Not a soul was stirring at Imladris in the endless black hours before dawn, but it was not silent. Devoid of the trampings of countless feet, the shadowy, dreaming halls sussurrated with their own private whisperings, telling of deeds long done and of lives long past, reminiscing of all that had gone before. The guards unlucky enough to have drawn night duty shuffled drowsily at their posts. Their staffs and halberds gave off muffled clinks in the somber, silvery air. Deep, rumbling snores and the breathy mutterings of elves locked in uneasy or amorous dream sounded from behind heavy black doors. In the midwife's chambers, dark now save for two winking points of light, all was still. A sound, too low and stealthy for human ears, lifted on the rose-scented breeze drifting in through the open window. It was a sound that should have been comfortable, but somehow was not. It was the melodic creak of a rattan rocking chair as it moved uneasily, furtively in the all-consuming darkness.
Elrond gazed silently and thoughtfully down at the bundle in his arms. It lay still and quiet, a seductive weight in his arms. From within the myriad folds of swaddling drifted the smells of talc and sweet pear and toasted caramel, the scent of newborn elven child. They were sweet smells, pleasant smells, and as he inhaled them, the hollows of his cheeks ached with unexpressed emotion. Even now the smells of talc and toasted caramel were beginning to fade, and he knew that when she grew older, the child would carry with her the sugary scent of fresh pear. It would forevermore be the odor that would identify his child and speak to his guilt.
Mine, he thought as he stared down into her sleeping, unsuspecting face, and the thought was so enormous that he turned away from it and gazed out the open window.
The moon and stars, the voyeurs of all that came to pass beneath their silver glow, hung sharp and clear in the night sky. The moon was large and bone white, a robust late summer moon. A warm breeze scented with jasmine washed over his face, and he tilted his chin towards it, bidding it give him respite from the worries and toils of these past days. It skirled and eddied through the lush leaves of the hale oak sapling just outside his window, producing a soft, shimmying hiss like lace drawn over polished mahogany. It was a lonely sound, a forlorn sound, and listening to it, his thoughts were drawn once more to the child in his arms.
Ten days had passed since her birth and Sithirantiel's grisly but welcome demise. Time and again, he had sworn to himself that he would have nothing to do with the child, the secret citizen of Rivendell. He told himself over and over again that to become attached was a terrible idea, a stupidity neither of them could well afford. And yet, each night, in the most potent, dreaming hours of the dark, he found himself creeping to this room to stand over her cradle like a criminal returning to the scene of his infamous crime. Sometimes he just stood and watched her, but on most nights, like tonight, he found himself rocking her gently while she slept with a peace he could only covet.
"What am I to do with you, little one?" he whispered into the darkness, giving voice to the question that had been gnawing at his mind and heart since the moment he'd known that she was to be. The child gave a soft cluck and settled deeper into slumber.
He smiled wryly. That was as good an answer as any, he supposed. It was much the same as he had come up with in ten days of agonized pondering and inner debate. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He sighed and rested his head against the back of the chair, relaxing into the soothing rhythm of the chair as his feet pumped gently on the floor. Solid ground beneath his feet; now an odd weightlessness as all but the tips of his toes left the floor.
It had all seemed so simple before, when she had been little more than an abstract idea, a fuzzy image associated with the word "child." He had been certain then that he could blithely and dispassionately decide her fate. Back then, he'd thought there was but one clear, simple choice-to send her away. But now that she was here, a creature of warm, sweet-smelling flesh and fragile bone, he found that the matter was not so simple at all. Almost against his will, he found himself bonding with her, responding to those instinctive pangs of paternal love. It had been folly to think he could resist them, could turn them off like a troublesome bit of machinery. As soon as he had looked into her tiny, wrinkled, red, damp face minutes after her birth, he had been hopelessly lost. The decision before him was torturous. Either way he chose, she would suffer.
"Why must things be so hard?" he said softly.
They didn't have to be. You got yourself into this mess. Sithirantiel didn't create this child alone, snapped the voice in his head.
He snorted. Much as he wished to deny it, the voice was right. He had gotten himself into this mess. If only he had refused the wine that night, none of this would have ever happened. Sithirantiel would never have been able to ensnare him. This child that now slumbered in his arms would still be nestled in the bosom of the Valar, waiting to be sent to two loving parents who would cherish her forever, not trusting her young fate to this sleepless fool who had lost his reason and self-respect.
Ah, but therein lies the rub, does it not? For all the trouble and pain that she represents, you are glad to have her all the same, mused his constant internal companion.
He stopped rocking and gazed down at his daughter. Her face was small and ethereal in the pale moonlight. Slowly, reverently, he traced a hesitant forefinger down her cheek. She cooed and turned her head instinctively towards the warmth of his hand, but she did not awaken. It was a gesture of blind, helpless innocence, and it made him want to weep. Yes, it was true; he did want her. How could he not? There was no doubt that she was his child. She had been gifted his high, stern cheekbones and haughty, regal nose. Her rounded chin had also come from him. Her hair was blonde like her mother's, though not so blindingly white. The only feature for which he could not account was her eyes. They were startlingly blue, almost cobalt. He suspected they came from an earlier generation, his mother, perhaps. The old tales said that her eyes had been of the fairest blue. Maybe they had been unwittingly carried into the future by his unexpected progeny.
He could almost smile at the bitter irony of it. While she had been taking form in Sithirantiel's doomed belly, he had desperately wished her away as though she were a virulent plague. Now that she drew breath, he discovered himself searching more and more fervently for ways to keep her, even as it became more and more obvious that it could not be. Try as he might, he could see no way to make it work, save one, and he was still too much of a coward to take it. No matter how much he loved this child, he simply could not confess the truth to Celebrian.
"I'm sorry for what I've done to you," he told the child.
