First Impressions

Chapter Three.

The final installment. Yes, I've actually finished something ;)

Thanks for waiting.

And massive thanks to Nemis for betaing this.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Celebrían sighed quietly and repressed the urge to throttle her ardent admirer. He sat beside her now, his dark hair falling in his face, expounding on some esoteric subject. She cast a longing glance at the book she had been forced to abandon when he had made his presence known. Her afternoon was not unfolding in the way that she had planned. The rose that lay forlornly in her lap like a limp cadaver did not much improve matters, looking as it did as if it had been torn from the bush by a hurried hand.

A dull silence, empty and hollow, fell. He gazed at her with expectant eyes, his face devoid of any other expression. She floundered, searching for some clue but finding none.

"How interesting you are, Master Falin."

"'Tis nice of you to say so." He blushed and looked away while Celebrían cursed the malapropos slip of her tongue. The next moment, her silent lament for her feigned interest grew immensely as the Elf launched into a long-winded and highly esoteric discourse.

Her mind drifted away, or so it seemed, to another face, fairer by far to her, solemnly elegant, graven with lines of wisdom and humour alike. To grey eyes that seemed to speak of the starlight in the beginning of days ere there was Sun or Moon to cloud their splendour...

Her attention was rudely recalled to the present by a hand creeping propretorially closer to her shoulder. She regarded it with abject horror for a fleeting heartbeat, imaging it as some huge, clammily pale insect.

Surely he could not... Surely he would not...

She squirmed away from him, inch by inch, although any attempt at subtlety was rather hampered by her skirts which fluttered and rustled as she moved.

"...And of course if one applies it directly to the throat of a patient..."

She realised she was being treated to a convoluted description of the healing properties of rosemary when combined with an infusion of springtime heather and that the errant hand was once more travelling in her direction. Firmly concentrating on the remembered face, she stared fixedly at the chill sky of the young year above her, and searched for some suggestion as to what to do next.

Just when she had resigned herself to the course of brutal frankness, she was saved. Erestor, a bundle of maps tucked under one arm, his face contemplative, chanced across the unhappy pair.

Celebrían's own face cleared miraculously. "Master Erestor." She held out one hand to waylay him.

"Lady Celebrían." He bowed deeply, but his eyes were brimful of amusement as he glanced from her to her wide-eyed suitor. "And a good day to you too, Falin." He paused a little and the mirth in his eyes only seemed to increase. "My lady, I believe that Lord Elrond is looking for you. He said something about a book..."

Celebrían jumped hastily to her feet, trying not to show unseemly haste and failing miserable. 'Twas as if one were to go from the bitter cold of the high mountains to a blazing fire in a welcoming hearth in an instant. Steadying the erratic beat of her heart, she curtsied prettily to the Elf who had borne her company - however unwelcome - for the last hour. "I must bid you farewell for now, Master Falin. I believe that my presence is requested elsewhere." Her mouth twitched with the effort to control her almost uncontrollable smile.

"My lady." Falin took her hand in both of his and squeezed it tightly. He leaned closer to whisper in her ear and his breath lifted her hair in little puffs. "Take heart. I am sure that you will show sweet forbearance and emerge with your spirit uncrushed from whatever daunting encounter Lord Elrond has prepared for you."

She was hard pressed to bite back the swift retort that sprang to her lips, and only the dizzy black spots dancing before her eyes reminded her that it was possible to breathe without speaking one's mind. "I am sure that I shall be quite undaunted." She smiled, just showing the tips of her teeth, and laid her hand upon Erestor's arm. "Lead on, my lord."

The paths leading back to the house seemed to stretch themselves out to infinity, although in reality it could not have taken more than a minute to transverse them. Erestor smiled down at the elf-maiden with the avuncular affection of one who had seen more generations than this tie themselves into knots over matters of the heart. Finally, she giggled, overcome with relief. "Thank you."

"He is a good lad."

"Well intentioned."

"Quite so."

