First Impressions
Chapter Two
Thanks to Nemis for betaing this.
Thanks to everyone for putting up with the long interval between updates.
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The wind howled with gusto as a winter storm hurled itself at the fortress half-hidden in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. The trees boomed and swayed, their branches whipping about, now at the drenched paths, now at the shuttered windows of the Last Homely House. While fires crackled in the grates within, outside, rain poured down in torrents, sweeping through the valley in burgeoning streams where there was usually dry land and emptying into the swollen Bruinen. Occasionally, there was a rattle like falling tiles, and a bushel of hailstones plunged downwards from the brooding thunderheads piled one upon another miles above, mercilessly pounding any creature unlucky enough to have failed to reach shelter.
Celebrían paced restlessly about the warmly lit apartments that she shared with her parents, wringing her hands. Her book lay forgotten on the table, open next to a cup of tea that had once been hot, but was now gradually coating the china with a thin grey-brown glaze. A narrow furrow ran between her eyebrows, and her lips were pressed into a tight line. Her gaze returned constantly to the window, through which she could catch a glimpse of the path leading up to the House, now more of a river than a roadway. The grey half-light showed very little, but she scarce needed any light at all to know that the one she sought had not returned. She could feel it, in every stone, every inch of tapestry, every breath of warm, scented air.
In marked contrast to her obvious unease, Galadriel and Celeborn were at peace. The elf-lord's voice was raised in gentle song, something about starlight on oak leaves that Celebrían decided she did not much care for. Galadriel, however, was smiling, one hand hooked into the crook of her husband's arm, her head resting on his shoulder. The elf-maiden scowled at them, feeling uncharacteristically irritable. 'Twas not right that they lounge around thus, blithely ignoring the great danger… Could they not see; could they not understand that he was in grave … nay, mortal, danger? The Lord of Imladris was two hours late in his return from patrolling the borders, and still there was no slosh and thud of hooves on the path, no dark-hooded figures carefully picking their way up the valley. Mayhap a rotten tree, felled by the high wind, cracking back and skull, mindlessly extinguishing that light … a muddy path too slick with mouldering leaves for even the most sturdy mount to steady itself, and a precipice, a long drop to nothing … or a stray bolt of lightning, thrown by some malign whim of fate, searing earthwards on a high and desolate moor…
As if to lend emphasis and immediacy to her thoughts, thunder crackled and hollered outside and a fresh gust of wind lashed heavy raindrops against the windowpane. The sky had progressed from a sullen grey to near darkness, the clouds seemingly lower and lower by the minute. Celebrían pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and shivered slightly despite the warmth of the room.
"Sit, iell-nín."
"I … I should not… Someone must watch…"
"There are guards on the gates, and he will come soon enough, whether you watch for him or no." Celeborn held out one arm to her.
"I know not whom you speak of," she said flatly.
Her father raised one eyebrow, but made no remark. With a sigh, she sat down next to him and slipped into the shelter of his embrace. Across him, Galadriel caught her eye and smiled enigmatically. Celebrían ducked her head and blushed scarlet, knowing full well that she was incapable of hiding her feelings from her mother. It seemed an age to her that they sat there, enveloped in a patient silence, and she strained her ears for any sound.
At last it came: the distant squelching of hooves through the clogging mud, the halting jangle of muffled harnesses and a voice cursing the weather in fluent terms. No thought, no consideration of decorum halted her, and she had fled the room before she knew it, her feet soundless on the stairs, clutching the handrail as she jumped downwards. She held her skirts clutched in one hand, and flew from one corridor to the next. It was only when she could see the torches burning brightly in the courtyard before her that she finally slowed, smoothing the creases from her skirts. Walking forward at a stately pace, she could scarce breathe for the panicked tremor of her heart in her throat.
The riders were deeply shadowed as they slid from their saddles, boneless with exhaustion. Trying to appear calm and collected, she nevertheless sought some sign to distinguish him, half-imagining that when she saw him he would be but a limp body supported between two comrades.
But, at last, there he was, a tall figure, his broad shoulders angular under his sodden wool cloak. He rode into the courtyard, one hand resting lightly on his horse's neck, his hood thrown back and his eyes keen, the last to arrive.