He did not want to give her up. The small weight of her nestled in the crook of his arm seemed a natural extension of his own body. Her scent mingled with the dusky perfume of summer was something preordained. She belonged. She was where she needed to be. Yet to keep her here would be a disservice; the rightness of her presence would never absolve her of the guilt his conscience would heap upon her. For every joy at watching her take her first uncertain steps or saying her first word, there would be a price. His glee would be tempered by the terrible knowledge of what she was and the memories she represented. She would forever and anon be the prodigal daughter, the single blight on his otherwise blissful existence. She was better off far away from him and his turbulent, corrosive recollections.
Rather self-serving, shoddy absolution for yourself, don't you think? smirked the hateful voice, and he pushed it away with a tight-lipped grimace.
He resumed his tranquil rocking, his slippered feet pumping softly. His right hand gently tapped the rounded shape of the child's bottom in soft, staccato rhythm. His head fell back against the knotted surface of the rocker. Soon the stern chin sagged and dry pink lips parted to reveal a glint of white teeth. The twinkle in brown eyes was extinguished as heavy lids drooped drowsily over them. Alone with his child, the Lord Elrond slept. Soon enough, he dreamt.
It is high summer. The day is hot and sticky, filling him with a lazy, contented languor. He sits placidly on the light blanket stretched out beneath him, propped on his elbows. One hand clutches a mug of chilled lemonade; the sweat of it beads and prickles against the palm of his hand. The other hand fans dreamily at his face. The air is heavy with heat. Everything shimmers and ripples beneath its syrupy glaze.
Celebrian sits beside him, her knees folded primly beneath her. She looks cool and fresh, unwilted by the sun. Only the faintest pink glow on her exposed shoulders belies her discomfort. She does not see him looking at her. She is too busy laughing at smiling at the antics of their young son. Her eyes are sparkling, and she laughs and claps her hands as the child toddles happily after a butterfly on sturdy, chubby legs.
He looks at her a moment longer, reluctant to spoil the mood. But the marks on her shoulders are growing ever darker, and he knows that if she does not protect herself with some cooling ointment, she will suffer a painful sunburn. Finally, he says, "Celebrian, love, I think it wise for you to attend to your shoulders. The sun has become a bit too enamored of them."
"Mmm?" she says, tearing her gaze away from her frolicking son.
He points at her shoulders. She spares them a surprised glance. He watches bemused, as the heat finally registers in her brain. She leans over and plunges her hand absently into the large wicker basket they have carried out with them, searching, he rightly supposes, for the small jar of sun ointment he packed among the chilled cucumber sandwiches and frosty jugs of juice. As she does so, he is treated to a tantalizing vision of her full, rounded cleavage, and it occurs to him that he would very much like to further investigate what hides beneath her slim, form-fitting gown. Perhaps later, after Galathion was in bed, he would do just that. He smiled a seductive, thoughtful smile and took a lingering drink from the mug in his hand.
A crow of triumph distracts him from his lechery, and he turns to see his young son holding a clutch of goldenrod in a chubby fist. His small fingers strangle the rich yellow flowers, but in his small brown eyes there is no malicious intent, only wonder at the beauty he has found. He is gazing raptly at the flowers, drinking in the vivid colors.
Elrond feels a tightening in his chest at this singularly Elvish display of childhood wonder. His proud-father eyes do not see the runner of drool dangling from the end of a small chin or the drying smear of chocolate on one smiling cheek. They see only his son in all his childish innocence, plump and sturdy and unabashedly naked-the son that is now holding the throttled goldenrod out to him in sacred offering.
"What have you got there?" he asks, holding out his arms.
His arms fill with wiggling child as his son clambers onto his lap. This close, he can smell the boy's scent, the subtle tang of lemon. There are other smells, too-earth and sweat and grass. As the boy squirms and settles in, he can see that his baby-soft skin is turning pink, and it makes him a little sad. He is content here with his family and away from the cares of the world, but soon they will have to go inside. In fifteen minutes, they will gather their things and return to the castle.
He is struck by the solidness of the boy in his lap. Running or playing in the palace courtyard, he seems to Elrond an ephemeral thing, a being as light and fragile as the wings of a butterfly. Here in his lap, the illusion is dispelled; his son, Galathion, is not fragile, but sturdy. At two years of age, his legs are still chubby, but beneath the thick layer of baby fat, his muscles are strengthening, coiling protectively over tiny bones. In later years, these same soft legs will grow lithe and hard, the legs of a warrior. The small, stubby arms and the pudgy hands that are now shoving the goldenrod happily into his face will one day be in command of a finely crafted bow. The smoked hickory eyes gazing adoringly up at him will track and slay a thousand orcs. That, though, is at least eight hundred years in the future. For now he is just a little boy, his little boy, and he is looking at his father expectantly.
"What splendid goldenrod you have there!" he says to the boy in tones of the highest approval. "Where did you find it?"
His only answer is a grimy finger pointing in front of him. Following the finger, he sees a patch of upturned earth and trampled grass. Several goldenrod stalks have been bent and hang like partially severed limbs. Clearly, his boy has been quite thorough in his quest to gather all the prettiest flowers. He fights to suppress a smile.
"Well done, though we shall have to address your tidiness," he says with a laugh.
Galathion gives a happy crow of acknowledgment, and Elrond hugs him tightly. A wave of paternal love washes over him-it is so fierce he feels as though he is drowning in it. He still cannot believe that he, a man with so many flaws, could have sired something so perfect. He wonders if he is worthy of such a gift. He feels absurdly like laughing and crying all at once. Then Celebrian's cool hand is resting on his shoulder.
"I love you," she says, and lays her head upon his shoulder.
He disentangles an arm from around his singing, babbling son and wraps it around her waist. As she snuggles close, he is enveloped by her clean, earthy scent and cushioned by her soft flesh. Gradually, the feeling of inadequacy passes, replaced by a deep sense of contentment. At last he can enjoy the fruits of his long labors.