At the library they parted. The door stood open and she slipped through, her silken slippers noiseless on the polished floor. The room was as yet empty, and she breathed deeply of its inimitable scent; well-cured leather, warm paper and ancient dust, and beneath it all that lingering spiciness that only at great length had she identified as Elrond's. As she had before, on that first dreadful, wonderful day, she went to the massive oak desk that stood in one corner, laden, it seemed, almost to breaking point with books and papers, fragile pens scattered across all like felled trees. One in particular caught her eye, older than the rest, worn into smooth grooves by the passage of the centuries, the glass a little dulled but the colour as vivid as ever. It lay heavy in the palm of her hand, somehow reassuring in its solidity.

"Mae govannen, Celebrían."

She jumped, yelped, and lost her grip on the pen. She fumbled for it, trying to stay its disastrous flight. Her flailing fingers caught the nib, flipping it over in midair, and it sailed across the room with the deadly purpose of an arrow shot in the thick of battle. She closed her eyes , expecting the worst. When there was no jewel-bright sound of breaking glass, she opened them slowly.

Elrond had raised one hand and caught it in mid-flight. He was holding it out to her, his eyes warm. "I hope that you will believe me when I tell you that I have never meant to creep up on you, although I do seem to be making a habit of it."

"I...I..." She winced inwardly at her nervous stutter. "I am sorry. I did not mean to..."

He grinned unabashedly now. "'Twas good of you not to neglect my practice at dodging flying objects."

"I would not wish you to become lax in combat, my lord." She straightened from the half-crouch she had adopted.

"Here." He held out the pen. "If you like it so, I beg you to take it."

"I could not. 'Tis obviously something of great value to you. I could not take such a thing from you."

He smiled, firmly quashing the impulse to bolt. "'Twould mean more to me if you would take it." He placed it in the palm of her hand, and tenderly curled her fingers around it.

Celebrían wished she had the courage to do as her wilful heart suggested and throw her arms around him there and then. Finding that she did not, she took his hand in her free one for a brief moment. "Thank you. Thank you more than I ever can say."

Bewildered and more than a little unnerved by the unplumbed depths of emotion that lurked beneath the fragile ice of the conversation, she released his hand and moved away.

"So." He shook his head as if to dispel some dizzying cloud. "So. The books."

"Yes, the books."

~*~

Breakfast the following morning was an exceedingly pleasant affair, seated as she was between the High King and his Herald, both in exceptionally high spirits. Celebrían's parents, however, were conspicuously absent, having failed to emerge from their chambers for the morning meal. The elf-maiden had smiled at their firmly closed door and decided that it would be wisest not to think further on this matter.

But once the three Elves had lingered over the crumb-speckled remains of their meal until the tea had cooled into unpleasantness, and once the elder Elves had adjourned to pore over maps and plans in the council chamber, there was no protectively looming elf-lord to guide her safely to her chambers. Before she knew what was happening, Falin was by her side, pressing a narrow slip of parchment into her hand, his fingers cold and decidedly sticky against her own. Before she could conclude whether or not 'twould breach all notions of propriety to return the letter unread in that instant, he was gone, scuttling away across the fast emptying great hall.

Celebrían sighed and turned the unwanted object over in her hands. There could be no arguing that 'twas not meant for her; her name was writ across it in large, slightly blocky script, and then underlined three times in scarlet ink for good measure.

She turned on her heel and strode off at a decisive pace towards the library, her sanctuary.

It was a long time before she emerged, fuming audibly and stalking through the corridors of Imladris accompanied by the shrilly peremptory click of her shoes on the floor. Her eyes were very bright as she bent all her considerable concentration to the task of concocting various ways to inflict suffering upon her would-be suitor. So great was her fury that it was some time before she noticed that she no longer carried the unfortunate letter with her.

