The two of them came up the steps of the front terrace together, Celebrian first and Arwen behind her and slightly to the right. It was almost full dark by that time, and the two of them were at first no more than indistinct forms in the deep twilight. Though they moved with a strange grace that was not mortal yet at the same time no longer—quite—Elven, it was still familiar to him and for a moment—one brief, shining moment—they seemed exactly as they had been when he had last seen them: that day, that night, of the Seanchan strike against Isengard.

His heart lifted and he started to greet them, but then they emerged into the light of the circle of lamps that surrounded the terrace and his words died in his throat, for though their faces were familiar, they themselves were not, and he realized—again, again, he should have already known this after Celebrian returned to him as Briande—that they were no longer his wife, his daughter. They were Seanchan.

Celebrian—Briande—took off her insectile helmet first, laying it gently on the table in the middle of the terrace, and though he knew she was no longer his wife, he could not help but fill his eyes with her. She looked thinner than she had when he had last seen her so very long ago, and wearier as well, as if she were laboring under some sort of strain; at once his eyes went behind her to check for the little human who had accompanied her everywhere last time, but then he caught himself. Doubtless by now the little human was long since cold in her grave. His gaze returned to his—wife's—face, and he saw that somewhere between their last meeting and now she had picked up a scar that ran across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, right under her eyes; looking at that gave him an inward chill. Just a touch higher and it would have cost her her sight.

He must have spoken it without realizing it, because she frowned at him and raised an eyebrow; he repeated it aloud, speaking in Sindar, the language of his heart. "An inch higher and you would have been blinded," he murmured, reaching out without thinking to trace the thin white line across her face; she stepped back at once, and his hand hung there a moment before he let it fall to his side.

"What? That?" she asked, and her speech was in the slurring manner that he could now recognize as Seandar court accent; he had found it nearly incomprehensible the last time they had met. Much had changed since then. "Oh. A revolt in Marelendar. Our position was being overrun. I was…late lifting off. Not very bright." She sighed and ran a hand through her bright blonde hair, close-cropped as it had been last time to fit under her helmet. He frowned slightly, watching her.

"You look tired," he said, again speaking in Sindar; she closed her eyes, shook her head slightly and raised a hand.

"Seanchan. In Seanchan, Elrond of the Others," she said in the same slurring fashion, but she did reply, although it was again in the Seanchan speech. "Only a little. We've been flying all day."

"Still would have been, First General, if you had had your way," a voice said behind her, its tone on the thin edge between humor and mockery, and as the speaker took her helmet off and swung it idly in her hand, Elrond turned to his daughter, Arwen Undomiel.

Only she was no longer the Evenstar, he saw as he looked at her, and somehow that distressed him, more than seeing Celebrian—Briande—again had. Perhaps because he already had met Briande. This newcomer he had never seen before.

She wore Arwen's face, but it was under hair cut short like Celebrian's; it was darkened by sun in a way that Arwen's milky complexion had never been. And instead of Arwen's expression of serenity and tranquility, this woman's face was alert and watchful, giving the impression that she was constantly taking in every bit of information about her surroundings—taking in, and evaluating, scanning for weaknesses and advantages. She met his gaze boldly, with that same expression that could be either humor or mockery. "Recognize me?" she asked with a sharp grin.

"Arwen," he managed at last, bringing together this Other—Elfmaiden—before him and his memory of his daughter with an effort.

Her smile stretched sharper, and she shook her head. "Not anymore, Father," she said mirthfully, then stepped back and bowed low. "Allow me to introduce Supreme Der'Morat'Raken Arisae Minabet Paendrag, renamed and raised to the Blood by Empress of the Nine Moons Yi-ming for 'Outstanding Service to the Empire in Time of Crisis.'"

"The Second Jianmin Incident," clarified Celebrian—Briande—and he saw her turn a sour gaze on their daughter. Their daughter, Arwen—Arisae—bowed her head in a manner calculated to look humble but reeking of arrogance. "That will be enough, Supreme Der'Morat'Raken Arisae."

"As you say, First General," Arisae responded in a saccharine voice. She moved aside then, and a third figure whom Elrond had not noticed before came up the last few steps and joined them on the terrace. Elrond glanced at him idly—and then stopped and looked again, staring hard.

The third figure on the terrace was Aragorn.

