The Soldier and the Princess
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings does not belong to me. JRR Tolkien has that happy pleasure. Had that happy pleasure. Anyway, the characters in this story do not belong to me. This is purely to please myself and those besides me who enjoy this sort of thing. I also do not own the song "Enchantment Passing Through." That honor goes to Elton John and Tim Rice. The wedding vows come from Dragons of Autumn Twilight. If some of the words don't fit, remember that these vows are *ancient.* When they were written, they fit, and elves are.well.set in their ways? Oh, btw, Anaiyah and Tyrennafaile are original characters. *Their* stories will be related later.
Author's Notes: This is an Elrond/Celebrian get-together, mainly from Elrond's point of view. If there are any complaints as to how this is done, ::coughcough, Elrond's relationship to Gil-Galad coughcough:: register them politely. Please. I got some slightly less-than-polite comments on my Galadriel/Celeborn fic, which is discontinued. As far as I know, this is an A/U. Enjoy!
Chapter 10: Bad News
It was midnight, perhaps three weeks later, when I finally met Tyrennafaile. I was sitting in my study, going over papers, when a guard knocked.
"Enter," I called, not looking up.
"Milord, there's a young lady at the gate who demands to see you. She says to tell you to "trust hope," and that you'd know what she meant."
I did look up then. That was a secret code known only to myself, Celebrian, and Darevan. It was something we were to give to someone we felt needed one of the others' help. "Are you *absolutely* sure that's what she said?"
"Affirmative, milord."
"Then send her in."
The guard hesitated. "You're sure, milord?"
"I said so, didn't I? Send the young lady in."
A few moments later, a young woman clad in white from head to toe came in. She was elven-obviously-with waist-length silvery blond hair that was half-pulled back. She turned around to shut the door, so I didn't see her face.
When she turned around, I saw one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. The most beautiful, in fact, with the exception of Celebrian. Most men found her the more attractive of the two, though. Perhaps I *was* rather biased in Celebrian's favor...the young woman had cold, sharp features and silver eyes. Her most startling feature, however, was a brand on her right cheek. A recent one-it looked as if it was no more than two or three months old, and probably less. The curious thing about it was that it wasn't in a usual shape for a brand-it was in the shape of a falcon in flight.
She curtsied. "Lord Elrond," she murmured.
Suddenly, the meaning of the falcon took shape in my mind. 'Tyrennafaile,' I thought. The name meant "lady of the falcons," or "falcon lady." And the brand was a falcon. "Tyrennafaile," I breathed.
She nodded. "Faile, now. Was it that obvious?"
"The brand was a bit of a giveaway," I admitted. "Why only Faile, now?"
She gently touched it. "I did this to myself after my sentence was passed. As for the name, I am no longer a lady, so the first part of my name is untrue."
"I suppose Celebrian sent you."
Faile seemed relieved at this change in the subject. "Yes. She told me you are more kind to people like me than-than the people at home are." For all that she was trying to pretend as if she didn't care, her voice sank to a whisper and she looked as if she was about to cry.
I nodded. "Yes. War-mages are not outlawed here. We would no more exile or-or execute a swordsman or an archer. War-magic is simply another weapon. In fact, there is a school for such things up north where we send our people with the talent."
The pained, deadened look left Faile's eyes, to be replaced by a light of hope. "Will you send me there? I cannot remain half-trained, I will be a true danger to myself and those I care about if I do."
"Of course I will. That is probably what Celebrian intended when she sent you to me."
She curtsied again. "Thank you, Lord Elrond. Anything that I can ever do for you, anything you need or want or ask of me, I will." She blinked, and her eyes and face took on a strange, abstracted look. The falcon, in the firelight and the strange, new pallor of her features, seemed eerily to be flying, actually flying, yet going nowhere. I shivered.
"I have three pieces of advice for you, Lord Elrond," Faile said slowly. "First, what will come, will come, and *it is not your fault.* Don't think that for a moment. Second, it is all right to grieve, but do not lose yourself in your grief. There are too many who need you." She trailed off.
"And third?" I whispered.
"I am.unsure of how to say this. The great king that you were told of will come, but you won't recognize him for what he is, and you will not like it. However, by the time you figure it out, it will be too late for both the king and his bride. Remember that."
I blinked, and she was gone.
I sat down, and thought about her advice. All of it was puzzling. 'What will come, will come, and it is not your fault?' Was some disaster to happen, a disaster that I would blame myself for? 'It is all right to grieve, but do not lose yourself in grief. There are too many who need you?' That made a little more sense, but only a little.
It was the third piece that confused me the most. What great king? (A/N: Yes, he's being dense. No, he is *not* going to figure it out any time soon. He is going to *stay* dense until after Celebrian leaves Middle Earth.) Why wouldn't I like it? And why would I have anything to do with that great king's bride? It simply didn't make sense.
Before I could fully ponder out the meaning of Faile's advice, a messenger burst through my door. He bowed. "Lord Elrond!" he called. "Urgent news!"
"What is it?"
The messenger handed me a letter. I tore it open with shaking hands. Faile's first piece of advice burned in my brain:
"What will come, will come, and *it is not your fault.* Don't think that for a moment."
Whatever this letter contained, that was what she meant. I knew it.
I skimmed the letter, paled, then read it more closely. My hands shook even more. All I could think was, 'Dear Valar.'
"My lord?" the messenger said hesitantly.
"Get. Out," I said quietly. Venomously.
The messenger bowed, and began to back out of the room.
"GET OUT!!!!!" I roared. The messenger forbore all propriety, turned around, and *bolted* from my presence. I flung something after him. I think it was a helmet. It crashed against the door. The noise jerked me out of my killing rage.
"Dear Valar." I whispered. I felt choking sobs burning their way to the surface. "Celebrian."