~*~

The evening was drawing in, black and grey and amber. Anar was dim in the West, half-hidden in the furled clouds piled high above the ridges and dells of the foothills. In the Last Homely House, lamps had been lit, spilling warm buttery light through the corridors and into deeply shadowed corners. Drapes fluttered slightly in the warm drafts from the fires and then settled softly back into place. Deft Elven hands lifted trays of steaming bread from the ovens and melodious Elven voices were raised in less than melodious hollers as vast pots of fragrant stew bubbled and simmered.

Elrond Peredhil's face was pensive as he meandered his way through the corridors, but his eyes were not unhappy. All told, it had been a productive day and the evening promised to be pleasant, but first he had an argument to solve. 'Twas a question of age versus wisdom as he had put it, laughing at scowl that had graced his foster-father's face. He sought a book that he believed contained the passage that would conclusively prove him right. Admittedly, 'twas but a small skirmish in the War of Wrath of which they spoke, but 'twould be nice all the same.

The book was not where he expected to find it amid the row upon row of similar volumes that lined the walls of his library, but it was the work of a heartbeat to spot it, nestled among the cushions on the window seat. The shadows were chased from his eyes: she had been here, and soon he would see her, sit beside her...

Elrond bent and hefted the thick volume into his arms. As he did so, a sheet of parchment fluttered from its pages. He never meant to read it, never meant to pry, but the first line caught his eye and he could not look away, could scarcely breathe. His liver turned over and he could feel the blood drain from his face, leaching his smile away with it.

"My dearest Celebrían..."

He noticed almost absently that the parchment had clearly been read often, the edges a little crumpled, the ink slightly smudged as if from a fingertip lovingly tracing each line. Some words seemed to be pooled and obscured by tear-marks.

A thundering pain was gathering in the back of his head, building and swelling.

"...My darling love, I awake each morning from dreams of you, and yet the day brings brighter joys for only under Anar's lantern light, so much less fair than your hair, does my skin touch yours, much though I hope that one day soon it shall be not so..."

The pain had reached his eyes now, burning his sight, searing the hateful lines into his unwilling brain. He wished he could not see; he wished he could not think, but he remained as always.

"Do not be disheartened, melethril, by the advances of my liege-lord, for he means well, yet of the matters of men and maidens he knows not, and he cannot see that we are heart-bound, you and I..."

His throat was clogged with impenetrable clay, but he knew not how it came to be there, only that each breath was an agony, each thought an indecision.

"...It is told in the song and legend of our people how your mother, the fabled Lady Galadriel, refused even one hair of her head to the Lord Fëanor. Such tokens have you given me of your esteem and affection, by your sweet touch and, sweeter yet, your words of kindness, that I dare to hope that you will not thus refuse me.

I await you in love, and yearn for the day when we may be husband and wife.

Your adoring Falin."

Elrond leant his head against the cool stonework, sucking in great gulps of bitter air through the sudden obstruction. His mind was as the sea before the breaking of the storm, his eyes almost black with the tempest. How could he have been such a fool? How could he not have seen? 'Twas so obvious in Falin's face, and mayhap that was why Celebrían ... no, the Lady Celebrían, had been so eager to tend his cold all those days in the infirmary. Mayhap it had been there before even that and he had not seen it. And yet, surely he who had looked so long at her fair face would have seen it writ there in letters bold to see...

But another quick glance at those other, starker letters here before him convinced him that he had to have missed it, snow-blinded by love.

"My dearest Celebrían..."

Nay, he could not be angry with her, although he was. 'Twas unseemly and unjust. 'Twas not as if she could choose the disposition of her heart, any more than he could choose the disposition of his.

In the reckoning of the Eldar, the passing of the years was held of little import. And yet, he conceded privately, the yéni stretched long and arduous between his birth in drowned Sirion and that of the Lady Celebrían. Mayhap Falin, who could scarce count two score years ere her birth, would make her a more apt husband, less in thrall to sorrow and old care. It was not, all told, a very comforting thought.

While his thoughts ran thus in melancholy, his feet, all unbidden, had brought him back to the council chamber.