Something within the endless corridors of his mind stirs feebly. A memory of a sin long buried. An icy finger of unease jabs at his gut. The memory struggles again, harder this time, but it has been dormant too long and cannot push through the century's worth of stone he has piled ruthlessly on top of it. There is another seismic shudder, and then all grows still again. The coldness in his stomach dissipates. It is just as well that he cannot remember. He wants nothing to spoil this day.
A fat honeybee lands on his shoulder and trundles listlessly towards his neck.
There is something wrong with the bee, though he cannot say precisely what. It possesses all the parts it should and none that it should not. Nothing is too large or too small. It is crawling lethargically, but that can be attributed to the stuporous, life-draining heat. In all respects, it is a normal, healthy bumblebee. Yet the sight of it lumbering in the direction of his neck sends a cramp of unease through he stomach. He reaches up to brush it away. He does not want this thing on him or anywhere near him, for that matter. Before his fingers can do more the touch the cloth of his robe, the bee emits a very un-bee-like reedy croak and topples off his shoulder. It lands on its back, its six legs paddling convulsively. There is a last twitch, then nothing. It is dead.
His mouth is suddenly very dry. The faint cramp of unease becomes a hammer pounding into his vitals with thunderclap blows. His heartbeat doubles, then trebles, and it makes his eardrums throb. His cool, calculating leader's mind suddenly seems frozen, incapable of any thought save one-something is terribly amiss. The skin of his hands and arms that five minutes ago had been glistening with sweat is now drawn taut in lumpy puckers of gooseflesh. He is in the inescapable grasp of an inexplicable fear.
It is then that he notices the smell, the stinging smell of ozone, like rosewater tinged with acid. There is also an underlying smell, like a musty damp cloth. It is the smell of rain. When he looks up, he sees that the formerly blue sky is a bruised, roiling black. Enormous, bloated thunderheads blot out the sun and threaten to loose their cargo of rainwater. There is a blinding flash as lightning rends the heavens, followed by the grinding roar of thunder.
Finally, another thought surfaces from beneath the glacial surface of his brain-I have to get away from here. Have to get Celebrian and Galathion away from this.
Except he cannot. It is as if he is rooted to the earth. His limbs refuse to heed the frantic commands of his mind to rise and flee. He exerts all the force of his will against his errant limbs, and they move not an inch. He might as well be carven of granite.
He can still move his head, though, and a quick glance around shows him that his family is no better. Galathion sits like a lump of molded clay in his lap, chubby fingers of one hand crammed into his mouth. His eyes are wide and unblinking, bits of polished glass in his small face. At his side, Celebrian is rigid, her fingers digging into the earth like fleshy roots.
We're being petrified, he thinks. Soon my head will stiffen like frozen wax, and we'll all sit here forevermore, or at least until my sentries come looking for us. I wonder if my faculties will remain intact, if I'll feel and sense time passing me by while my body turns to stone. Will I spend eternity looking out at the world I can no longer touch, helpless as birds make their nests in my hair?
The thought is not a pleasant one, and he shuts his eyes against it. There is a blinding flash of blue-white light that makes his skin prickle, the angry bellow of thunder, and then the rain comes down in blinding sheets. It scours his face and pounds divots into the unprotected ground. It is sharp and bitingly cold against his skin.
The noise is small and stealthy, light and slithering. The hackles on the back of his neck rise. How he can hear such an unremarkable noise above the roaring din of the thunderstorm he does not know. It is moving closer, now almost directly behind him. Whatever is making the sounds is quite deliberate. It is the sound of wet, squelching footsteps.
He is absolutely certain that he does not want to see what is coming. He mutters a prayer through shivering lips. Without turning his head, he knows that the thing is directly behind him now. The squelching sounds stop, and he waits for the deathblow to fall, but it never comes. Instead, he catches a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, and then the stalking thing stands before him.
It is not some slavering, inhuman, slouching ghoul, though it is covered in mud and filth. It is a female, whether human or elf he cannot tell. Long, wet hair clings to her scalp and cheeks in the driving rain. Mud rills down her face and arms, scoured away by the stinging downpour. Beneath the tattered rough cloth of her dress, he sees two pitifully thin, scarred knees tapering down to a pair of bruised, flat-arched bare feet.
He stares incredulously at this ragged creature, mesmerized by her oddly familiar blue eyes. He feels he should know her, yet at the same time, he does not want to.
Then she speaks. "Hello, father." Her voice is soft, musical, laced with a lazy malice.
As he looks at the thin young woman standing still and contemplatively in front of him, the memory he had fended off earlier erupts from the bowels of his subconscious. Full recognition floods his face. There, no longer able to be denied by the simple wishing away of his painful memories, stands his daughter. The strong chin, the haughty cheekbones; it is all the same
She has come home at last.
She looms over him, clearly expecting him to speak, but he can think of nothing to say. He is not even sure now that he could speak if he were to try. In all probability, he would just sit with his mouth agape, silent save for a brittle wheeze of breath.
She folds her mud-encrusted arms across her chest and fixes him with a bemused stare, a mocking sneer curling her lips. Her eyes are piercing, and he is seized by a maddening need to squirm beneath their unforgiving expression. She radiates a terrible power, a righteousness that terrifies him. Even as his insides cramp in icy dread, he finds her beautiful.
There is flash of lightning, and her eyes ignite with blue fire. She begins to circle him slowly, as though inspecting a piece of chattel or a bit of wares for sale. Her lips purse delicately, never losing their knowing sneer. Though the punishing, drenching rain has turned the garden into a morass of sodden grass and soupy, sucking mud, she never once missteps, never once stumbles. Her emaciated, improbable legs bear her with the casual grace of a gazelle.