I let the tears fall.
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings does not belong to me. JRR Tolkien has that happy pleasure. Had that happy pleasure. Anyway, the characters in this story do not belong to me. This is purely to please myself and those besides me who enjoy this sort of thing. I also do not own the song "Enchantment Passing Through." That honor goes to Elton John and Tim Rice. The wedding vows come from Dragons of Autumn Twilight. If some of the words don't fit, remember that these vows are *ancient.* When they were written, they fit, and elves are.well.set in their ways? Oh, btw, Anaiyah and Tyrennafaile are original characters. *Their* stories will be related later.
Author's Notes: This is an Elrond/Celebrian get-together, mainly from Elrond's point of view. If there are any complaints as to how this is done, ::coughcough, Elrond's relationship to Gil-Galad coughcough:: register them politely. Please. I got some slightly less-than-polite comments on my Galadriel/Celeborn fic, which is discontinued. As far as I know, this is an A/U. Enjoy!
Chapter 10: Bad News
It was midnight, perhaps three weeks later, when I finally met Tyrennafaile. I was sitting in my study, going over papers, when a guard knocked.
"Enter," I called, not looking up.
"Milord, there's a young lady at the gate who demands to see you. She says to tell you to "trust hope," and that you'd know what she meant."
I did look up then. That was a secret code known only to myself, Celebrian, and Darevan. It was something we were to give to someone we felt needed one of the others' help. "Are you *absolutely* sure that's what she said?"
"Affirmative, milord."
"Then send her in."
The guard hesitated. "You're sure, milord?"
"I said so, didn't I? Send the young lady in."
A few moments later, a young woman clad in white from head to toe came in. She was elven-obviously-with waist-length silvery blond hair that was half-pulled back. She turned around to shut the door, so I didn't see her face.
When she turned around, I saw one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. The most beautiful, in fact, with the exception of Celebrian. Most men found her the more attractive of the two, though. Perhaps I *was* rather biased in Celebrian's favor...the young woman had cold, sharp features and silver eyes. Her most startling feature, however, was a brand on her right cheek. A recent one-it looked as if it was no more than two or three months old, and probably less. The curious thing about it was that it wasn't in a usual shape for a brand-it was in the shape of a falcon in flight.
She curtsied. "Lord Elrond," she murmured.
Suddenly, the meaning of the falcon took shape in my mind. 'Tyrennafaile,' I thought. The name meant "lady of the falcons," or "falcon lady." And the brand was a falcon. "Tyrennafaile," I breathed.
She nodded. "Faile, now. Was it that obvious?"
"The brand was a bit of a giveaway," I admitted. "Why only Faile, now?"
She gently touched it. "I did this to myself after my sentence was passed. As for the name, I am no longer a lady, so the first part of my name is untrue."
"I suppose Celebrian sent you."
Faile seemed relieved at this change in the subject. "Yes. She told me you are more kind to people like me than-than the people at home are." For all that she was trying to pretend as if she didn't care, her voice sank to a whisper and she looked as if she was about to cry.
I nodded. "Yes. War-mages are not outlawed here. We would no more exile or-or execute a swordsman or an archer. War-magic is simply another weapon. In fact, there is a school for such things up north where we send our people with the talent."
The pained, deadened look left Faile's eyes, to be replaced by a light of hope. "Will you send me there? I cannot remain half-trained, I will be a true danger to myself and those I care about if I do."
"Of course I will. That is probably what Celebrian intended when she sent you to me."
She curtsied again. "Thank you, Lord Elrond. Anything that I can ever do for you, anything you need or want or ask of me, I will." She blinked, and her eyes and face took on a strange, abstracted look. The falcon, in the firelight and the strange, new pallor of her features, seemed eerily to be flying, actually flying, yet going nowhere. I shivered.
"I have three pieces of advice for you, Lord Elrond," Faile said slowly. "First, what will come, will come, and *it is not your fault.* Don't think that for a moment. Second, it is all right to grieve, but do not lose yourself in your grief. There are too many who need you." She trailed off.
"And third?" I whispered.
"I am.unsure of how to say this. The great king that you were told of will come, but you won't recognize him for what he is, and you will not like it. However, by the time you figure it out, it will be too late for both the king and his bride. Remember that."
I blinked, and she was gone.
I sat down, and thought about her advice. All of it was puzzling. 'What will come, will come, and it is not your fault?' Was some disaster to happen, a disaster that I would blame myself for? 'It is all right to grieve, but do not lose yourself in grief. There are too many who need you?' That made a little more sense, but only a little.
It was the third piece that confused me the most. What great king? (A/N: Yes, he's being dense. No, he is *not* going to figure it out any time soon. He is going to *stay* dense until after Celebrian leaves Middle Earth.) Why wouldn't I like it? And why would I have anything to do with that great king's bride? It simply didn't make sense.
Before I could fully ponder out the meaning of Faile's advice, a messenger burst through my door. He bowed. "Lord Elrond!" he called. "Urgent news!"
"What is it?"
The messenger handed me a letter. I tore it open with shaking hands. Faile's first piece of advice burned in my brain:
"What will come, will come, and *it is not your fault.* Don't think that for a moment."
Whatever this letter contained, that was what she meant. I knew it.
I skimmed the letter, paled, then read it more closely. My hands shook even more. All I could think was, 'Dear Valar.'
"My lord?" the messenger said hesitantly.
"Get. Out," I said quietly. Venomously.
The messenger bowed, and began to back out of the room.
"GET OUT!!!!!" I roared. The messenger forbore all propriety, turned around, and *bolted* from my presence. I flung something after him. I think it was a helmet. It crashed against the door. The noise jerked me out of my killing rage.
"Dear Valar." I whispered. I felt choking sobs burning their way to the surface. "Celebrian."
I let the tears fall.