"And? What does this esteemed work say of the matter?" Gil-galad lifted his head and grinned. His dark hair was unbound, his linen shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up. In one hand he held a full goblet of wine; he gestured for his vice-regent to take the other.

Elrond, barely aware of doing so, ignored the proffered wine. "It matters not." He placed the volume on the table with exaggerated care.

"What ails you?"

"Naught."

"Elrond, do not think to lie to me," Gil-galad warned, his eyes narrow and sharp.

"Naught of any significance to any beyond myself." And he would say no more.

**

Celebrían was still incandescent rage as she took her seat at the supper table, her lips pressed into a tight line of deathly white. Her mother, seated at her left shoulder, wisely forbore from any comment.

The elf-maiden hardly saw the pristine linen before her, laid with simple china, and neither heard the rising babble of voices, nor smelt the fragrant steam rising in billowing clouds from the dishes as they were brought in. She avidly avoided the damp-eyed gaze of Falin fixed upon her from the other side of the hall, as if the fate of Arda and the outcome of this war depended upon it. He lifted one hand hopefully, and she unconsciously cringed back towards her mother. Falin briefly caught the Lady's gaze by accident and looked away hastily.

"Is everything well with you, iell-nín?" Galadriel asked gently. She needed no exercise of power to detect the tense pallor of her daughter's cheeks, so different from the rose-tinted glow of the morn, nor the way in which her hands fluttered and twisted restlessly in her skirts. The Noldorin lady's eyes flickered briefly to the lovelorn healer, and, in the silences of her mind, she belaboured him with the most interesting and pungent curses garned from the Dwarf who had guided them through the mines of Khazad-dûm.

Celebrían merely sank lower in her seat, glaring glumly at the delicate design painted on her plate. Thus it was that she missed the even glummer entrance of the Lord of Imladris, his hands plunged mulishly into his pockets, his shoulders tensely squared as if to brace against some terrible burden. Mayhap things would have gone differently, for better or for worse, if he had not seen her thus, seemingly as fragile as a new-sprung lily, her eyes suspiciously red, her face pale as if with the woes of love. As it was, his mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, swearing that he would no more press his attentions, so unwanted, upon her.

Gil-galad had a fair idea that something was amiss with his herald, but he was none too sure where to place the blame. Some other time, he might have cast it upon the Lady Celebrían, but for the last few weeks it had been rather hard either to miss or to mistake the longing glances she cast at the peredhel lord. Thus, he decided, the easiest way to shake the Elf from his own personal sough of despond was to manoeuvre him into conversation with his beloved and leave it to her deft wits to tease it from him. Accordingly, he took one of the two remaining chairs, making it entirely impossible for his foster-son to choose any chair but that next to the Lady Celebrían without entirely betraying his manners.

Elrond paled visibly, his composure shaken. It seemed to take forever to settle himself in the chair; he could hear the rush of the blood in his own ears. He tried to turn to the king, but was drawn inexorably back. He could smell her perfume, rising off her in delicate tendrils, hinting of a summer as yet far-off. He could see the individual freckles dabbed onto her cheekbones, a frail scattering of palest brown, and her lashes, lowered over her tired blue eyes, a faint shimmering of gossamer. There were ink stains on her hands. His body stirred in response. Never had he loved her more. He looked away, swallowing painfully.

"Elrond." Celebrían placed one hand on his arm and smiled up at him happily. It would be nice, she reflected to rest her head on that broad shoulder, and speak with him of inconsequential things, and then to...

"Hiril." With terrible restraint, he lifted her hand from his arm, folding her fingers inwards, and replaced it on the tablecloth. He could feel the pulse of his headache hammering against the walls of his skull.

A bubble of confusion welled up within her, spiked by her misery over the letter. She looked from her hand, curled up beside her plate like some hibernating creature, to the elf-lord beside her, and then back again.

"Elrond..." she began again, taking care to steady her voice.

