someone else for all time
When will my reflections show who I am inside?
And with that, she cried, the agony in her heart suddenly impossible to endure.
It was like that Elrond found her an afternoon the sunlight had came through a light rain, painting rainbows, and he
decided to enjoy the Sun of Laurelin outside. He wandered though the land that was his, nor by conquest, but out of love. And
he had wandered into Rivendel's jewel, the place where the Bruinen made the most regular circling of the valley, gallant into
his contention to then explode in the most beautiful veil of water, silent waterfall where the leaves and petals the wind strayed
made intricate designs. He walked, and the heard a low, sad voice singing, and a sob.
I won't pretend that I'm someone else for all time
When will my reflections show who I am inside?
And his heart fluttered with strange commotion, the same sadness and despair that would have filled his healer's heart at the
sound of a hurt stag's cry. He went, loudless steps knowing every rock and root, to the place where glistening gray rocks sat
by the riverbank, forever soaking their feet. And there it was a young elven lady, long floating robes of white and brown
straying down the rock she sat, almost kissing the water, knees embraced, the curve of her neck speaking of misery.
It took him a second to recognize the flame-colored hair, prisoner into along braid surely made by the deft hands of Arwen.
And with a start he saw something he hadn't seen, being so close: that trousers and uniform gone, and dressed in Arwen's
exquisite taste in Elven attire, the long floating dress of a elven maid and the warm shawl of brown softness, crowned in dry
flowers, tiny glistening gems around her neck, it wasn't for the un-elvish, defiant hair, she could have, she had been easily
mistook by an elven lady. even by him, whom, like Peredhil knew the differences between the Two Lineage by heart.
She was sad.
Elrond wouldn't have been Elrond if he wouldn't have went to put healer's hand in her shaking shoulders. In someway, the
sadness of something so vital, so alive it seemed suddenly sadder to him that the waning of the entire Elven race, from the
ones who didn't so brilliantly real to start.
- Arien…- he said gently, his hands soothing. She had stopped suddenly her sad, despairing sobs. But Elrond, feeling the
tremors still under his hands, the heart racing like a dying bird, softly turned her to him.
Her cheeks where covered in tears, and his heart ached.
- Arien, what's wrong…?- he asked, the power burning in his hand. If is something he could do, all-powerful lord of this tiny
realm, he would to banish her pain. But he looked into her eyes of pale blue, of winter morning, and found there a sadness so
impossible to vanish like it was impossible to vanish the sadness imprinted in his own race into the twilight.
Something from her heart.
- I must go soon, my Lord.- Arien said softly, drying her tears. Elrond stared, as the wind made some leaves dance their death
dance around them.
- You are not fully healed, Arien. And if your heart feels like that, I can't let you go before to try to ease that pain. Please.- he
said, soft order there.- Please, let me know.-
- I must go… - she repeated, but avoided his eyes.- It's just that the thought of leaving the fair Rivendel saddens me, my lord.-
She was avoiding his eyes.
She was using the utmost formal speech.
But she was saying the truth.
Is her heart in that turmoil just for leaving us…?
-This is your house. Came as soon you can, Arien.- he said, as formal, as gentle.
And she bowed, and suddenly, was shook for an uncontrollable sob.
Elrond had had enough, and let himself embrace her, soothing her sobs with a no-word elven song, his hand on her hair as she
emptied misery into his chest. As he rocked her gently, the wind became stronger, making words impossible to decipher.
-… Almost forgotten… I was resigned… I had stopped to dream… but when I came here… I can't go… I can't leave… -
Please, don't cry Arien of Gondor. Please, don't soak my land with your tears that goes straight to my heart. Please
smile, and let your heart soar…
Sing to me, into my fading sunset.
Her sobs subsided, and she dried her eyes. She mouthed apologies, lost as Elrond dried her eyes with his own handkerchief,
and bent, to kiss her forehead.
Carry my blessing.
Calm your heart.
And come back to me, my lady.
Under his kiss, she smiled, sun out a cloud into a marvelous ray of sunset.
And they came back into Rivendel, in silence.
- Don't go again under the Shadow. No power would take you back this time.-
- I wouldn't,. my Lord. My mission in Mordor is done.-
Mordor?
A long, long silence.
- Would you take my decision to Saruman, Arien.-
- It's my duty and my privilege, my Lord.- she said gently, with tone lightening by effort.- I'll ride like I haven't…-
Elrond shut her with a hand to his lips. Fingers that had been one day callused by sword, were now soft from healing's duties.