"They are gone." He dismounted lightly, and wiped his sword on a patch of grass before sheathing it.
It was nigh on evening now, the invisible sun had already sunk beneath the western horizon, too weak even to gild the massing clouds. The courtyard was a-swarm with shadows, thick and dark, and his eyes were tired, his mind preoccupied with the orcs they had found in the pass. And yet, as he checked the company, his gaze skimming briskly from one to another, his attention was caught by a flickering light, just on the edge of his vision. He raised his eyes from the inspection of a superficial wound to a young soldier's shoulder, seeking the disturbance, and his breath snared in his throat. With a final nod to the Elf, assuring him that all would be well, he moved away, suddenly acutely aware of the filth clinging to the hem of his cape, of the strands of rain-soaked hair curling around his face likening it to that of a half-drowned elfling.
Celebrían had intended to be serenely elegant, the very epitome of perfection, but there he was before her, his face uncertain, questioning. She hurried forward, all maidenly reserve forgotten. "Ai, Elrond- hîr, such worries I had for you in this storm…" And afterwards, she would never understand what impulse of unmaidenly forwardness prompted her. All she would know would be that she had grasped his hand, so very cold from the storm, between both her own, and pressed it to her cheek. For a moment, she thought that she had made some dreadful mistake: his face froze, and she went to pull away. But as she did so, he recovered a little of his famed composure. Slowly, tentatively, he caressed her jaw line with his thumb, barely touching. His other hand found her shoulder, tugging her a little closer, and she smiled at him, safe once more from her overactive imagination. "Such fears…"
"I thank you for your fears," he murmured, "although they were unnecessary. The only serious danger we faced was that of being drowned by an overflowing stream."
"I seriously considered that possibility," she confessed a touch ruefully.
He laughed, still very close to her. "Again I thank you. Would you accompany me to dinner? You would have to wait, and of course I would understand if you did not wish to do so…"
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I would be delighted to accompany you, and I will wait." She grinned up at him. A joyous smile touched the corners of his mouth. With a low bow, he strode away into the House.
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The next morning, Celebrían awoke early, roused by uneasy dreams of she knew not what. At breakfast there was no sign of her host, but that was not unusual. Oftentimes he took coffee and bread in his study, already engrossed in maps and books and plans and she would see neither hide nor hair of him until noontide. So it was that a small smile lingered in her eyes. The previous evening she had had the opportunity to monopolise the elf-lord, the hours seeming as minutes as they talked long into the night. Parting at last, he had extracted a promise from her, or she from him, she was not entirely sure which, that they would set aside half an hour after the noonday meal to further their discussion of the Elder Days.
However, when they sat at table, he barely spared her a glance, instead intently studying a vast tome bound in peeling maroon leather, his hands buried deep in his sleeves. He sat far from her and answered all inquiries in a clipped whisper, returning at once to his reading. Never had he seemed so remote from her, so distanced. His brow was permanently creased as if with worry.
Nevertheless, when his eyes rested on her, they seemed to soften a fraction, and thus she was only a little deterred. When the meal ended she attempted to balm her unease with a book. So successful was she that she lost track of time, and it was nigh on evening when she went to find the elf-lord.
As she trod the corridor towards his rooms, her silken slippers whispering softly against the wooden floors, an explosive noise almost deafened her, echoing off the walls. It was followed by a series of grumbled imprecations in a voice that she knew almost as her own. She knocked on the door to Elrond's study and entered without waiting for a response. The sight that met her eyes almost stopped her heart. The elf-lord was bowed over his desk, clutching his midriff, wracked by some dreadful paroxysm. His dishevelled hair could not obscure his reddened eyes, nor the expression of miserable pain which contorted his face. Finally controlling the spasm, although only with difficulty, he raised one hand in a weak welcome. His face, she noted, was very pale, the shadows beneath his eyes almost black, and yet the tip of his nose was scarlet.
"Come in," he croaked. "I had not expected you yet."
"I had thought that you would refuse me because I am so late."
"Late? What is the time?"