"The cooks have excelled themselves tonight, have they not?" he said in a deliberately light tone. To prove his point, he speared a large chunk of chicken on his fork and placed it in his mouth. It was only with difficult that the combined force of stamina and willpower kept him from choking. What he had thought was chicken was in fact haddock, and it was heavily peppered. He chewed on resolutely, struggling to maintain an expression of enjoyment when it felt like his ears were on fire. He would not splutter like an elfling in front of her; that would be the final mortification… When the next possible opportunity arose, he reached for his goblet, dousing his burning mouth with the wine.

Celebrían looked at him hopefully, but when he merely reached for the jug to refill his goblet, she busied herself with her minted peas. They were a triumph of simple cuisine, but she barely noticed; a sour taste had invaded her mouth, and all she could think about was the Elf beside her. He ate in silence, punctuated only by his brief answers to the High King's conversational sallies. Once or twice, Celebrían met Gil-galad's eyes and saw mirrored therein some measure of her own concern. Her worry was not thus ameliorated.

The dishes were taken from the table, and she saw that the peredhel had eaten almost as little as she had, although his potatoes seemed to have been the victims of a severe and prolonged assault which had left them in deep-scored ruins. She longed to reach out to him, to ask what worries assailed him. Only fear held her back, and she watched, wordless and divided, as he strode from the room.

Bright tears pricked her eyes as she declined all invitations to adjourn to the Hall of Fire and instead retired to her own chambers.

**

The next day was no better, nor the next, nor the next. The week turned, and still a grim pall hung over Imladris, dulling its bright colours to shades of grey. The air was thick and heavy and no hint of spring made itself known. 'Twas as if nature itself were waiting with bated breath.

**

"Hiril-nín!"

Celebrían paused in the near-deserted corridor, reflexively clutching her book to herself as a shield. She had made a hurried foray to the library, no longer finding it so welcome a refuge.

"Hiril-nín!" Falin exclaimed again, hurrying up to her, a broad grin on his face.

"Master Falin." Celebrían drew herself up to her full height, wishing that she had the towering presence, physical as well as spiritual, as her mother.

He took one of her hands in both of his, massaging it in a way which made her wish to scream. She looked about for some diversion, some means of escape, but there was none, and 'twas not as if he had done anything improper.

"I trust that you are well?"

"Oh, quite, quite well" She waved the book as if in proof.

"I was a little concerned for you."

"Oh?" She tried to disentangle her fingers from his but found that she was stuck fast.

"I wondered..." He paused and gulped audibly. "I wondered if mayhap the pangs of love struck too near to your divine heart..."

Celebrían chuckled weakly and placed her other hand over his to free herself.

It was at that inappropriate moment that Lord Elrond was unfortunate enough to round the corner. Sleep had eluded him since that fateful day, for when he closed his eyes he saw naught but that letter engraved upon his eyelids, black stark on red. For the first time, he cursed the Elven powers of memory which would allow him no respite. And yet his wits were not sufficiently exhaustion-dulled to cloud his sight.

The couple stood before him, a mere hairsbreadth distant from each other, lips close and hands entwined.

"My darling ... did my letter cause this affliction of your senses? If it did, it need not be so. I promise you, I shall make all well, and gild the vaulted heavens for you..."

The lady moved her lips as if to speak and then turned her head away.

Elrond felt his hand clench involuntarily into fists, his nails nigh on breaking the skin of his palms in bloodied crescents. Slowly, so slowly, he schooled his face into an appropriate expression. As he approached the oblivious pair at a stately pace, he could hear every last rustle of his silken robes. "May I be the first to wish you joy." He was aware, somewhere in the depths of his mind, that his voice was not quite as level as he had intended it to be, but he plunged onwards, knowing that it was too late to stop now. "I am sure that you will be vastly happy together. It is a joy to my heart to see children thus settled." With a curt bow, he was gone.

Celebrían moved to clap one hand over her mouth in horror, but it was still clasped between Falin's larger ones. She had seen, in the moment when the half-elven lord had risen from his graceful bow, a depth of hatred and contempt she had never expected to find there.

Surely he could not...? Surely he did not...?