- Would you tell what is it, Arien?- he asked, only once, just before to enter the Hall of Rivendel, where Elladan and Elrohir,
Arwen and Estel, and Mithrandir talked and joked.
- No, my Lord… not yet.-
- So, I'll be waiting when you are ready.-
- Thank you.- the words weren't enough to describe the feeling into Arien's secretive eyes.
Estel, Elladan and Elrohir went into the West next dawn, following the same path Mithrandir in his way to the Shire and Arien
in her path to Isengard followed. They went away into the sunset: Elladan joking, Elrohir serious, Estel with his eyes nailed to
the balcony where he and Arwen said goodbye, and Mithrandir chatting with Arien. She carried the letter with the deadline
and the designs of the main plan for the Dol Guldor's attack, the night of mid winter, to Saruman to know.
She looked up, and smiled to him. But he never was fooled again: he was the wisest elf lord, and he saw the desperation
growing like a tide there.
Come back to me, and tell me your secret. I'll be waiting, and I'll ease it. After all, before Peredhil or lord, I am a
healer.
- Arien! You owe a song!- Arwen waved goodbye to them, her smile faltering when she saw Elrond's frown.
- Father?-
- War is coming, Arwen. And that five that there go would be swept away into the tide, Arien the first.-
- Father!-
Elrond closed his eyes. The certainty of his prophecy fisted his heart, hearing Arien sob, not into his memory, but into the
future, echoes in the place that she had recognized home.
He felt still the wetness of her tears, flooding his mind.
You'll tell me. And we'll finally get to know if I am the wisest elf of the MidEarth, or I am not, this winter of war.
Orinoco Flow © by Enya.
Reflections © Christina Aguliera
An Elrond Romance
by The Fox.
Chapter Four
From Mordor
Let Me Sail.
Early Autumn
Estel wasn't on Rivendel, but scouting the North with his Rangers, and all Rivendel missed him. Elrond did, grudgingly,
and as he sat at the window of his study, looking the golden trees shed their clothing, shyly at first, into the wind turning
Rivendel's soil into gold he knew part of it was missing Arwen's laugh, that easy, free laugh she only indulges herself near
him.
The winter was coming, and Elrond was getting nervous. Mithrandir has come back at end of summer, drained and spent from
his last travel to Dol Guldur. Their worst fears were confirmed: it wasn't an Ulairi, a Nazgul, as they feared, but the Dark
Lord himself who had risen in the Forest, and was waiting to strike.
Despite Saruman's assurances, Elrond knew deep inside that it was now and never, before he took hold of the Lost One Ring.
It must now.
Mithrandir rested in Rivendel, healing. But the Fire Ring suited him well giving him strength and energy, and he planned to do a
last trip to Bree, the Shire and beyond for a birthday party he said he couldn't miss.
Elrond would have thought he was joking, didn't he know him.
Crazy old man. We are planning a desperate battle and he is worried about presents and fireworks.
The quick rush of horses took him out of his musings. He recognized Elfaroth, Arien's horse, and then the laugh of Arwen,
happy as he hadn't heard for a long while. For that, if only, he was glad of the Gondor's lady arrival.
More laughs, Elladan and Elrohir's. If them were in home, surely…
… Was that Estel's? Yes.
Wouldn't Arwen be delighted.
And then, five blurs passed under his window, black, brown, white, white, and brown. Elladan had lost the race, apparently,
he thought with a smirk. I wonder what it was at stake.
He hurried to the balcony, smiling, suddenly happy. They were in home, safe and sound, and suddenly he was aware he was
glad for the Gondor messenger's safety no less that for his sons.
They were still in their saddles, laughing and shouting, confusion at the foot of Rivendel's stairs. Estel looked well and rested,
laugh open and free as stood near Asfaloth. Elladan was arguing with Elrohir, as Arwen shook her head smugly, long black
tresses free in the wind.
And Arien…
… Arien was dismounting, face hidden, dressed in heavy leather gear for traveling, her hair in a long braid, and when she
looked up…
Elrond left the balcony and went down the stairs as quickly as he could, lifting the hem of his robes as he downed stairs three
by three.
She needs help, now.
She bowed, as Estel, Elladan and Elrohir shouted they greetings. But Elrond passed them swiftly, and putting a hand in Arien's
arm, stared deep into her face.
She was pale, with that kind of translucence that only the deepest exhaustion brings. Her lips where only faintly tinted with
peach, but it looked almost red in her white face. Her hair fell like lifeless, her eyes surrounded by dark circles were haunted
as she tried to smile.