It was not, he realized after a moment; the man was too short, too lightly built—and of course, he remembered distantly, Aragorn has been dust for the past thousand years. No, it was not Aragorn. But the face was so similar the two men might have been twins. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at a thousand-year-old ghost, until the man shattered the illusion; the short human male turned, spat, and asked roughly, "Somethin' the matter with your eyes?"

"Now, Sthenn, be nice," Arwen—she is Arisae now; Elrond had seen enough renamed men and women come and go in his lifetime to know how the renaming process worked, as he had not when he had first met Briande—said sweetly. "Father, this is my backrider, morat'raken Sthenn Kimail."

Elrond stepped back, for he did not like something in the way Sthenn looked—at him, or at Arwen, he did not know. "What do you want?" he asked, his words coming out colder than he had intended.

"Rooms, Elrond." It was Briande—Celebrian—who had spoken and he looked back at her. "We want nothing more than a hot bath and some beds to sleep in that are perhaps better than morat'raken barracks, and maybe some food other than trail rations or army chow." Her words were even more slurred than was customary for a Seanchan; Elrond realized that she must be very tired indeed. As she beheld his momentary hesitation—and misinterpreted it—she added, "If you wish to turn us away then do so, but under the Light, at least decide quickly; it's been a long day for all of us."

He paused for a moment more, trying to arrange his thoughts in order, then replied, "Celebrian…Arwen. You will…always have shelter under my roof." He meant those words to convey more than the mere sounds, but had the feeling his message was lost as he beheld the weary countenance of his wife, the slightly less weary face of his daughter.

Or maybe not; Celebrian nodded and said quietly, "Thank you, Elrond," as if she truly meant it, and Arisae behind her replied, her voice for a moment as honestly sweet as it had ever been, "Thank you, Father."

He stood aside then, and let them pass beneath the roof of Imladris.

"How does it feel, to be back after a thousand years, First General of the Air Briande?"

Briande pondered Arisae's comment, as the two women strode down the hall of Imladris, matched stride for stride. Arisae had spoken in a jeering voice; and Briande was certain that she meant it to be taken insultingly. But Briande refused to be insulted. After a moment, she turned and asked, "How does it feel to you, Arwen?"

Arisae scowled beside her at the use of her birth name—Briande felt it more than saw. But she did not retaliate. She only responded, "Strange. I never thought that I would ever see this place again—the back of beyond. The middle of nowhere. About as far from the bright center of Seandar as it is possible to be." She smiled sideways then and canted her eyes at Briande. "It must feel good to be home, First General." Behind her and respectfully to the side, Sthenn chuckled.

"And you, Supreme Der'Morat'Raken," Briande replied. Arisae's scowl grew deeper.

"This place isn't my home anymore, Briande."

"Mine either; in fact, I think it is probably less my home than yours," Briande replied smoothly. Arisae drew in breath to speak, when a curtain was swept aside in an archway ahead of them and someone stepped through into the hall.

It was Elrohir, Briande saw almost at once; he glanced the other way, then turned to look in their direction and froze. His long dark hair, so like his father's, swung about his shoulders; his blue eyes, that he had gotten from her, widened. Arisae halted, and Briande did as well; they stopped so quickly that Sthenn bumped into them both and cursed quietly.

"Mother," Elrohir whispered softly, almost in awe. "Sister. You've—you've come back."

Briande stared at her son. He stared back. Nobody spoke for a long time; she ran her eyes over him. She had not seen Elrohir in over fifteen hundred years—she had managed to evade both her sons the last time she had been at Imladris—and the last sight she had of him was so colored with things that she would rather forget that she took no pleasure in it. She stared at him now to make up for before.

He was taller than she remembered, just by a finger-width, and fine-looking. Noble-looking; he was a son she could be proud of. A strange stinging started in her eyes, and she felt her lips curving up in a trembling smile. "Oh, my son," she murmured, barely audible, and then swallowed.

He took half a step toward her, smiling just as trembling back, and then looked to her left. "Arwen?" he asked, hopefully. But when Briande looked to her own left, she saw Arwen looking at him with no trace of recognition.

"Do I know you?" she asked, her voice all cool distance.

Elrohir's clear brow furrowed. "Arwen—Sister—don't you remember me? Don't you know your own brother?"

"Not Arwen," Arisae replied as coolly. "My name is Arisae Minabet Paendrag. Once, I might have been known as Arwen. But that was a long time ago." She frowned. "Elrohir of the Others," she said at last.