The next moment, she had rather more pressing concerns with which to contend. Falin, beaming contentedly at his liege-lord's avowed approval, lowered his head. Freeing her hands from at least one of his, he tipped her chin up and kissed her.

For a heartbeat, all that Celebrían could think of was how angry she would be any moment now, and then the full force of her outrage hit her, casting thought and feeling into blinding clarity. One of her hands was still imprisoned, her head was clamped in a vice, and her free arm was caught between their bodies. Slender though Falin might be, lacking his mentor's broad, graceful shoulders and powerful arms, but she had not the strength to tear herself from him by ordinary measures. However, not for nothing was she the daughter of Galadriel and of Celeborn of the Trees, neither of whom had seen much sense in rendering their only child meek, mild and utterly defenceless. She resorted to extraordinary measures; twisting her left knee upwards, she lashed out.

Falin bent double, wheezing and groaning and clutching at his wounded organ. Celebrían stepped back with her hands balled and an expression of righteous indignation on her face. He looked up at her with eyes brimming with tears of pain.

"But ... but ... my love ... why?"

"Never." She paused in an attempt to regain some of her composure. "Never again presume to address me so. I love you not, and if you had ceased your inane and self-centred prattling for more than a heartbeat, I would have told you so. As it is, you cannot possibly imagine the amount of damage you have done." She scrubbed at her mouth disgustedly, seeking to wipe away the taste of his lips on hers, and, turning on her heel, stormed away.

**

When the evening came, her rage had not abated. Still a little dizzy from the heady intoxication of her anger, she feigned sleep when the bell rang for dinner. But when her parents returned, arm in arm, it was to find her pacing the room, her skirts swishing behind her like the tail of a caged cat. She held a quill in one hand, a sheet of parchment marked and scored with dozens of corrections crumpled in the other. Streaks of ink daubed her face, further smeared by furious, desperate tears.

"Iell-nín?"

"Foolish creatures!" The words exploded from her. "Foolish, feckless creatures with no regard for sense nor reason. Blind, witless worms. Aye, 'tis what they are. They should crawl through the earth, and I for one would think that mud would be a vast improvement to their countenances. They presume ... they assume they know the contents of our thoughts, although in truth they know nothing of them..." The spate of Silvan invective which followed was an extraordinary feat of linguistic prowess. Although Lord Celeborn winced, Galadriel was hard-pressed to conceal her amusement. Silently, she motioned her husband from the room.

"Indeed they are," she said soothingly, ushering Celebrían to a chair and seating herself beside her. "But what is the specific instance of folly which has roused you to such wrath?"

Celebrían scowled darkly, and poured out the whole sorry tale as if one unwilling. Her diatribe on the faults and failings of the younger healer was piercingly free and frank, but it has nothing to that with which she dissected the elder. He was arrogant to a fault, almost painfully lacking in insight, cruel, cold. It was beyond her what the flocks of females who fluttered their eyelashes at him on a daily basis saw of worth. He had no right to judge: truth be told, even the great lore-master himself could not be so chastely cold as to have never been subject to such humiliating importunities himself.

The last words stuck in her throat, bitter and harsh.

Galadriel simply sat there, clasping her daughter's trembling right hand tightly, weathering the tirade and the tears that followed alike. She could have spoken then, of his pride, of his uncertainty. It would have been easy to do so, to soothe away her daughter's angered fears, and yet she held back, much though it pained her to do so, and let her daughter and the peredhel lord tread the harder road, alone and together.

At long last Celebrían's sobs trailed off and she fell into a fitful doze, sniffling quietly to herself, her head propped against her mother's shoulder, her feet curled up beneath her. Silently, Galadriel slipped a pillow under her daughter's head. Rising, she fetched a blanket from the next room, and covered the still form. For a few moments she watched the rise and fall of the girl's breathing, as she had watched it when her daughter was but an elfling, and then she turned away, her thoughts oddly at peace. 'Twould all be well; Celebrían was too much her mother's daughter to allow the object of her affections slip through her fingers.