Haunted by Darkness.
Where the hell Saruman sent her this time!?
- Greetings, my Lord.- she said with a faint voice that tried to be cheerful, and emerged heart-breaking.- I have come, to give
you the White Lord and the Lord Of Gondor's answers…-
He took the letters, and preceded her to his study, eyes on her.
Wouldn't knew where the Nine Rings are, I've thought she had one, and was fading in my sight, he thought with
sadness. She looked beyond sickness. How could my sons, how could Arwen doesn't see it and *race* her, Elbereth's
sake?
He tore open the letters, and his eyes quickly scanned the elegant handwriting of Saruman, the stiff writing of Denethor.
"… I'll support you, and if all of you, wise elves, had took this course of action I, as Head of the White Council will not only
approve but join my efforts of mind and power to your goals…"
Blah, blah, blah. Galadriel was so right: Saruman was a mouth and power with a devious mind, more inclined to
himself than anything. And he tries to swoon me with nice words, the arrogant.
"… Saruman the White agreeing and assuring the fact it's time the battle took place in Mirkwood, I can't help but agree and
wish you well…."
Blah, blah, blah. Denethor hadn't changed since his petty hate to * Thorongil*. Always Gondor, Gondor, Gondor.
How can't he see farther, an Oesternesse man?
THUD.
Elrond wondered what had fallen, still scanning the letters.
- Father!-
Can't you see I'm busy?
*More urgent*- FATHER!-
- What is it, Arwen?!-
He lifted his eyes, to see Arwen knelt by an unconscious Arien.
Oh, damn you, Curunir.
- Let me sail… let me sail…-
-What is she saying…?- Arwen, worried, had put her in bed, revealing a bunch of bruises and cuts not healed in a too thin
body. She shook, feverishly, and whispered in her delirium, as Arwen braided the hair wildly around her head, preventing it to
knot as she moved in her fever.
- She's singing…- Erestor, best disciple of Elrond in the arts of healing which he had mastered tried to still her, putting a damp
cloth to her fevered forehead, but she clawed it away.- Why she fights so…-
- She's fighting to live.- Elrond sighed.- She is just like when I met her, but worse.-
- Can you save her, father?- Arwen's eyes were worried, angst there. Elrond was surprised: Arwen never grew attachments
so quickly.
But it was supposed neither I do, but here I am.
- She had been under the shadow, undoubtedly.- Mithrandir was worried too, as he took the claw like hand that shook as
Arien, eyes clenched, moaned like in deep, piercing pain.- And more than a time. What it is Saruman thinking…- he said,
sorrow in his voice.
- The venom of the Nazgul and Sauron turns voice to ice, and life into a cold, painfully drowning flickering candle.- Elrond
continued, brow frowned.- Had she been in Mordor, where the Nazgul hides, or in Dol Guldur, the result is the same. And she
is far too weak and exhausted. I only can wonder how far she had traveled this time.-
The room was dark: Arien had been writhing in pain for hours, pain that didn't look like vanishing even under all of Elrond's
skills. It wasn't only the pain of the Darkness: her body was exhausted beyond relief, too weak, too tired to grab hold into a
soul suffering so much. She was near surrender, and even Elrond couldn't help.
- I don't really know, Arwen.- he sighed, putting another asea arannion into hot water, and imposing his healing hands into
Arien's naked shoulders, thin as bird's wings, the soft white sleeping robes Arwen had changed her in sliding from her body,
twisted and ripped in her convulsions.
Please, Arien of Gondor, come back from the darkness, do not dwell there. Fight and come back, to the sunlight, were
I am waiting to take you back home.
I debt you an afternoon in my library.
You debt me an answer. Is this what haunts you? Is the memory of Darkness? What are what your eyes long for?
Come back to me…
… Elbereth, lady of stars, as you lighted long ago the night with your gift to us, light again into her the light of life…
show her your light…
Elrond sat in her side the whole night. The autumn night was quiet, and barely one leaf moved outside as the stars which
power he had invocated shone over a black sky. Her fight had ceased at sunset: with the last dying sunray, she had
succumbed into deep sleep, a sleep that was the hallway to death as Irmo's Lorien was the garden to Namo's Mandos. Her
skin was paler and paler, and Elrond waited there, with only the starlight clearing the shadows, a pale moon too thin still to
light.
It was midnight, and the Lord of Rivendel watched the Shadow choke the last of life out of that body, shadow he wasn't able
to chase away.
Where have you been, Arien?
