Disclaimer: All of Arda belong to Professor J. R. R. Tolkien.

With great thanks to Nemis.

The Courtship

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Six

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Flowers fall, even in the Gardens of Lórien. In his first agitation, Elrond had forgotten to keep the days, but the ground was moist and fragrant with petals now. A few days, possibly more. Eight. Nine. Twelve. More than a few.

It had been a morning soon after his arrival--so soon that he had not yet the chance to recover, to tell himself that he was neither dreaming nor still under a spell--when he had come down early after a few fitful, tossing hours, to find Celebrían and Galadriel already sitting together, talking in low tones. It had begun to rain in the night, and the women's hair and dresses glimmered faintly before a curtain of silvery drizzle that swayed gauzy and translucent from the eaves. Celebrían's hands lay in her mother's, motionless and relaxed on her lap; she was speaking, half turned away from him, something quick and inaudible. At that moment, she seemed far more at ease than the last time he had seen her, only a brief while ago in the night. She also seemed so young, much younger than he could ever remember, younger than she had been when they first met. And even at a distance, he could see something different about Galadriel, a soft glow about her face that had not been there for many years.

One glimpse had been all that it required. He had made his excuses, and gone out for another long walk in the rain. To his surprise and shame, he spent nearly all that day wrestling down an abrupt, quietly intense envy. In the forest, the leaves hummed and flowed with green moisture; wandering beneath them he reassured himself that surely, surely his heart could do no other than leap with gladness. This was a wonderful thing. This was what she needed more than anything, a solid island in her uncertainty, an anchor. This was a hopeful sign. He had to give her time. He had to give her space. He had not much else to give her, after all.

At least for now.

"Often, those who return are as children at first, or so it is said, for the days of their innocence come to them before others." Silently he repeated Galadriel's words. She had said them with her hand lightly on his shoulder, voice comforting, as if he'd needed the explanation. Very gentle, very kind. "All her life, all the joys and sorrows--those will follow in their time." But the next words she did not speak out aloud, and he was not sure if she had actually meant to speak them. Let her have this, for it will be brief, so brief. Let me have this. Please.

"That is as it should be," Elrond had replied, gazing back into her eyes. In all the years past--two ages and counting--he had not seen them come this close to pleading. "Naturally. I understand."

He kept himself to the edges in the days that followed. Already, he was sensing a subtle change in Celebrían, a lessening of her first diffidence, replaced by a certain lightness, the touch of hope. She was spending much of her time together with her mother now. Conscientiously, he guarded his mind before her. At times, he would feel Galadriel's sight upon him, and when he looked at her he would see the hint of gratitude on her face. A quick glance exchanged, and Galadriel would return her attention to Celebrían once more.

He made plans to preoccupy himself, made attempts to read and to explore the Gardens, let the flowers fall and the shade grow thick. He sat and waited in silence while Celebrían practiced fragments of music--fragments that became longer by the day--on the harp. His own heart he kept from flying apart with the reminder that he understood, had to understand, a parent himself. He dreamt and remembered.

He listened to her voice, whenever he could. Every word, every phrase he found himself trying to match against the memories, seeking confirmation that it was, indeed, still the same, that she was the same Celebrían who had reached to him with warm hands and golden laughter, and pulled him into her arms. But he knew he was also listening for signs of change, signs of suffering, signs that this voice had also once been hoarse and broken with pain. A slight shift of intonation, a trace of something yet unrecalled in the clear, full timbre: each small thing startled him inwardly, and brought back a flood of the past. Yet from that past, the voice that returned to him most vividly was not crying out of the emptiness, nor distorted by cold or echoes or the hopeless distances of the mind. It was her voice as he'd first heard it, in the beginning.

"The trees and the grass, and the flying birds--sometimes I feel as if the sight of so many living things would pull my heart right out of me." One day they stood next to each other in Estë's arbour. "I would not have so much of me lie in ruins," she said after a pause. But Elrond shook his head.