With a smug smile Galadriel retired to her own bed, and, more importantly, her own husband. Celeborn greeted her with a soft kiss, his eyes bright and knowing, and his arms closed tightly around her.

~*~

Celebrían was awakened by a shaft of pale, sickly light which crept through a chink in the shutters and fell across her face. She lay still for a moment, blinking uncertainly as her eyes grew accustomed to the dawn and she attempted to understand why Anar had escaped from its fixed course and was shining, albeit low and dim as of yet, through the north-facing window of her chambers.

It was only when she propped herself up on one elbow and the broidered cushion, dislodged by her movement, fell to a floor which was far closer than she had expected it to be, that she remembered where she was, and with that recollection came a flood of memories.

She groaned and sank her head in her hands, ruefully acknowledging that a flight to Lórien was not a viable means to escape this farrago of nonsense. And yet she was torn between the desire never to see the peredhel lord again until the ending of Arda, cursing his very name, and the desire to go to him at once, to wring his neck if need be, but, by hook or by crook to force some sense into him. In the end, as she had always known it would, the latter impulse won.

Rising, she hurried to her room. Stripping off her crumpled gown, she poured cold water from a ewer into her hands and splashed herself with it, scrubbing vigorously, hissing between her teeth at the chill. Her face still dripping, she selected a gown by the simple means of donning the first one which came to hand. She was scarcely aware of her fingers braiding her hair back from her face as she made her way swiftly through the corridors of Imladris, empty at this hour of the morning except for Lindir, a large jar of marmalade tucked securely under one arm and the keys to the store jangling in his hand, the sound harsh and ugly in the silence.

Elrond was not in his study, but she had not expected him there. In truth, she knew not what impulse drove her onwards, assured her that she would find him. If she had stopped and allowed rational thought to resume its normal course, the realisation that he might yet be a-bed would surely have turned her back. But such was the haste of her search, the turmoil of her mind that she had no time for such mundane trivialities as rational thought.

It was only as she stepped out onto the lawns, damp with dew that seeped between her toes that she realised that she had forgotten her shoes, but that was of no importance either.

She found him seated upon a bench in the middle of the gardens, huddled in a heavy wool cloak, surrounded by his scattered correspondence. A ledger-book lay open on his lap, and he held a pen in one hand, but his eyes were distant, fixed upon some point beyond sight. His chin was tilted slightly upwards, and dawn was in his face, burnishing the last tendrils of mist that coiled around his head like the lost crowns of his forefathers. The breath caught in her throat.

He spoke without looking at her. "You should have brought a cloak. 'Tis too cold to walk without one."

She took a step closer, hugging her arms around herself protectively. "Elrond..."

He held up one hand as if to stay her, to ward her off. "I would rather you did not..."

Celebrían took his upraised hand in hers, folding his fingers inwards. Still holding it, she settled herself on the bench beside him.

The elf-lord looked at their joined hands for a scant moment, as if he would have wished to remain where he was. Celebrían smiled at him tentatively, but he jerked his hand free with a wrench and sprang upright, his shoulders rigid with tension, his head bowed. The tome fell to the ground with a thud and lay there, forgotten.

"Elrond, I need to ... I must speak with you... " She could see him clench his jaw, and plunged onwards. "I ... I know not whether my words will be unwelcome, but you should hear them nonetheless. I ... I care for you. I..."

"Speak no more." He cut her off abruptly, his voice raw and angry. He turned fully to face her, and she saw that his eyes were almost black with some veiled emotion. Another would have recoiled. Celebrían resisted the urge to glare.

"I have no time for some shallow flirtation such as you seem to desire." His face was set, unreadable.

"Listen to me: I seek no shallow flirtation."

"Then go to him, and cease this folly. I ask nothing more than that you do not lie to me." His eyes flickered closed, but he stood before her, tall and noble, an elf-lord of old. "I have never asked more than that."