Her legs might be like those of a gazelle, but her eyes are more befitting predator than prey. This thought rises unbidden in his mind, and it forces a soft grunt of unease from his throat.
Her head snaps to his face with the speed of a striking serpent, and she laughs softly. There is no humor in it.
"Well, well, father dear, all that I have heard tell of you led me to believe you were quite an eloquent man. Perhaps I was mistaken?" She smiles, her teeth tiny points of pearl in the unnatural darkness, and though her words are light, there can be no mistaking the hatred in her voice now, cold and hard as ancient granite. Poisoned honey.
Again she looks at him with her blue-fire gaze, expecting some sort of response, and again, he can think of nothing whatsoever to say. He watches her in mute bewilderment. The terrible aura of righteousness still emanates from her in dizzying waves-what words could he possibly utter to defuse her venomous anger? He knows all too well why she is here, what she has come for, and the price she has come to exact. He has been waiting for this moment from the instant he sought to banish her from his life.
She stops her deliberate pacing and comes to stand in front of him again. To his surprise, she crouches down, laces her fingers together, and rests her chin on the backs of long, slender palms.
"Did you really think you could avoid me forever? Did you really think I'd let you?" The questions are nonchalant, but her eyes bore into his, demanding a response.
"Hrm," is all he can think to say. The man who had moved his people to tears or roused them to furious action through the mere power of his words is speechless.
He cowers, impotent, in the face of his daughter's sure accusation. All his illusions of power wither as he looks into her stoic face. She has the very real power, and he knows it. She is bursting with it. Her skin glows with it, and he knows that before she walks away from this private garden, he will be made to pay for his sins.
When he does not answer, she gives an incredulous snort and hunkers further down, her buttocks nearly grazing her ankles. She reaches down to trace strange runes in the mud between her feet. They are obliterated instantly by the falling rain.
"You did, didn't you?" she asks softly, and now there is exasperation as well as anger in her voice. "Your arrogance runs deep."
She picks up a handful of mud and flings it at him. It spatters on his forehead and the bridge of his nose in a cold, runny glob. He blinks furiously as it runs down into his eyes and shakes his head back and forth trying to clear it away.
"I've been looking for you for years. After my adoptive parents died in an orcish raid on Mirkwood, I found the oath of secrecy you made them sign among their things. You cannot fathom what it was like for me to know that their affection for me was bought at the price of two thousand gildnar per mouth until I should reach the age of reason. I had no idea I was worth so little." She spits on the ground before his feet.
"If it's any consolation to you, my parents were admirable folk. They did not beat or starve me, and they never treated me unkindly. No, it was only after they were no more that I first began to understand the realities of the world beyond their door. It was only after I went looking for you that I saw what the world could do. Maybe all would have been well if I could have stayed among the elves, but I wasn't so lucky."
Abruptly she says, "Humans are very different. I wish I had known from the beginning how very different they were. Nobody ever told me. I found out the hard way on my travels. They do no favors for free. They want…something in return. One has to pay the price." Her eyes darken in rage and remembrance.
"I paid the price. I always paid, no matter how much they stank or how many diseases they carried. Their hands were always rough. They took a crude and vulgar pleasure in their conquest of me. They saw my pointed ears and the brightness of my ears and they smiled that drunken, lascivious smile. This was no common barmaid wench; this was one of the fair folk. Such luck they never had in all their rotten, hopeless lives. Sometimes I bled. I always hurt. Some threw a few coins at my feet, but most left me where I lay."
Though she speaks with a calm, clinical detachment, her entire frame is quivering with rage. Her eyes never droop, never leave his. Her fingers intertwine restlessly.
The implication of what she has told him staggers him. In the fecund ground of his imagination, he sees her suffering unfold as though he is witnessing it. He sees her splayed legs, hears the coarse grunt of the filthy human as he has his way with her. It is a terrible vision, and he prays for some soothing balm to wipe it from his mind.
"What's the matter, father?" she snarls, and her voice is dripping with scorn, "Not the sort of life you had envisioned for a daughter of yours? That's your fault, I'm afraid."
"Why did you come in search of me?" he shouts above the roar of the rain, rain that has grown harder instead of slackening.
She throws back her head and laughs, tossing her sodden hair over her shoulders. "You ARE an insolent bastard. Blaming me for your misdeed. Why do you think I went in search of you? Answers. Answers to who I am. In one instant, life as I knew it was turned upside down. For all these years I've thought myself to be Brelyn, daughter of lesser courtesans in the house of King Thranduil. Then that damnable piece of parchment changes everything. Everything! So tell me, father, who am I? Why wasn't I good enough for you? What did I lack that you would toss me aside as though I were of no more consequence than the daily swill?"
She stops, her chest heaving. She squeezes her hands together so tightly that her knuckles whiten. Her face is flushed but implacable. She fixes her cold blue eyes on his face. And she waits.
A million thoughts run through his mind. Each is more ridiculous and incongruous than the next. Though part of him has been waiting for this moment since the time he sent her away, he has never made preparations in case the eventuality ever actually arose. He had rehearsed no speech before a clandestine mirror, drawn up no plan of action should she ever arrive on his doorstep. He always thought that to do so would be to invite disaster.
He is about to pay for his foolish lack of foresight, though just how dearly he does not yet guess.
Finally, he sighs, "You would not understand."
"Your self-pity is appalling," she snaps, never changing position. Her mud-slathered hands snap closed in the squelchy mud. She leans forward on her haunches, her eyes boring into his. "I wouldn't understand? I've been bent over tavern tables and taken in garbage-infested alleys, and I wouldn't understand? Oh, I understand."
"What was she? A noblewoman or a chambermaid? Were you ensnared by her womanly temptations? Was it a torrid coupling or a protracted, secret affair? Did you woo her with lofty promises of marriage, only to toss her away when she had served her purpose? Or did she spurn your advances again and again until you wrested away her virtue by force?" She fires these questions at him in a rapid, clipped voice. Her nostrils flare slightly as she speaks. She is silently furious.
