Chapter Warning: This chapter contains character attempted suicide. Although it is not graphic, some readers may find it disturbing. This chapter is not appropriate for minors
Chapter Two: End It
0o0o0
Elrohir's unusual talent proved true once more, and he returned home not two hours after leaving, carrying Gilraen, who thrashed in his arms. He stumbled into the Hall of Fire, where Elrond now sat alone, the Lord having carried Estel to his bed some minutes earlier.
Gilraen, the Lord noted, had picked up quite a colorful vocabulary from living with her husband, and she was using every term she knew to tell Elrohir just what she thought of him. When she bit the younger twin as he put her down, Elrond quickly poured a glass of wine and thrust it into her hand, hoping to calm her long enough to allow Elrohir to catch his breath. She downed the cup in seconds. She has indeed learned much from Arathorn, noted Elrond before pouring another. And she has certainly lost none of her feistiness. Good. Arathorn loved that about her, and in time, it will serve her well.
Elrond tried to dissuade the widow from drinking a third cup of wine, but she grew agitated again. He stifled a smile when he noted Elrohir unconsciously rubbing his arm where it had been bitten, and thought perhaps it was best for all involved if this night, Gilraen were allowed to drink herself into oblivion. With any luck, she would pass out before Elrohir had to hunt her down once more.
Gilraen was deep in her cups when guests arrived at the Last Homely House: three of the Rangers who had been closest to Arathorn paid a call to their friend's widow. The Rangers had never been strangers to this home; Elrond had sworn to welcome his brother's distant descendants as long as he remained in Middle-earth. These particular visitors had come frequently over the past four months, their concern as much for Gilraen as for the boy who would someday be their chieftain and—dared they hope?—their king.
Elrond showed the Rangers to the Hall of Fire, proffering each a seat and a beverage.
Gilraen stumbled as she stood, clumsily walking over to the youngest of the Rangers, a young Man named Lainon.
"Come, let us dance, Lainon. Do you not wish to dance with me?" Gilraen teased, her words slurred. She stood before the Man, licking her lips and swaying her hips as her ample bosom threatened to spill from her dress.
Lainon, remembering all too well that the young coquette was none other than the widow of his late friend and leader, demurred, earnestly trying to avert his eyes from her exposed curves. He—and for that matter, everyone in the hall—knew that Gilraen's behavior was simply further evidence of her grief and confusion, fueled by too much wine.
"That is enough, Gilraen," said Elrond in his most fatherly manner, and he placed his hand on her back to steer the confused and drunken woman from the room.
"I do not wish to leave, Elrond! Though I am younger by far than the youngest Elf in your valley, I am a grown woman." Ironically, her protest made her sound like a petulant child.
The Lord paused to inhale deeply, realizing that despite his numerous years, he had never found himself in precisely this predicament.
"Now Gilraen, you have had quite a bit of wine. Let us get you safely upstairs to your chambers." Elrond moved his hand to Gilraen's arm to guide her.
"To my chambers? Why? I shall only be alone again!" The young woman spun away from Elrond, momentarily disentangling herself from his light hold on her arm. He caught hold of her once more and held her arms firmly, fearing she would flee again.
Gilraen surrendered, crumpling to the floor, supported in part by Elrond's grasp.
"Let me go," she wailed. "I want only to go to him. Why do you wish to keep me here? I no longer want to stay."
For a moment, Elrond thought it was Estel whom Gilraen wanted to see but soon realized that the "he" to whom the woman referred was her late husband. Worse yet, he understood that by "here," Gilraen meant not Imladris but the world of the living. Elrond responded with the only tactic he could think of, although he realized it had little chance of success: "Think of the boy, Gilraen. Remember Hope."
Whether his words assuaged Gilraen's death wish, the Lord knew not; Arathorn's widow was crying too hard to respond. Elrond lifted the sobbing body into his arms and carried her to her chambers, hoping that she would sleep soundly through the night. For what? To wake to another day of pain? pondered Elrond, wondering when the young woman's grief would be bearable, wondering whether it would ever be bearable at all.
Would Celebrían's?
0o0o0
The Rangers took their leave with an awkward "Goodbye" as soon as Elrond returned from depositing Gilraen on her bed. After their departure, Elrond went directly to his study. The evening had disturbed him, and he thought a bit of mundane work might take his mind off the matter. He had little chance to engross himself in budgets and tallies, however, before Elladan flung open the study's doors.
"You saw her in there, Father. Surely you cannot think her behavior appropriate! Arathorn was my friend, and his widow now makes a mockery of their marriage!"
Elrond laid down his scrolls with a sigh. "Elladan, naturally I find Gilraen's behavior inappropriate. Highly inappropriate! But the woman is not herself. She is lonely; perhaps she believes that if she can garner the attentions of another man, she can ease her pain. And I suppose she misses her life among the Dúnedain, among the Rangers and their families. Is it so hard to believe that she might want to—er—recreate her former life?"
"How can she possibly hope to do that?! Her husband is dead!"
"Hope? No, Gilraen has no hope—that is the problem—and in her more lucid moments, she knows all too well that she cannot recreate her past, but she was drunk and crazed with grief; people do unexpected things when they mourn, and far be it from me, you, or anyone else to try to tell a young widow what she should or should not feel!"
"So you would allow her to carry on as she does, in there prancing about like a whore?!"
Never before had Elrond felt the urge to slap his son, and he prayed to the Valar he would never feel it again.
Registering the flash in his father's eyes and the flare of his nostrils, Elladan realized he had gone too far. He dropped his eyes to the ground. "I apologize, Father."
Elrond measured his words carefully: "I condone neither her behavior nor yours. I simply accept that sometimes when people are upset, they behave in ways and say things that they may later regret. Would you not agree that that is so, my son?"
Elladan swallowed and nodded.
"You will recall, Elladan, that I put an end to Gilraen's little . . . display. But I shall not judge her for it. Will you?" The last words were more statement than question, and Elladan knew he could do little but comply, at least outwardly.
"No, Father. Of course not."
0o0o0
Elrond's hope for a peaceful night for Gilraen proved false. On the contrary, she woke in the wee hours of the morning with a headache, waves of nausea, vague but disconcerting memories of her behavior of the previous evening, and the ever-present ache of Arathorn's absence. And somewhere in this mix came the subtle but niggling thought that she was a horrible mother, for from time to time she actually remembered that she loved the boy, even if she denied herself permission to feel it. Alone in the dark, Gilraen waged a silent mental war with herself:
What have I done to my child?
You have destroyed him, young harlot!
Young? I feel so old.
End it.
But the boy.
End it.
If only I could find my way. There must be a way back to whatever light remains in this world
There is no light. There is no Hope. You know it.
Perhaps—
End it.
I—I want to live!
Think of the boy. What sort of mother does he have? He would be better off without you!
Not true! I need time; that is all. I simply need more time.
Time for what? To damage him further?
I want to live.
You do not deserve to live. You do not deserve the kindness being shown you. You do not deserve the beauty and tranquility of Imladris. Arathorn is gone. How can you allow yourself to have Hope when your husband is dead? Make what amends you are able, Gilraen. End it.
The persecution of the voice in her head was more unbearable than the pain of Arathorn's absence; it had to be silenced. How fortunate that she had thought to save portions of the sleeping draughts Elrond had so often administered to her and hold the remaining liquid in a flagon in her bureau. She hesitated only a moment, considering the possibility that her plan might fail. What if she had not saved enough of the draughts to make this sleep permanent? She would simply do better next time, she resolved, and eventually, she would succeed in ridding the world of her vile presence. In one swift move, she removed the bottle's cork and downed the contents.