"Not ruins," he said, before thinking of his unspoken promise to Galadriel. Their glances touched, and slowly the darkness of her eyes lifted to a smile.

What was it that she had said, sitting next to him by the running Bruinen, that summer when they'd just met?

"Look at the wild grass, so fair and shining with life," that was what she had said. "How fast it grows! You know, while coming across the mountains, we saw the burnt-out ruins of Eregion already covered with flowers. Soon, it seems, the beasts of the woods and the birds in the sky will forget that there ever was a war in the North. But the trees will still remember, perhaps."

What had he replied, watching the bright waters, with her presence beside him as palpable as the white warmth of the midday sun?

"When I first saw you, I thought, here's someone who could not have known Eregion." He had kept his eyes straight on the river. "I was wrong, was I not?"

Celebrían had not responded immediately. "I was a child then," she had said finally. "I remember that when Mother and I left it for Lórinand, I could not understand why Father, who loved forests and wilderness so much more than streets of marble, had to remain behind. Yet I also remember how beautiful it was, the towers, one after another, flashing against the mountain snow, shadows and sunlight playing about the carved gates, and the scent of holly...It was--what I'd always imagined one of the great cities of Beleriand to be like, back in the last age. But I only saw it as a child." She, too, was looking not at him but ahead, at the river and beyond. "And then the ruins."

And what had he seen of Eregion, himself? "We were too late." He heard his own voice as if from a far place, weak words to no avail. "Even from across the valley, the column of smoke filled the sky, and orcs darkened the slopes like ants. Our horses trod over the dead, trying to get to those still living. I remember a woman by the city's west gate, a mother; she was running towards us, but before I reached her two black-shafted arrows struck her in the back. She covered the little child in her arms with her body..." He stopped, taking in a deep breath. "I am sorry. I should not be talking about this."

For a while they did not speak. "And the child?" asked Celebrían.

Elrond turned, and found her thoughtful gaze full upon his face. Then it struck him that he hardly knew her, really, and for an instant he wondered what had come over him.

"The child was saved," he answered simply.

"My lord," said Celebrían, "I have only been in Imladris for a short while. But every day I see people who would not be here if it were not for you--"

"There could have been more."

"And my father is one of them," she finished quietly. A short moment of eye contact, then unexpectedly, Elrond looked away. They fell silent. He stared hard at the Bruinen, snowy eddies that sparkled and flashed at him until his eyes stung.

"I could have done more..."

She had remained sitting there on the grass next to him, and maybe at some point she had leaned over slightly and touched him on arm. But all that had been too far in the past.

Too far in the past, thought Elrond. The waters of Valinor spoke with different voices. Before him, Lake Lórellin extended into the blue; at his feet its rhythmic waves lapped the shore. But these waves held their peace, and asked him no questions.

"Hulloa, over there! Master Elrond!"

Lifting his head, he caught sight of Irmo down the shore, tunic sleeves rolled above his elbows, hair bound behind his head with a scrap of cloth. The Vala was waving.

"Greetings, my lord," Elrond called out, going across. The Master of Spirits beamed at him.

"There is something I'd like you to see."

Beckoning, he led the way through a low, living gate of overhanging boughs in the forest wall and onto a tiny path under the trees. Thick young foliage brushed against them from left and right, but after a few sharp bends of the path, the canopy parted suddenly, and they came upon a small meadow, sweet with new lilies. Across the meadow, several moss-laden steps of stone brought them down to a tall grove of lairelossë trees. On three sides, dark ancient trunks rose and formed walls of dense green, but in the middle was a wide space, floored with soft turf and roofed over with high-arched branches. At one end, the ground fell away and opened to a little bay in the lake, silent ripples beneath the shade.

"She is almost ready for the waters. Lovely, don't you think?"

Taking up most of the green floor and still raised on wooden struts was a gleaming new sailboat, slender-hulled among the tools laid out upon the grass and hanging from trunks. The air was fragrant with fresh resin. A sieve of emerald sunbeams through woven leaves above fell upon the folded sail and silver ropes, and the entire sleek shape seemed to stretch toward the cool waters in expectation and longing.