"Late afternoon." She gestured towards the grim skies beyond the window.
"Oh yes."
"I thought that we might…" Celebrían broke off and stared aghast. "Your nose is … it is … it is dripping."
He dabbed at it with a scrap of parchment and then sneezed abruptly. She had heard the sound before, from some of the Dwarves in Eregion, but it seemed incongruous coming from this tall and lordly Elf. When he did not stop but instead continued, the volume gradually increasing, wincing with every jolt to the aching muscles of his back, she rose and closed the distance between them, supporting him though every paroxysm, rubbing his back in gentle circles. But his skin was terribly cold against hers and his misery was palpable, radiating off him in waves.
"Do you know what ails you?" She settled him into his chair, bending over him solicitously.
"No." He sneezed unhappily.
"Might it be some poison?"
"I...I am sure that 'tis not so." But as his head ached and his chest ached and even his knees had begun to exhibit the distressing tendency to ache as well, his demeanour was not such as to engender much confidence in his words.
"My lord..." She placed her hands on her hips and regarded him severely.
"Elrond. My name is Elrond, Celebrían."
"I shall neither give you your rightful name nor permit you to use mine if you do not attend to my words."
He began to nod but then thought better of it as the movement only served to increase his conviction that his skull had been filled with molten solder. "Very well."
Celebrían drew a deep breath and smiled at him a little tremulously. "Were you wounded at all?"
Mutely, he extended his left arm. The sleeve, rolled up to the elbow, revealed a long shallow wound touched with scarlet fire. Celebrían winced and took his arm tenderly between both her hands, turning it this way and that. Startled even in the depths of his queasy delirium, Elrond met her appraising gaze with wide eyes. She blushed, cursing herself even as she did so, but her hands did not cease their gentle exploration.
"'Tis the merest nick. I had not thought it important." He found himself contemplating the dexterity of her slender hands, the texture of her skin against his, and it was his turn to blush.
"I know not." She bit her lip. "I am no healer although I know a little of the art."
It was half in his mind to ask if she wished to learn more, inappropriate and patently absurd though such a suggestion might be at this time, but a cataclysmic sneeze interposed itself and robbed him of all conscious thought. Once he had recovered it, now steadfast in his belief that imminent death awaited him, he found that Celebrían had placed one hand on his back and was guiding him towards the door. He straightened a little but did not resist.
Celebrían tried to chivvy her mind into calmer paths. Only too aware that she was achieving remarkably little success in this task, she attempted to remind herself that he was not hers to care for, and besides, she scarce knew him and so what she felt could be no more than mild concern. But no matter how many times she repeated this to herself, it did not ring true; the pulse threading in her throat in response to his very real presence beside her would not allow her to forget that.
Slowly, step by step, punctuated by ever more hacking coughs, they made their way through the corridors. The infirmary was in sight, the heavy doors standing open as usual. Elrond strode ahead, keen to reach its sanctuary, but then a roiling wave of dizziness overcame him, boiling up from within. Queasy, he leaned against the wall for support. Celebrían, coming up behind him, saw the heightened pallor of his features, the tense lines. She placed one hand on his elbow and he wavered on his feet, his customary grace and poise all but forgotten.
"Please…" she called, raising her voice to echo through the corridors. "Someone…"
Master Erestor peered around the lintel of a storeroom he had been inventorying. Alarm clouded his sombre face and he hurried to his friend's side. Together, he and the elf-maiden steered the Lord of Imladris into the infirmary, wreathed in the scents of camphor and medicinal herbs, all sound deadened by the heavy white drapes.
The young healer, little more than a lad, looked up from the tome he was studying with something akin to fear in his eyes. "Oh! 'Tis you, Master Erestor. And you, Lady Celebrían, I bid you good afternoon." His darting gaze finally fell on that which it had been trying to avoid: the reeling peredhel lord standing between them, muffling his coughs with the back of his hand. The pale, nervous youth looked as if he was about to faint. He stumbled upright, fluttering papers everywhere and upsetting the inkwell. Elrond discovered that he was not so ill as to preclude a despairing groan over the ruination of the priceless volume on herb-lore.