She does not give him a chance to answer. "Whatever happened, it is beyond doubt that I was not part of your plan. I can only imagine what you must have thought when you found out." She stood and began to circle him once more, hands clasped loosely behind her back. "I'm sure you cajoled and wheedled in an effort to do away with me. You are not an easy man to refuse. What did you do with her when she refused to obey your madness? Did you spirit her away to some darkened tower for unending torment? Did you beat her? No, you would not wish to stain your own kingly hands. Did you have her murdered and buried in some foul pit?" Her voice had risen to a hysterical pitch.
"No," he answered slowly, "it wasn't that way."
In a flash, she is by his side, her lips bare inches from his ear. "No? Then tell me, father; tell me who I am. Tell me how I came to be! And tell me, oh yes, tell me why I wasn't good enough for you1"
Her raw, undiluted rage and cynicism stuns him. He had thought elves incapable of such unrestrained bitterness. He turns his head to look at her. He is met by a pair of blazing blue eyes. Her mud-streaked face shimmers behind the rain. His sensitive nose detects the odors of sweat and fetid offal. Her breath tickles his face with the smell of stale bread. Rain beads on the end of her nose.
"What has this world done to you, my child?" he says softly.
For an instant, surprise dawns on her face. Clearly, tenderness is not something she had expected from him. Then the mask of unyielding anger consumes her face once more. She laughs, but the laughter does not reach her eyes. They remain as hard as stone.
"I already told you. If you are hoping for all the lurid little details, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I was rather too indisposed to be worrying about putting quill to parchment. I had no idea you were that sort. Fascinating."
He cannot think of a proper retort for this, so he says, "I did not send you away because I believed you to be beneath me. You must understand; I did it for you."
"Did it for me?" she snarls. "What, then? I was born, and you found me to be so wondrous that you sent me away, lest other elves try to snatch me for their own? Please. I am no fool. Spare me your weak lies. You brought shame upon yourself and were too cowardly to take the penalty. That you passed on to me."
"If there were any other way I would have taken-," he says desperately.
"There was. The hard way. The right way. The way of honor. You fled from it like a rabbit fleeing the deadly flames of a forest fire," she hisses.
Her accusations sink into him like needling teeth, and he feels a sudden flush of anger. Before he can stop himself, he spits out the truth. "You were born of a rape, it is true. Your mother was a mad whore!"
There is a sharp crack of flesh on flesh as her hand lashes against his cheek. The warm, prickling heat spreads across his cheek like blood.
"You stole her virtue and presume to call her a whore!"
Despite the dream-like horror of the situation, he manages a small, sardonic snort of laughter. "Virtue? Virtue never made its home within the heart of Sithirantiel. You misunderstand, child. I used no force against your mother. It was she who imposed her will upon me."
There is a thunderstruck silence. Then, "Your corruption truly knows no bound. Do you truly expect me to believe that an elven maiden, fragile and ethereal as the wind, could overwhelm a great elven warrior, whose deeds have gained renown throughout the lands?" She regards him with blistering contempt.
"I was drunk," he says defensively.
"Even so. Surely you could have resisted her, subdued her. You have guards. Did you call out for them? By your voice alone you have commanded millions. By your hand have thousands of orcs fallen into shadow. And yet you tell me that you could not repel her unwanted attentions. Nay, even the drunkest rabble can best an unruly woman. Trust me; I know of what I speak."
He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again. Now that she has spoken it is the most logical thing in the world. Why hadn't he called out? For all these years, he had been telling himself that he was too drunk to realize what was happening to him, too drunk to understand that it was not sweet Celebrian who held him, but that wasn't really true. Something had told him that all was not as it seemed even before he had gone to those sinuous, beckoning arms. The truth was he had enjoyed that night in Sithirantiel's embrace.
"You cannot imagine what it was like for me to hear you frolicking with your wife and that brat as though you hadn't a care in the world. While he was being spoiled and pampered as a princeling among elves, I was bartering for a few crusts of moldy bread in some filthy, ruined tavern where there are more diseases than teeth. Everything he has should have been mine, but you denied me. Now I will deny you." She is weeping softly as she speaks.
Her words send a sudden jolt of terror up his spine. He sees no weapon, no poison, but obviously she means him harm. Probably death. He cannot move, cannot flee whatever she intends. His thoughts turn abruptly to his wife and child. They, too, were exposed and defenseless. He had to protect them. They would not suffer because of what he had done.
"Please, I beg of you, do no harm to my wife and son. They are innocents. They know nothing of my past. Let them go, and visit your wrath upon my head." He keeps his voice soothing in the hopes of reaching whatever decency that might lie inside of her.
She laughs again, and this time it is a genuine laugh, incongruous and frightening amid the ceaseless howl of the driving rain and growling thunder. "I have no interest in your stupid little wife. But…as for your son, I'm afraid it is too late," she purrs mournfully.
He stares at her in blank incomprehension before dropping his gaze into his lap. His insides shrivel like curdled milk. His precious son sits on his lap, small head lolling bonelessly against his shoulder. His eyes bulge grotesquely from their sockets in a look of terminal surprise. His small pink tongue protrudes from between puffy blue lips like a dead worm.
He tries to scream, but finds that he cannot. The sound remains lodged in his head, ricocheting from one side of his skull to the other, building into a crescendo until he is sure his head will burst with it. This cannot be, he thinks. How? How? And then he knows how. In the extremity of his terror, he has crushed his son to death in his own frozen, rigid arms. While he had been staring into the flashing eyes of his daughter, his son had smothered to death in the confines of the safest place in the world-his father's lap.
"You destroy everything you touch." There is savage triumph in her voice.