"Sister—" he began, and stepped forward, as if to embrace her, but Arwen's chill eyes looked at him. He stepped back, hurt plainly visible on his face.

"Arisae Minabet Paendrag has no brothers," she said, and pushed past him as if he did not exist. Elrohir stared at her, then turned to face his mother, begging.

"Mother—don't you know me? I—I am your son, you—Father said you and—and Arwen went with the Seanchan, but—"

Briande yearned to acknowledge him—her arms ached with the desire to embrace her son, gone from her side for fifteen hundred years. Her eyes stung, and she took a step toward him without thinking—then became aware of Arisae's cold gray eyes fixed on her, of Sthenn's smirking stare. She dared not show such weakness before them. She drew herself up, and looked at Elrohir through half-lidded eyes.

"You speak to First General of the Air Briande Duchen Paendrag, and Briande has no sons," she said coolly.

"But Mother, I—it's me, Elrohir! Don't you know me? I—we—saved you from the orc-dens! We—"

Briande froze. She went absolutely still, every muscle in her body tensing. To be reminded of such an episode—here, in front of her subordinates, who were just waiting to see her fall—Elrohir had seen her shift in expression and instantly fell silent, looking at her with wide eyes, as if he realized he had gone too far. She turned to look at her son, her teeth grinding, and out of fear, anger and shame mixed, she forced out, "You are not Briande's son."

She regretted the words instantly as she saw tears standing in her son's eyes, but she dared not take them back, not with Arisae and Sthenn watching gleefully. With her back as straight as an iron rod, she moved past him and, feeling the weight of her subordinates' stares, continued down the hall. Elrohir called after her desperately, but she paid him no heed, listening instead to the measured tread of Arisae's and Sthenn's steps behind her.

A few hours later, after she had had a chance to bathe and eat, Celebrian came upon Elrond in the gardens that Arwen had created thirteen hundred years ago; they met on the same terrace they had last time, where she had finally told him once and for all that she would not return to him. He had had the servants lay out for her the robes she had worn while she had been mistress here, in response to some fleeting, half-recognized hope; a hope that, he saw at once, was in vain. She had eschewed them and wore still her travel-stained leathers with her sword at her back and her dagger at her hip, though she had laid off her insectile helmet.

She looked slightly better than she had when she had come up the front steps; a bath and a hot meal had done her some good. But the shadows under her eyes remained, and as he looked more closely, he could see that her already sharp Other—Elven—features were sharper than they had been a thousand years ago. Sharper than they should be. She had always had the slender Elvish build, but she had lost weight since he had seen her last.

She smiled at him and joined him at his invitation, taking a seat on the bench opposite him. For a moment there was silence between them, as the two of them looked over the garden in the fully risen moonlight.

"It hasn't changed," she said at last.

"Hasn't changed?"

"These gardens. From the last time I was here. Who tends them now that Arisae—Arwen—is gone?"

"The servants," he responded. "Gardening was never a skill of mine," he added with a trace of humor, hoping for a smile.

He got one. Slightly. She said, with an air of irrelevance, "The Ogier among the Empress's Deathwatch Guards are known as Gardeners. I don't think they work with plants, though. More like….swords, and other weapons…." She fell silent again, seemingly lost in thought.

"Have you any idea…" he asked, somewhat hesitantly because he was not sure he wanted to know "….what….how….Elladan is doing?"

"Elladan?" she asked, looking back at him in surprise.

"He left—at the end of Little Tarmon Gai'don. He went over the sea, do you remember—to be a soe'feia Truthspeaker? I have heard nothing of him since then—I feared that he might have been killed during your Great Tarmon Gai'don, and I hoped that you might—"

She held up a hand for silence, frowning in thought; then her face cleared. "Oh. No, he was not killed. He was Truthspeaker to the Empress's family until the dynasty changed, and then he crossed the sea to the Westlands. He was there for a few decades or so, and then headed for Shara by the Great Silk Road, across the Spine of the World and the Aiel Waste. Not even the Aiel know much about Shara, but I think he made it just the same; from what I hear, he is a wealthy silk merchant now. Or so it is said; I have not communicated directly with him in centuries." She sighed again, and suddenly looked more tired than she had before.

Elrond nodded, relieved, and then looked at her closely and with more concern. "And you?" he asked gently. "How do you fare, Celebrian?"

"Why do you ask that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You do not look well," he told her quietly. "You appear to be…almost exhausted, and you have lost weight, I can see it in your face. Are you well?"