Would you vanish, woman of short life, taking with you your shining spirit I liked so much, bright sun in our sunset?
Open your eyes…
… to me…
A whisper…
… she was singing, singing slowly, an old, old song, whose words now doesn't mean nothing, but that eons ago meant so
much…
A song so sad of the Second Age where kingdoms and songs where still bathed with the Memory of Trees, where the ones
who never went and the ones who came back dreamed to go home…
She barely whispered with hoarse voice, but Elrond recognized the desperate need and longing of his kind.
let me sail, let me sail, let the snow of Sirion flow,
let me reach, let me beach on the shores of Alquelonde.
let me sail, let me sail, let me crash upon your shore,
let me reach, let me beach far beyond Vinyamar Sea.
And as she did, starlight shone on her pale skin, through the veil of flesh. She shone like a pool where the moon reflects herself
suddenly, like a snowed peak where the stars reflects.
She shone like an powerful elf, yet she is human.
Elrond rose, and watched her, eyes open, singing in valinorean with tears on her eyes, hands lifted as she begged…
from Ossiriand to Doriath - in the shade of Melian,
from Nargothrond to Nevrast and the Isle of Balar,
from Thargelion to Dor-Lomín hear the power of Gondolin,
from Himlad to Dorthonion - far beyond Hithlum.
She sings as she knows what it means. She sings like her sole song would be enough to make her one of us and grant
her passage to Eressea…
from the Est to the West, beyond Tol Eressea,
from the deep sea of Clouds to the Island of the Calacirya,
carry me on the waves to the lands I've never been,
carry me on the waves to the lands I've never seen.
She begs…
… it feels like she begs to me…
we can sail, we can sail...
we can steer, we can near with Vingilot at the sight,
we can sigh, say goodbye Sahta Arda and her light…
we can sail, we can sail...
Slowly he took her hands, and for a last time emptied all of his mighty will of healing into her.
Please, let it be enough…
Suddenly, heat and power, and her life sparkled to life, as the Shadow was chased away and erased for Elrond's will. He
blinked, and saw Gandalf with her other hand in his. And the Fire Ring, Narya, shining in his hand like a living flame.
Vilya shone blue in answer.
And Arien fell into deep, resting dreams.
- Great is the joy to see you back into life and hope again, my beautiful Lady!- Mithrandir, still weak too, but smiling, saluted
the next day, seeing a uncertain, disheveled, still pale but smiling Arien step into the balcony of her room, directly above the
terrace where the Istari and Elrond played a table game, Arwen not far, stitching. They were enjoying the faint sunrays of
autumn, and soft breeze moved Arien's long white sleeping robe, her hair free and loose, the ends curling again.
- I couldn't thank you enough, my Lords, Lady Arwen.- she said, softly. Arwen put her work aside to go to her, and Elrond
looked up and smiled.
Arien's eyes were clear again.
- You went through many things to take this letters to me, my lady. The less I can do is help you to recover from your
exhaustion.- he said, gently.- But please, go back to bed. Days are fresh now, and I'll go to see you soon. You have to recover
your strength, now.-
She bowed, and disappeared from view. But Gandalf stared at Elrond.
- She is so weak, I think a whisper would take her away.-
- More reason to keep her here. If Saruman send her again to hell, she would not made it.- Elrond spoke with anger, and
sadness. And Gandalf peeked to his gaze, to say with a lighter tone:
- Not all the Istaris are like that, do you know.-
Elrond shrugged.
- I hope.- he said, feigning a miffed expression.
Rivendel nor was only a place of healing: it was THE place of healing in MidEarth, as Lorien was the place to forget. And
Arien stayed two weeks, awaking every morning to the bird singing and the whisper of Bruinen that was Rivendel's essence
in autumn. A blanket of gold leaves blowing in the fresh air of morning, air that was healthy and new, whirled her hair and
stayed there, like a promise of spring.
A routine blossomed as a flower, and Arien enjoyed very early walks in the beautiful forests, surrounded by pine and
rosewood. She wandered around, sometimes meeting Mithrandir, who always coaxed laughs from the lady, or the early-riser
Estel was, the fine young man gentle and calm, and sharing with her the knowledge and memories that traveling the same
paths for years come with.
When the sun was finally up, she came back, a white shawl Arwen gifted her whirling in the picking wind, to Elrond's
library. There, the lord of the house was always already, head bent over parchment and books, the pale sun casting teasing
glints in his circlet, a warm mantle enveloping his form. They rarely talked, as he worked and Arien sat in silence, comfortably
in a lounge near the fireplace with a tome or two of dense valinorean or teasing Quenya, picking her way through the flowing
handwriting that sometimes was Elrond's own.