She stood slowly and reached up one hand to frame his face, brushing away a few stray strands of black hair. He flinched, holding himself tightly in check, but made no move to pull away; he found he could not. "Stop..."

"No." She let her hand fall, but only to take a firm grasp on a handful of his cloak. "Would you be deaf as well as blind, Elrond Peredhil? I care naught for Master Falin."

"You cannot expect me to disbelieve the evidence of my eyes." He uttered a short bark of caustic laughter.

"Did it ever occur to you that I might not have desired that? That his actions, his desires might not have been mine?"

He looked at her, clearly baffled.

"I see that I shall have to articulate this in full." She gathered up her entire reserve of not-inconsiderable courage and tugged him closer. "You are a fool, my lord. I did not encourage Master Falin's advances, nor did I enjoy his attentions." She grinned a little. "I think that I shall be free from them after I made it plain that his embrace was unwanted and inappropriate." She bit her lip. "I ... I ... it is you I love, Lord Elrond."

She stared fixedly at her feet, bare and blue from the cold, awaiting his scepticism, his contempt, his indifference. Thus it was that she did not see the emotions - fear, disbelief, confusion, delight - that chased one another across his face. He swallowed, tried to speak, failed. Celebrían, finally daunted by his silence, stepped back, but he captured her hand, entangling his fingers with hers.

"Let it be." She found to her horror that she could not hold her voice steady; it trembled as did her hands.

"No." His other arm snaked around her waist. "I rather fear that I prefer you where you are, my love."

She could feel the heat rising off him in the early morning air, his arm sturdy against her. She blinked.

He gazed upon her, his eyes filled with understanding and love mingled with a ghost of pain. "Celeb loth nín."

Celebrían felt a sob rising in her throat, although she knew not why in this hour of hope, and chose the most appropriate way she could think of to muffle it. Twining her arms around Elrond's neck, she leant up and pressed her lips to his. For a moment, he held perfectly still, his heart racing, but the scent of her so close to him, the sensation of her body against his, rather precluded any continuation of this state. His arms tightened around her waist, and he drew her in, deepening the kiss.

Neither knew how long they stood there like that, and when Celebrían spoke again they were sitting side by side on the bench, and his cloak was draped around her shoulders. "Well, El-nin, I find I like this morning considerably more than I liked yesterday, or the days before that."

"Indeed." He caressed her hair fondly, letting silvery handfuls slip through his fingers. "So ... Falin persecuted you with his attentions?"

She nodded, finding that her memories of the miscreant healer were rather vague, and indeed bothered her very little.

"I shall relieve him of his responsibilities," Elrond said grimly.

"Nay. Let him be. It matters not."

The elf-lord consented, although his reluctance made it clear that Falin would spend a considerable proportion of his time shredding unpleasantly pungent medicinal leaves.

Tucking her head under his chin, he rummaged in the heavy leather pouch that lay beside him, seeking by touch alone. The tiny silk bag fitted easily into the palm of his hand, and he worked the knot loose, shaking the contents into his palm.

"Today I cannot..."

"I know. We cannot wed until this war is ended. Believe, however, as I do, that it will end."

"Aye. And when it does, may I...?"

"Of course." She smoothed the furrow from between his eyebrows. "Hir-nín, you can be really quite remarkably foolish at times. You barely needed to ask."

She plucked one ring from his palm and slid it onto his finger. He watched the play of the early light upon the metal for a moment before reciprocating.

"Now and forever, meleth-nín."

"Now and forever."

So caught up were they in the kiss that ensued that they did not hear the soft tread of approaching feet.

"At last, ion-nín. I had begun to despair that I would ever again have a competent vice-regent." Gil-galad stood gazing upon them, a broad grin plastered across his face.

Elrond and Celebrían smiled back sheepishly and, rising together, followed him into the Last Homely House in search of a breakfast suitable for those who had suffered such an excess of emotion so early in the morning.

FINIS

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Translations:

Meleth-nín – my love

Celeb loth nín – my silver flower

Melethril – lover (female)

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