He looks up, intending to curse her for what she has done, for what she has made him do, but when his eyes swing upward from the lifeless corpse of his only son, it is not his daughter that his sees. Now it Sithirantiel, her black eyes alive with unquenchable hatred.
"I told you I would destroy you. I promised."
A jagged shard of glass flashes as a fork of lightning rends the sky. In the brief instant of illumination, he sees a thin smear of dark, coagulating blood. Then the shadow falls again, plunging everything into darkness. He understands now why his guards have not come for him. If he calls out, there will be no aid. His past has caught up with him at last.
With a hissing laugh, she comes for him.
Lord Elrond, who has never sired a son named Galathion, sat bolt upright in the rocker, his head snapping painfully against the headrest. His heart thundered with bruising force inside his chest, and adrenaline surged through his limbs, making him feel light-headed and nauseated. His breathing was ragged, and a light sheen of sweat dewed on his skin. He was trembling.
Oh, Elbereth help me, what was that? he thought. Never before had he experienced so vivid, so surreal a dream. It was almost as though it had been a vision. He could still feel his dream-daughter's stale breath upon his face, still sense the helpless weight of a child in his lap. His senses remained enmeshed in the thread of his nightmare. He took a deep breath and willed his heart to slow down.
When the pounding roar of blood in his ears receded to its more familiar sussurating whoosh, he heard the shrill, tiny cry of an infant. For a moment he was so shocked that his chest spasmed painfully, but then he remembered his newborn daughter. Yes, he had been holding her and must have fallen asleep.
"Oh Valar, little one, it's alright, don't be frightened," he soothed. He wondered if he had hurt her in any way while in the throes of his dream.
He cradled her in the crook of his arm and stood, noting the damp swaddling against his fingertips. No wonder she was crying. He crossed the wide room to a narrow wardrobe beneath the window. He winced slightly at the crick in his neck, staggering a bit while sensation returned to his sluggish feet. A quick glance out the window told him it was just before dawn; already the sky was bleeding pink, but there was not yet any sign of the sun. He had been asleep roughly five and a half hours, then.
With his free hand, he opened the wardrobe and took out fresh swaddling, then turned and put the infant on the smooth wooden surface of the table the midwife used for bathing just-born babies. The tiny bundle wriggled and grunted furiously, tiny fingers just visible over the edge of the blanket.
"I know, I know. Don't worry, we'll fix you up soon enough," he said.
He turned once again to the narrow wardrobe and took a smaller swatch of cloth and a pouch of talc from the topmost shelf. Changing her would give him a good opportunity to examine her and make sure that he hadn't hurt her in any way. He nudged the door shut with his elbow and paused, thinking how strange it was that he should be here caring for a baby. He had never changed swaddling before and was not exactly sure how it was done.
He returned his attention to the squirming infant on the table, smiling at the bitter irony of it all. Almost since the day he'd met Celebrian, he had been dreaming and planning for a moment such as this. He had imagined changing soiled swaddling or comforting a colicky child in the wee hours of the morning, while Celebrian looked on in beaming approval of her husband's prowess as a father. Now, here he was changing his baby's swaddling as he had so often imagined, but there was no sense of tranquil domesticity in the task. It was sordid and secret and somehow very sad. Instead of joyous approval, there was only a terrible melancholy.
He rested his hands against the table, feeling a lump form in his throat. It should never have had to be this way. He felt a helpless anger welling within him. This was his child, his daughter; he knew it beyond doubt, and he loved her, loved her so fiercely that it made his vision blur with tears. Despite her circumstances, she was indisputably a gift from the Valar, and he felt the undeniable sanctity and divinity of her every time he entered the room. Why were the Fates forcing him to make such an agonizing decision, to choose whom he loved and desired more? Why was he being forced to choose between his flesh and blood and the owner of his soul?
He pondered these thoughts as he unwrapped the dirty swaddling and tossed it aside. The baby let out an enraged squawk as her small bottom made contact with the cool wood of the table. Tiny feet kicked vigorously into the air. Her blue eyes looked into his own. Pick me up at once, silly fool, those eyes seemed to say, and she wore such an expression of haughty affront that he smiled.
"Surely you would do no harm to your father," he said, reaching into the pouch of talc and lifting her bottom.
It was intended to be a light-hearted jest to the child, but once he had uttered the words, fragments of his dream returned to him, and the smile evaporated from his face. In the dream, she had done him harm, immeasurable harm. She had laughed while he stared in mute horror at the dead weight of his son. She had come to kill him.
That was just a dream! Only a dream. You have no son, said the calm, rational side of his mind.
That was true, and yet the dream had been so vivid. It had been like prophecy, a glimpse into his future. Even now it disturbed him. He remembered the crackling sense of foreboding power the dream-child had possessed, that aura of righteous wrath. Would this innocent life one day return to be his doom? Would he one day look up into those blue eyes and see his death written there?
Enough of this morbid conjecture, he chided himself. He had not come to be ruler of the realm of Rivendell by jumping at every fanciful shadow or unhappy dream. He had been visited by no prophecy; it had been a mere dream, brought on by lingering feelings of guilt over his unwanted indiscretion with Sithirantiel. The dream had borne that out-at the end, it had been her face he'd seen looming over him, not the wretched, wraith-like face of his misbegotten daughter. Besides, he sensed no malice from the child now presenting her small, rosy buttocks to him. She held no portent of doom. She was just a baby, radiating purity and goodness and grasping her toes in a most dexterous manner.
Ah, but life has not yet tainted her with its cruelty, sneered the voice in his head.
He ignored the thought and concentrated on wrapping the baby in fresh swaddling. When he was done, he held her up in front of him. Though inexpertly done and a bit looser than he would have liked, the child seemed contented with his handiwork. In fact, she was looking at him with an my-but-you-did-better-than-I-expected expression that he found comical.