Celebrian gave a thin smile and leaned her head against her hands. "Why do you not ask about Arisae, how she fares?" She must have sensed his puzzlement, for she said now, "You know, you were right about her."

"I was?"

"Yes. I should never have taken her from Imladris. I did not stop to think, at the time, that I might not be doing her any favors, but—what?" She broke off, for he was laughing mirthlessly.

"I had come to the opposite conclusion," he told her after he had calmed. "No, you were right. Everything you said to me that night was correct. I was trying to keep her for selfish reasons, when I had no right to do so. I could not see that at the time, but afterwards—" He stopped as she shook her head without looking up.

"Perhaps you had the wrong reasons, but you were, in the main, right." She paused, and passed one hand over her eyes. "I'm so tired, Elrond," she said quietly. "I'm so tired, all the time. I wasn't before, but the last two centuries or so— I wish I could just….lie down one day and sleep for a thousand years."

"Celebrian—" he began uneasily; he looked at her closely and did not like what he saw.

"I keep dreaming of Ciriel, did you know?" she said abruptly.

Elrond was silent; he did not know what to say. He knew that she was speaking of the Elfmaiden who had shared her servitude after she had been taken da'covale by the Seanchan—the Elfmaiden whom she credited with saving her life, even though Ciriel herself had not survived. He held his peace, wrestling with his thoughts. Celebrian did not appear to notice his silence.

"Every night, I dream of her," she continued after a moment. "I see her in my dreams….we talk, and she keeps telling me that she misses me….I wonder what it means." She trailed off.

Elrond's concern was rapidly deepening into worry as he looked at her; to change the subject, he reminded her quietly, "You said you should never have taken her with you? Why?"

Celebrian sighed and straightened with a slight effort. "Yes. The central problem between us," she continued, a sharp smile tugging at her features, "has to do with….immortality."

"How so?"

"It is because of the way of the mortal world," she explained. "In the mortal world, one generation ages and dies, thus making way for the generation that comes after it. That is how succession works: the old move aside or step down as they grow old and infirm, and the young rise to take their place; in turn they grow old, and in turn make way for the new."

"I know," he murmured; he had seen it in the old kingdoms, in the days before the Seanchan.

"Then you see the problem." She smiled that sharp, mirthless smile, and spread her hands.

"And that is?"

"I do not age," she said quietly. "I do not grow old or infirm. And I will not die."

"I see," he said after a moment's thought.

"Yes. We are both raken-riders. We both love the skies with a passion, and we both are desirous to better ourselves. We have all the time in the world; we can go as far as we are able. Yet there is only so far that we can go within the ranks of the der'morat'raken, and however far she goes, I am always in the next step up; she cannot advance until I do. Do you know why it took Arisae so long to become Supreme Der'Morat'Raken for the entire Ever Victorious Army? For it did, it took her almost a thousand years. It took her so long because I was the Supreme Der'Morat. No matter how well she performed—no matter how hard she worked—she could not be promoted until I was. And I would not have been had Empress Yi-ming not seen fit to create a new rank for me after the Second Jianmin Incident." She laughed without humor. "First General of the Air. The sole commandress of the raken, the to'raken, and the Fists of Heaven. And I hear there's a new promotion in the works for me; to Banner-General—I would be the first der'morat'raken to be made so, and have ground troops under her command. Ground troops! As if I even want them. What would I do with ground troops? But it does not matter, because Arisae will see, again, that she is moving up only because I am. She…finds it frustrating, I fear," she finished, and leaned her head against her clasped hands again. "She does not like always having to be second." She drew another sigh.

Elrond was silent for a long moment, pondering what she had told him. "It is the Sickness of Men," he said at last with a shrug.

"The Sickness of Men?" Celebrian asked, looking over at him.

"This…desire for advancement," he said with a mirthless smile of his own. "It is a—a distortion in thinking, a hunger, a sickness, that Men are peculiarly vulnerable to, and once it infects them it consumes them." Seeing her disbelieving look, he continued, "I have seen this before, and I know that you have too—I saw it in Isildur, and in Boromir—and from all that I know of them, it seems to me that the Seanchan are rotten with it," he added, casting her an oblique glance.

"You think so?" she asked.

"I do." He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice as he pressed his point. "It is a sickness that is foreign to us. When I served under Gil-galad," he continued, looking at her, "it would never have occurred to me to attempt to rise above him. Such a thought would have been unthinkable. I understood what my station was, and his, and accepted that he was above me without question. Think," he pressed her. "Would you ever—in your life—have challenged your mother Galadriel for rule of Lothlorien? Had you not been—would such a thought ever have occurred to Celebrian?"