"She's very beautiful," said Elrond.

Irmo grinned, his fair face youthful.

"Nothing compared with the art of Alqualondë, I know, but I've been working on this since winter." His voice was filled with enthusiasm and joyful pride. "Ah, I would tell you of the first time I built a vessel, trying to learn the craft from the Falmarindi, a narrow little rowboat that started to leak just as we--the two of us, Estë and I--left the islands behind for the depths, while the light of Telperion was spread all about us, and upon her face...I've become better since then, though." Raising one hand, the Vala ran his palm lovingly along the smooth wooden body, his eyes tender with memories. "Lórellin is a curious place, you know. Even after all these ages, after each time I thought I knew it all and understood, it always happens that there's some current, some hidden bay or inlet that I did not recall, and the waters, far away in the middle, are always a little deeper than I imagined..."

His voice trailed off. Elrond watched him as he moved around the boat, tinkering with the coiled ropes, picking up a paintbrush occasionally to touch up a plank. Could the boat be the only thing that the Vala wanted to show him?

"Always a little deeper," he repeated slowly. "Like the mind?"

Straightening, Irmo turned to him, seemingly both pensive and half-amused.

"Well, now that you have put it this way...Perhaps, perhaps. Like the mind."

The mind that remembers the wounds. Those had been Estë's words, the very first night of his arrival.

"Why did you bring me here to Lórien, my lord?" he asked.

The Vala arched his eyebrows.

"Why, did you not wish to see her?"

He must know perfectly well that was not at all what I meant, thought Elrond. "Seeing her--seeing her alive, her body whole again, was more than I dared to imagine. Given the facts of her death, and my failure--" he did not continue the sentence. "But the important matter now is quite different, is it not?"

"The important matter?" His own question, flung right back at him.

"Celebrían. It has been only days since she came back; the one that she needs most now is her mother. I do not believe that she needs to be constantly reminded of the wide and painful gulf between what she recalls and what she is, at this moment. I do not believe this tension--subtle, possibly, yet one that I cannot but sense while I am with her--makes the returning of her memories easier. I do not believe," he hesitated for an instant, then decided to go on, "that I can trust myself."

The other Being was looking honestly startled by this. "But she needs you," he said. "She needs you now, I mean. All her past remains with her, even if she cannot yet see it. After all--" He fell silent, and for a while stared almost absently into the distance. "Ah, I fear I am never as good as Estë at this," he added at last.

"My lord?"

"Estë has such a gentle way of talking about healing, and memories, and loss, without making these things seem like mere platitudes, wouldn't you say?" The Vala gave a small sigh, then shrugged. "I have no words that will be of use to you, I must confess."

But Elrond chose to meet his eyes. "Not a word? From the Master of Spirits?"

"They call me that, don't they? Never understood it, myself, for spirits have no master, of course." Irmo shook his head as if in amazement. "Look at the lake, Elrond. I have said that it is a curious place. It is beautiful, too. It draws in the heart. If I had advice to give you, I would say take one of the boats--this one, maybe--and go sailing with her. There are more islands than one can count in this lake; fair and fantastic creatures dwell on each island, and in the deeps. Enjoy yourselves."

"Enjoy ourselves?"

"Well, you are the one who knows her the best, of course." Irmo smiled. "But I suspect she will find it pleasant; Estë always does, or so she tells me..."

Beyond the islands, the horizon was shimmering, half-veiled with a fine new haze. What was it that Irmo had said? Healing, memories, loss. Mentally, Elrond went over each of the words, then once again after he had parted from the Vala. Loss. Then the familiar inevitability of the past.

He had been carried along far too much by the tumult of his own emotions. It was time to think, to sort things out. This was about her. Celebrían.

He knew not for how long he stood on the bank, scanning those fair and mysterious islands for reassurances that were not there, for an invisible sign.

It was time to make his decisions.