"Ai... My liege..." Falin took the muttered oath as a sign of even greater pain. His hands twitching uncontrollably with fear, he half-led, half-shoved Elrond towards the low bed. When he began to divest him of his outer garments, the elf-lord opened his mouth to frame a blistering retort, but found his way blocked by a mug of noxious steaming liquid that burnt and stung as he was forced to swallow it, clogging his head with sulphurous fumes. Thus it was that he was compelled to endure the humiliation of being reduced to his undertunic and breeches while the maiden towards whom he harboured certain intentions looked on, apparently unfazed. Celebrían, of course, felt sure that her embarrassment and, even worse, the entirely inappropriate heat gathering within her, would surely manifest itself in burning cheeks any moment. When it obliged her by not doing so, she busied herself with retrieving Falin's dropped papers from the floor and dabbing at the flood of ink which was gradually dripping from the edge of the writing desk. Anything, she decided, would be better than waiting like a lump of wood. And surely if she was occupied, then all would be well and her rampaging fears proved in vain.
The next moment, her fist clenched so hard around the quill she had retrieved from a far corner that the nib cut painfully into the flesh of her palm. Falin had completed his futile examination and was now pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back in unconscious imitation of his mentor. "Wisdom eludes me in this matter. All I can say is that there is some poison in his system. We must wait for it to run its course."
"And what if...?" She did not finish; she could not.
The healer shrugged helplessly. He had not noticed that she had remained in the room and he had no idea how to deal with this furious maiden who in her outrage appeared strikingly like her mother. Elrond, his face devoid of all expression, laid one hand on her arm to stay her. "Your concern is most kind, hiril-nín, but I would rather that you did not deprive Falin of his head."
Her grim expression softened and an appreciative smile touched the corners of her mouth. "As you wish, my lord."
For a long moment they held their locked gaze, and then his hand fell away.
Erestor had questioned the healer in a hurried undertone and his face was bleak. Falin's shoulders slumped.
"My lord..."
"Here I shall stay, until what shall be has been." Elrond's smile did not reach his eyes, much though he desired to hide his own fear from those around him.
Celebrían tactfully left the room while the petrified healer helped his lord into the sickbed. As Erestor strode off to attend to the affairs of the House, she conducted a silent symposium with herself on the role of propriety in this situation. The outcome was inevitable: she would stay unless bodily removed.
She entered the room cautiously and nearly choked on the bubble of laughter that rose up unbidden within her. Wise Master Elrond, the sickly colour of new parchment, was clad in white pyjamas better suited for someone half his height; his hands rested atop the coverlet and his wrists protruded from the cotton cuffs by several inches. The coverlet itself had been pulled up to his nose by his overzealous assistant.
As Erestor entered bearing a large pile of documents, Falin withdrew into an antechamber, the expression in his frightened eyes making it abundantly clear that he had abandoned all hope that his lord would recover.
"I am glad to see that my indisposition provides you with amusement," Elrond croaked, blowing his nose miserably.
Getting a grip on her hysterical laughter, Celebrían settled herself down in the chair beside him.
"Judge not Falin so harshly." His voice was little more than a whisper. "He will have great skill when he has mastered his fear."
"I know. 'Tis just that…" She trailed off, and they sat in a silence that should have been awkward, but somehow was not. Elrond bent his attention to the papers with which his advisor had provided him, but the dull pain thrumming through his head distracted him, and soon, his head nodding, he fell into a snuffling doze.
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Celebrían was startled into consciousness by the distant sound of rushing feet on the cobblestones. She remained where she was, her head cradled in her hand, her feet tucked up underneath herself. Some time during the long night, when Elrond had cried out in his sleep and she had hovered over him with her concern writ plain in her face, not caring that any could see it, her parents had slipped into the room. Although she had taken the shawl they had brought, she had resolutely ignored their suggestions that she might like to take some time away from the elf-lord's bedside. In the end, they had given in, and so she had remained here, in the middle of the next morning, exhausted and afraid.
The noise came again, and then a voice loud with frustration and fear that almost matched her own.
"What?"