"I did not have to challenge her," Briande replied with a strangely unreadable smile.

Elrond paused for a moment, uncertain what she meant, then dismissed it and continued, "So you see—this is not something that is common to our nature. But the Seanchan—they are rife with plotting, with scheming, with plans to gain advancement over each other—is there not a saying, that if there are not a dozen plots against the Empress going on at the Court of the Nine Moons, then she is so weak that she is not worth plotting against?" At her nod, he concluded with a shrug, "It is the Sickness of Men," and fell silent, looking out across the grounds of Imladris to the Seanchan encampment, lost in his own thoughts of years gone by.

"Maybe so," Celebrian responded in a neutral voice.

After a moment, he came back to himself and looked at her. "Why do you not retire?" he asked her. "To your lands of Duchen, on the edge of the Sen T'jore. You spoke of doing so at some point the last time we met—if you retired, then you could—"

"No," she said sharply and looked away. She continued, "I could not, not at this time. Not to Duchen. Not after the skies. You don't know the skies, how they— I would trade the skies, I could trade them—but not for a tiny patch of mud that has not even been developed yet. It would…it would almost literally kill me. In the future," she said unconvincingly. "In the future I will go to Duchen. But I cannot now."

Elrond gave her a long evaluative stare. She flushed slightly under his gaze, but said nothing more. After a moment, he said coolly, "I see." Celebrian shrugged, her color deepening further; she started to speak, but fell silent and avoided his eyes.

After a time, and a glance to be sure they were unobserved—they were, he knew this, but he was about to raise a subject that was extremely dangerous; the last time they had spoken of this a thousand years ago, he had not understood how severe the danger was, how great a risk she had taken by speaking of it—he sighed, then continued in a low voice, "You spoke…of plans, when we met before….you said," he went on as she looked at him sharply, "that it would not be the first time in the history of Seanchan that a former da'covale had become—"

"Be silent!" she hissed at him, her eyes wide with fright. "It was one thing," she added in a vicious whisper, "to speak of such things while the Empire was an ocean away, but now, while the Daughter of the Nine Moons herself is less than a day behind us—in the middle of Rivendell Garrison—" She stopped and raised a hand to her head.

"But—have you?" he pressed.

Celebrian closed her eyes. At first he thought she was not going to answer, that the subject was too dangerous; then at last she gave a long sigh. "Yes," she admitted in a whisper. "I…have begun, only begun and no more than that, to...set things in motion. But I must move very slowly. This dynasty is less than two hundred years old. It is still strong. And in spite of the fact that I have been raised to the Blood of Paendrag, I am still an outsider; I am not one of the key families that has a strong claim to the throne—though my long life has aided me in coming to be seen as truly Blood, for all that I was raised, not born." She sighed. "I am already moving faster than I had intended," she added with a tight smile. "I must; Arisae is right behind me, pushing, constantly pushing."

"Could you not let her know what you intend?" he asked quietly. "Perhaps then she would…gain patience."

"Are you mad?" she asked, raising an eyebrow with a grim laugh. "She would report me to the Seekers for Truth first, to get me out of her way, and then if at all possible she would find a way to reap the benefit of my planning for herself."

"Your own daughter?"

"My own daughter," Celebrian confirmed. "And yours," she added, looking at him. Elrond only shook his head and looked away.

"The Sickness of Men," he murmured again, with old bitterness. It has taken my daughter….and you too, Celebrian. It took you from me centuries ago, but it is still hard….These Seanchan….

"Perhaps I've simply lived too long," Celebrian said to him now, quietly. "I'm tired. I know I said it before…. I don't know if I have the strength to do all that I must anymore." She shrugged.

I as well, he thought but did not say. I had lived too long the moment the Seanchan set foot upon these shores. He sighed. Then looked up, as a dark, distant shape came winging across the sky from the west.

"What is it?" he asked, as Celebrian rose to her feet.

"Raken-rider," she replied, squinting for distance. "Wearing the colors of the Second Flight, the one we left behind with the Daughter of the Nine Moons. The raken's laden with two morats, though, and does not appear to be traveling especially swiftly, so whatever it is, it can't be urgent." She raised an eyebrow. "If I had to guess, I'd say my promotion has come through."