Elrond sometimes suspended his work to stare her tense concentration, her joy finding words about Luthien from
Doriath or Idril Celebrindal from Gondolin, her sighs as she searched methodically book by book in a patience that amused and
amazed Elrond. They stood like that till noon, where the bells called them to lunch, and they walked to the Hall together, talking
about this or that affair, discussing philosophy, so different Gondor from Rivendel's thought schools where, or epic poetry
about the Noldor, something she had a knack for. But mostly of the time they avoided the themes of Saruman or Dol Guldor:
Arien didn't told him how she went over the shadow, and he didn't ask. They simply enjoyed their walking together,
sometimes she answering a question of the lord about the places and cultures she had visited, or he clarifying a point of the old
legends of the obtrusive Quenya she was still to grasp the meaning for.
Arwen was always glad to snatch Arien from her father after lunch, and kidnapping her into quiet places to do a bit of what
she called teasingly " girl talk". The two ladies, almost exact opposites enjoyed their time together, talking and walking, singing
or dancing in a clearing under the clad in yellow trees. Arien never tired to walk through Rivendel beautiful, free lands, and she
was lost by herself long hours, striding or in horse, meeting with the land where the rime had stopped. It had a bit of
everything: Elrond had made through the years a place where always what was beautiful in Arda had a representation there,
and Arien saw into that little Arda a memory of everyplace she had met. It was the diminutive painting of the world of Eru,
and Elrond, powerful and benevolent was the fount of all those things, his eternal soul reflected there like another Manwe,
Lord of Wind, his breath the touch of heaven keeping all that things alive and young.
Rivendel has hidden spots everywhere, hits of sight that left you breathless. She went to the Bruinen's falls, where the water
made a silently white veil over exuberating dark green vegetation so alike beautiful Eregion, and to the fertile fields, so alike
the happy Shire. She watched the bed of flowers the hills were, mapped with tiny little flows, or the brilliant forests of gold and
green, so alike Ithilien and Lorien. And she wandered around, the wanderer that had found and loved every secret of the
Midearth finding her heart's desire. It was like a picture of her travels all together in the same place, filling his mind with the
most beautiful memories, hers mixing with the memories of times long ago lost but still existing in this magical valley. It was
Arda like it must have been before Morgoth and Sauron's staining, like only good things had survived and left their memory
here…
It spoke to her from herself, too, to a deep place where she recognized every leave, every design into her heart. It was her
reflection. And she sung, as she walked, an old song that came to her mind like a expression of her joy, of her reviving
strength, and more than all, of the feeling to have finally came home.
There's a heart that must be free to fly
That burns with a need to know the reason why
Must there be a secret me I'm forced to hide?
I won't pretend that I'm someone else for all time
When will my reflections show who I am inside?
And with that, she cried, the agony in her heart suddenly impossible to endure.
It was like that Elrond found her an afternoon the sunlight had came through a light rain, painting rainbows, and he
decided to enjoy the Sun of Laurelin outside. He wandered though the land that was his, nor by conquest, but out of love. And
he had wandered into Rivendel's jewel, the place where the Bruinen made the most regular circling of the valley, gallant into
his contention to then explode in the most beautiful veil of water, silent waterfall where the leaves and petals the wind strayed
made intricate designs. He walked, and the heard a low, sad voice singing, and a sob.
I won't pretend that I'm someone else for all time
When will my reflections show who I am inside?
And his heart fluttered with strange commotion, the same sadness and despair that would have filled his healer's heart at the
sound of a hurt stag's cry. He went, loudless steps knowing every rock and root, to the place where glistening gray rocks sat
by the riverbank, forever soaking their feet. And there it was a young elven lady, long floating robes of white and brown
straying down the rock she sat, almost kissing the water, knees embraced, the curve of her neck speaking of misery.
It took him a second to recognize the flame-colored hair, prisoner into along braid surely made by the deft hands of Arwen.
And with a start he saw something he hadn't seen, being so close: that trousers and uniform gone, and dressed in Arwen's
exquisite taste in Elven attire, the long floating dress of a elven maid and the warm shawl of brown softness, crowned in dry
flowers, tiny glistening gems around her neck, it wasn't for the un-elvish, defiant hair, she could have, she had been easily
mistook by an elven lady. even by him, whom, like Peredhil knew the differences between the Two Lineage by heart.
She was sad.