Footsteps pounded up the stairs, the tip of a sword clinking and jangling against the risers. The hem of a heavy cloak snarled on the banister with the sound of tearing cloth. A fine baritone scandalised the air with a series of vicious Quenya curses. Elrond stirred uneasily in his sleep. The footsteps continued, and the door was flung open nosily, rebounding off the wall.
Ereinion Gil-galad, attired for riding, mud still clinging to his boots, stood in the doorway, his fair face drawn into tight lines of worry. "Ion-nín? They said… I … I am here…"
Elrond roused himself languidly, peering at the figure with rheumy eyes. His face was deathly pale and the tip of his nose was tinged a livid red. His fitful breathing rasped unevenly. "My liege? Adar Ereinion?" He propped himself up on his elbows, woozy and uncertain as to whether he wished just to close his eyes and forget or not. "I … I am glad that you are here…"
He was rather taken aback when the High King suddenly threw back his head and laughed until his eyes were streaming with tears. Celebrían, having scrambled to her feet, looked from one to the other with utmost bafflement. Gil-galad clutched at the lintel to keep himself upright, already half-doubled over with almost painful mirth.
"My king…" She advanced on the wailing monarch with danger in her eyes. Her confusion only increased when he gripped her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks.
"My cousin. I see that you have met Lord Elrond."
"Aye, but…"
Still chuckling between gasps of breath, Gil-galad turned back to the languishing peredhel. "And you call yourself a healer, tithen-pen?"
Elrond summoned the strength to cock one eyebrow skywards.
"Or perhaps 'tis your memory that is lacking." He shed his cloak and shrugged his shoulders to work out the knots from hours of riding. "Do you not remember when we found you, Círdan and I?"
"Aye?"
"Your brother was thus unwell. No matter how many healers we consulted, none knew the answer. But then, when we were resigned to the worst, a healer of the race of Men happened to overhear our gloomy conversation…"
"Aye?"
"You and the Lady Celebrían and I, not to mention your entire household, have been unduly worried. The malady with which you are afflicted, while unpleasant, is certainly not fatal, and is no result of orcish poison. You have contracted what I believe is known as a cold."
Elrond sank back into the pillows, shading his eyes in embarrassment. "I should have known … I should have seen…"
"I expect that your attention was otherwise engaged." The king glanced slyly at Celebrían.
"My wits must have been befuddled by the disease." He tried to gesticulate emphatically, but was rather curtailed by a sudden cough which set his head pounding with a sudden pain.
"You have wits?" Gil-galad teased.
Elrond waved one hand to signal that he was presently unable to speak. After an interval of several gasping, wheezing minutes, he was able to respond. "Only a few, although I do try to make the best of them." He raised one hand to grasp that of his king, but he was shaking with fatigue, shivering with cold sweat. Gil-galad returned the proffered hand to the coverlet and placed his own on the elf-lord's forehead, gauging the temperature and soothing at the same time. "Sleep, ion-nín. Sleep and be well."
Gratefully, Elrond let himself subside back into oblivion.
Gil-galad pressed a kiss to Celebrían's forehead. "I believe that I should present myself to your lady mother."
He paused in the doorway and turned back towards her. His face was very grave. "Treat him gently. The wrath of a father is a dreadful thing."
She nodded, and smiled a little shakily.
~*~
The look on Elrond's face was filled with some trepidation as he regarded the elf-maiden standing before him. Celebrían grinned briskly and deposited the armful of books on the low table.
"And?"
"And I thought that you might wish to read.."
"No matter that I am still unwell?"
"Is it possible to be so unwell that one does not wish to read?" The expression in her frank blue eyes challenged him as she chose a volume from the top of the heap and, opening it at the beginning, buried her nose in it with a contented sigh.
Elrond plucked up all the not inconsiderable courage he possessed. "Never with you here." He brought her free hand to his lips and kissed it softly. Celebrían shivered happily and touched the tips of her fingers to his lips.
"Now. Do you wish to read a work on surgical theory, or a poem from…" She squinted at the worn lettering. "…Apparently from my grandfather Finarfin to my grandmother…?"
TBC
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