He snuggled her to his chest and turned to face the window. He did not want to return to the rocker. He was already stiff from so many hours of sitting. In a few moments the sun would creep over the horizon and shed light upon another day. As he stood there with his child bundled in his arms, he remembered the vision he had once had of raising her above his head and dashing her brains out against the floor and shuddered.
How could I ever have harbored such a thought? he asked himself. Now that she lay curled on his chest, a warm, defenseless lump, breathing in rhythm with his heartbeat, he knew that he needn't to have worried about committing such an act. It would be like tearing himself apart.
He thought about his nightmare. She had despised him. His heart ached at the thought of it. She probably would loathe him if he sent her away, and with good reason. He would be denying her her birthright as princess of Rivendell. Even if she were fortunate enough to have a loving home, her life would be no more than a construct of precarious lies, the discovery of any one of which would bring her world crashing down. He thought of her wasted body and haunted mind. If he sent her away, she would suffer much.
She squirmed restlessly against his chest as though sensing his disquiet. He placed a soothing hand against the back of her small, pink head, marveling at its delicacy. If he pushed just a fraction too hard, he could kill her. He stood for a moment, tormented by his thoughts, sighed, and then seemed to come to a decision.
"I might not get the chance to be much of a father to you, but I can give you this," he whispered softly, his lips brushing the soft down of her head.
Yes, whatever else he might take from her, he could give her this at least. She deserved that much. He would acknowledge her as his child here in this room, before the Valar. He would acknowledge their gift, even if he were the only one to ever know it.
He held her up, letting the swaddling fall. Face to face, they gazed at one another, he with awed melancholy; she with the goggling curiosity of an infant. He pulled her to him until their foreheads touched. Then he held her away from him again.
"I acknowledge you as my child, my hope. Here, before all, I greet you with open arms. With great joy, I claim you for my own. I am your father. Come now into my house and bear my name. Welcome to the house of Lord Elrond Half-Elven."
His voice was rough with emotion, but he dared not weep. Tears would belie his inner turmoil, and he was determined that the Valar should understand that he was grateful for the gift. His arms trembled as he turned her toward the rising sun.
"Oh, mighty Valar, I accept the gift you have so graciously bestowed upon me. I ask that you lend me the grace to guide her along the path of life until such time as she can see her own way. Help me to temper justice with mercy when she strays. May I never forget that she is her own spirit; help me encourage her to grow in beauty and strength and to respect this world that we have been given. May I return unto you when my obligation is through a credit to our race. A Elbereth Gilthoniel!"
At these last words he held her out toward the sun in silent offering. She gave a happy gurgle, as if to say she understood and accepted his invitation into his life. Then he lowered her and pulled her to him again, covering her soft head in feathery kisses.
"It's done, then," he said.
The Proclaiming had been done according to the letter of elven law. He had acknowledged her as his offspring, making her a legitimate and accepted member of society. There was just one small problem.
There were no witnesses.
36
"Ah, having a bit of quiet bonding, I see."
He whirled around, startled. The midwife came gliding into the room, a serene smile on her face. Crisp and clean in white gown and simple white smock, she flitted around arranging cots and straightening linens. Her snowy hair, piled high atop her head in a braided bun, shone in the gentle morning sun.
How much did she see? he wondered.
If she had seen anything, she gave no sign. She bustled over to Elrond and began cleaning up the table, replacing the talc pouch and dusting off the stray granules of powder. She beamed when she saw the baby.
"Ah, there's our newest arrival! A right healthy little mite you are! Ten days old, and look at those rosy cheeks!" She tickled the baby's chin. "You," she said, switching her gaze to her liege, "look awful."
"I'm afraid sleep has been scarce for me these past few days," he admitted, yawning. "I just want to spend as much time as I can with her before…"
"If I may speak freely, m'lord," the midwife ventured timidly. When he nodded his consent, she continued. "I see no reason why you and the child should be parted. Tell Mistress Celebrian."
"Out of the question."
"There are still other ways. We can place her with another family. Everyone will already know the reasons why she was adopted. At least the reasons they can see. Her mother died; her father either died or fled. No one needs to know more than that."
He had thought of that very scenario himself, but had dismissed it as too risky. If the child grew to resemble him there could be trouble. He shook his head.
"Then give her to me," the old woman pleaded. "I will raise her. I will teach her the art of midwifery. I was never gifted a child, and hearing little feet around would bring comfort to my lonely heart. What is more, you could visit her and watch her grow without suspicion. It is not uncommon for you to be of assistance to me during particularly hard labors." She stopped and looked at him with such earnestness that he was shocked.
"Why is it so important to you that she stay?"
"A child should know her parents. Her mother, Lord Elbereth be praised, is gone. You, however, remain. She has much to learn from you, things she would learn from no one else-courage, honor, dignity, and what it is like to be loved by a parent. If you shun her, there are no guarantees as to what will become of her. She will be an opportunity lost."
Her words resonated deep within his soul. He had often, growing up, wondered how much he had lost without his father. What wisdom had he taken with him to the grave? He had been fortunate enough to be taken under the auspices of a great elven king, but the absence of his real father had left an unmistakable void in his life. As full as his life was, there would always be a sense of imperfection, of incompleteness.
"Now," said the midwife, sensing that he wanted to change the subject, "I am certain the little one is quite hungry. What do you say, angel, shall we go to the kitchens and get you a bottle of warm milk? Then, back we come for a nice bath."
She plucked the chubby bundle from Elrond's arms and made her way to the door. Before leaving, she turned, her hand resting on the door handle.
"Get some rest, sire. You can be of no use to anyone if you shamble about in a sleepless haze." With a slight inclination of her head, she slipped out the door.