Elrond wouldn't have been Elrond if he wouldn't have went to put healer's hand in her shaking shoulders. In someway, the
sadness of something so vital, so alive it seemed suddenly sadder to him that the waning of the entire Elven race, from the
ones who didn't so brilliantly real to start.
- Arien…- he said gently, his hands soothing. She had stopped suddenly her sad, despairing sobs. But Elrond, feeling the
tremors still under his hands, the heart racing like a dying bird, softly turned her to him.
Her cheeks where covered in tears, and his heart ached.
- Arien, what's wrong…?- he asked, the power burning in his hand. If is something he could do, all-powerful lord of this tiny
realm, he would to banish her pain. But he looked into her eyes of pale blue, of winter morning, and found there a sadness so
impossible to vanish like it was impossible to vanish the sadness imprinted in his own race into the twilight.
Something from her heart.
- I must go soon, my Lord.- Arien said softly, drying her tears. Elrond stared, as the wind made some leaves dance their death
dance around them.
- You are not fully healed, Arien. And if your heart feels like that, I can't let you go before to try to ease that pain. Please.- he
said, soft order there.- Please, let me know.-
- I must go… - she repeated, but avoided his eyes.- It's just that the thought of leaving the fair Rivendel saddens me, my lord.-
She was avoiding his eyes.
She was using the utmost formal speech.
But she was saying the truth.
Is her heart in that turmoil just for leaving us…?
-This is your house. Came as soon you can, Arien.- he said, as formal, as gentle.
And she bowed, and suddenly, was shook for an uncontrollable sob.
Elrond had had enough, and let himself embrace her, soothing her sobs with a no-word elven song, his hand on her hair as she
emptied misery into his chest. As he rocked her gently, the wind became stronger, making words impossible to decipher.
-… Almost forgotten… I was resigned… I had stopped to dream… but when I came here… I can't go… I can't leave… -
Please, don't cry Arien of Gondor. Please, don't soak my land with your tears that goes straight to my heart. Please
smile, and let your heart soar…
Sing to me, into my fading sunset.
Her sobs subsided, and she dried her eyes. She mouthed apologies, lost as Elrond dried her eyes with his own handkerchief,
and bent, to kiss her forehead.
Carry my blessing.
Calm your heart.
And come back to me, my lady.
Under his kiss, she smiled, sun out a cloud into a marvelous ray of sunset.
And they came back into Rivendel, in silence.
- Don't go again under the Shadow. No power would take you back this time.-
- I wouldn't,. my Lord. My mission in Mordor is done.-
Mordor?
A long, long silence.
- Would you take my decision to Saruman, Arien.-
- It's my duty and my privilege, my Lord.- she said gently, with tone lightening by effort.- I'll ride like I haven't…-
Elrond shut her with a hand to his lips. Fingers that had been one day callused by sword, were now soft from healing's duties.
- Would you tell what is it, Arien?- he asked, only once, just before to enter the Hall of Rivendel, where Elladan and Elrohir,
Arwen and Estel, and Mithrandir talked and joked.
- No, my Lord… not yet.-
- So, I'll be waiting when you are ready.-
- Thank you.- the words weren't enough to describe the feeling into Arien's secretive eyes.
Estel, Elladan and Elrohir went into the West next dawn, following the same path Mithrandir in his way to the Shire and Arien
in her path to Isengard followed. They went away into the sunset: Elladan joking, Elrohir serious, Estel with his eyes nailed to
the balcony where he and Arwen said goodbye, and Mithrandir chatting with Arien. She carried the letter with the deadline
and the designs of the main plan for the Dol Guldor's attack, the night of mid winter, to Saruman to know.
She looked up, and smiled to him. But he never was fooled again: he was the wisest elf lord, and he saw the desperation
growing like a tide there.
Come back to me, and tell me your secret. I'll be waiting, and I'll ease it. After all, before Peredhil or lord, I am a
healer.
- Arien! You owe a song!- Arwen waved goodbye to them, her smile faltering when she saw Elrond's frown.
- Father?-
- War is coming, Arwen. And that five that there go would be swept away into the tide, Arien the first.-
- Father!-
Elrond closed his eyes. The certainty of his prophecy fisted his heart, hearing Arien sob, not into his memory, but into the
future, echoes in the place that she had recognized home.
He felt still the wetness of her tears, flooding his mind.
You'll tell me. And we'll finally get to know if I am the wisest elf of the MidEarth, or I am not, this winter of war.
Orinoco Flow © by Enya.
Reflections © Christina Aguliera