He let himself out and headed for his chambers, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs. He was in no hurry, content to mull over the midwife's proposal. While she had no personal experience in bringing up a child, he was sure she was more than capable of doing so, perhaps better prepared than he was. And it would solve most of his problems. It would assuage his guilt while allowing him to enjoy his life with Celebrian. He could be close to his daughter without arousing suspicion; like a kindly uncle, he would impart life's wisdom, fulfilling his duties to her in the guise of teacher. The only flaw in the plan was the ever-present possibility that someone would see the close resemblance and grow suspicious. Then again, it was equally likely that she would not look like him at all. It was far too early to tell.
Feeling lighter of heart than he had in many days, he nodded to the guards outside his chamber door and went inside. He would have a good soak in the tub to clear his mind and ease his cramping muscles. Then a quick nap before his customary morning meetings with his advisors. By the position of the sunlight streaming through the window, he had at least three hours until he was expected to summon them. He deserved and needed a bit of self-comfort.
He had just removed his robes and was about to call for a guard to bring his bath when there came a sharp rap upon his door, and a guard stuck his head into the room.
"Sire, Lady Celebrian is here," he said.
Elrond quickly slipped on a fresh robe. So much for his relaxing bath. "Very well. Send her in."
The guard nodded and withdrew. A moment later, Celebrian entered, radiant as usual in a shimmering teal gown that hugged tightly to her tiny waist. Her hair hung free to her waist. When she saw him, she touched her fingertips to her lips in surprise.
"My dear, you look ghastly," she said, hurrying over to him. Since the fortuitous death of Sithirantiel, much of the stress between them had lifted, allowing the warmth to return to their relationship.
"I'm fine, my darling, just a bit tired." He took her hands in his own and kissed them. "You look lovely, as always."
She was not to be swayed by such flattery. "Has something been troubling you?"
"No. I've just been tending to the foundling in the nursery. Tiring work." He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. Celebrian gathered up the hem of her gown and followed suit.
"You seem to have taken quite an interest in her," she said. There was no accusation in her voice, only observation.
"Yes, I suppose I have. It's not everyday we're faced with an orphaned elf, is it? Fatherless elves, yes, but completely orphaned elves are a rare happening. She will have many disadvantages. I worry for her. I remember what it was like to feel alone in the world."
"There must be someone who'll be willing to take her in," she reasoned, "and the midwife will take good care of her in the meantime."
"I know, but I feel responsible for her welfare."
Celebrian laughed. "The way you go on, you would think she was your own child."
"Whatever gave you that idea?" he asked. His face suddenly felt frozen.
"You just seem like such an old mother," she tittered, and rested her head upon his shoulder.
His heart began to beat again.
Things might have turned out very differently, but the Fates had other plans. An ear-splitting wail sliced through the peaceful quiet of the castle, a shriek of pain and terror. Elrond was on his feet and out the door before the sound had completely died away. He knew that sound all too well-the sound of a child in terror. And there was only one child in this castle.
He ran toward his nameless daughter, his paternal instinct blotting out everything but the terrible wail. He did not hear Celebrian's confused calls behind him, did not see the flash of silver halberds as the guards fell into step behind him.
He burst through the door to find the midwife standing, horrorstruck, over the screaming, wet form of the baby. Her soap-covered hands and horrified expression made it abundantly clear what had happened.
"M'lord, forgive me, I must have had soap on my hands. I picked her up out of the bath and she slipp-," she stammered as he rushed to the child's side.
"If your gross incompetence has harmed this child in any way, I will take your head myself," he roared, anger and fear contorting his features.
He picked the baby up from the floor. She was hysterical, wet, and shaking from cold and fear. He cradled her gingerly, whispering softly in her ear. She continued to howl, tiny fists shaking. He could see no grave injuries, but he needed to be sure.
"Out! Everyone out! NOW!"
Everyone stared at him. No one had ever seen him so furious. The guards shuffled their feet, shooting each other bewildered, furtive glances. Celebrian stood in the doorway, mesmerized and frightened by this unexpected display of fury by her promised. She had never seen this side of him before and silently prayed that she never would again.
"Well, what are you waiting for? OUT!!" To Celebrian, in a gentler tone, he said, "Beloved, go and inform my counselors that I will be late for our morning meeting. After I'm finished with them, we will have a nice lunch in the garden. Go on, go."
She nodded and retreated from the room. One by one, the guards inclined their heads and filed out. Soon only he, the child, and the midwife remained. The older woman looked at him, trembling, her eyes full of remorse and terror.
"My lord, forgive me. I did not intend-,"
He silenced her with a look and paced quietly around the room, trying to soothe the terrified child.
"Hush now, adar is here. It's alright." He repeated the words over and over again in a calming whisper, brushing his fingertips up and down her back.
It occurred to him as he carried his daughter around the room that he could never hope to keep her a secret if she remained here. His love for her would be his undoing. The first time she were threatened or harmed, he would lose all his reason and expose himself in his attempts to protect her. The darkness and weariness that had temporarily left him just an hour ago now resettled over his heart like a shroud.
When she had quieted, he lay her down on the table and began to gently probe her arms and legs, checking for breaks or fractures. He examined her with trembling hands, knowing at last in his heart of hearts that he could not keep her. When he was satisfied that there was no serious hurt, he rewrapped her in swaddling, took her in his arms, and went to sit in the rocker.
After a long silence, the midwife emerged from the corner into which she had retreated in the face of his wrath. "I know of a man in Mirkwood," she said quietly, unsure if she should speak. "He and his wife have tried long for a child with no success. They would be most pleased to have her. I could write-,"
"Do it," he said roughly.
The midwife fled the room.
When she had gone, he began to sing a lullaby to the still-anxious child he held. It was a lullaby she would remember all of her life, a sweet refrain that would bring her comfort in times of uncertainty, a song that carried love in every note. Three bars in, the reality of what he was about to do struck him, and he wept bitterly. After a moment, the ghost child, the child that existed only for him, joined him.