"I've missed you."

She could not see. Someone was holding hands over her eyes. She reached up to grasp the wrists of whoever it was, but they twisted away. "Ah, ah," she was chided. "Guess who."

"I can't guess."

"Me, silly!" The hands dropped away, and Celebrian found herself face to face with…

"Oh Light, oh, Ciriel…." The words were almost a sob.

The other Elfmaiden stood before her, as she had seen her last—and not. When she had last seen Ciriel, the woman had been lying on a filthy pallet in a dark and noisy to'raken stable, skeletal and emaciated from the effects of the wasting disease that had killed her. The woman who stood before her now, in a field of bright and colorful flowers overarched by a crystal blue sky, was Ciriel as Celebrian had never seen her, even when they had first met in the da'covale kennels of the Empress of Seanchan: this was Ciriel healthy and whole. As she might have been had she been raised in Arda.

Ciriel held out her hands and smiled gaily. Celebrian could not speak. She could only run her eyes over the other Elfmaiden, from her long and flowing blonde hair—lustrous and vibrant, radiant with health and light—to her blue eyes, clear and sparkling with life and vitality, to the healthy flush in her cheeks. Her face was no longer carved with the stark lines of emaciation; now she had the healthy bloom of an Elf in full flower of youth and life.

"Well? What do you think?" Ciriel whirled and the white dress she wore fanned out around her. "Are you glad to see me again?"

"Ciriel…" Celebrian choked, and began to cry. She could not help herself. The other Elfmaiden had meant so much to her—had been the only thing that had kept Celebrian whole and sane during her first years as a Seanchan da'covale shea dancer. Even as she died, she had been thinking of Celebrian—with her dying breath she had extracted the promise that had given Celebrian the strength to go on without her, though it had almost ripped her heart out to do so. And—and now, to see her again after so long….

"No, no, Celebrian, don't do that, don't do that," Ciriel said in alarm, and went to her. Celebrian felt Ciriel's warm touch on her face wiping away her tears. "There's no need for that! I'm here now. I'm here. Didn't I tell you that the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and we would meet again in a better place?"

"Ciriel, I'm with you. I'm with you," Celebrian said over and over again, laughing through her tears. She knew she was grinning foolishly, and couldn't help it. "I'm with you. At last, I'm with you."

"That's right," Ciriel replied warmly. "You're with me."

Celebrian put her arms around the other Elfmaiden, clasping her close in an embrace, scarcely able to believe that at last, she was again holding her in her arms. "You're here. You're here. But…" She stopped, and stepped back, looking around in confusion. "Where is 'here?' This isn't…this isn't the halls of Mandos…"

"The where?" Ciriel asked in confusion, and only then did Celebrian remember that Ciriel had been born in Seanchan, not in Arda. "No, this is Tel'aran'rhiod. The dream country. All souls go here, while they are waiting for the Pattern to spin them out again. You know of this place, I know you do—it's the place the Aiel Dreamwalkers frequent. Here, let me look at you." Ciriel ran her eyes over Celebrian now and smiled spontaneously. "Ai, look at you!" she cried in pleasure. "Der'morat'raken—did I not tell you you could go far?"

Celebrian looked down at herself and realized that she was in the armor of a der'morat. "I—It was because of you, Ciriel," she admitted, looking at the other Elfmaiden. "I could never have done it if—oh, Ciriel, you did so much for me, so much more than you know, so much more than you could ever understand—"

"I'm so proud of you," Ciriel said, her eyes glowing. "You've made me proud, Celebrian. You've made me proud. My Celebrian—a der'morat."

"Ciriel….I've missed you so much—I thought I was never going to see you again—" Tears filled her eyes. She reached out. Ciriel met her with a bright smile and open eyes, and for a time, speech was beyond the two of them.

"You can't stay here," Ciriel told her, when words again became possible.

"What do you mean, I can't stay here?" Celebrian asked, afraid. A tinge of gloom had come into the bright and tranquil setting with those words, and there was a touch of sadness in Ciriel's bright face now. "I'm with you again. You said—why can't I stay?"

"Oh, you can," Ciriel hastened to assure her, taking her hand and pressing it against the side of her face, "but not yet. You'll have to go back, and very soon."

"But I want to stay with you, Ciriel! I just found you again, after a thousand years alone, and now you're telling me I must leave you again?" Celebrian almost choked on the unfairness of it all. "Why can't I stay here? I can't go now, I have so much to tell you—"

"It's not for a long time, just a little time," Ciriel hastened to assure her. "Don't sulk, mel—what was that phrase you taught me? Those words of the Others?"

"Mellon nin," Celebrian said, and managed a smile in spite of herself.

"Don't sulk, mellon nin, it doesn't become you," Ciriel chided her, smiling. "You have to go back, but it's only for a short while, a very short while indeed. You're still alive, you see; the only way someone can stay in Tel'aran'rhiod is if they're already dead. You're touching the Dream Country, but you have enough life force left to hold you to the real world. Even as we speak, you and I, it draws you back. See?" she asked indicating that Celebrian should look down. She did, to find that her body was fading underneath her; she was already transparent in outline.

"But I don't want to go back!" Celebrian cried, angry. "I want to stay with you! I just found you again! Don't leave me! Not again! Ciriel! Don't leave me!"

"Farewell, mellon nin….I will see you again…in a little while…."

"Ciriel! Ciriel!"

"Ciriel! Ciriel!"

Elrond jerked up with a start.

He had returned to Celebrian's bedside, after the confrontation with Arwen; he could do nothing more for his son. Little more for his wife, either, but at least, tending her, that was a problem within his skill. He had been waiting next to her bedside, but he must have drifted off, because her cry startled him.

"Celebrian?" he asked softly, looking over at her. "Celebrian, what—"

He stopped, startled, for tears were drying on Celebrian's face. "Ciriel," she whispered. "I saw Ciriel. She left me."

"My wife—" He took her hand.

"Arwen. Send for Arwen."

"Arisae will not come," he said bitterly.

"She will. Tell her….Tell her that Banner-General Briande Duchen Paendrag summons her."

Elrond looked over at her. "Very well," he murmured. He kissed her hand lightly, though she did not seem to notice. "I will. For you, my wife."

It took a very long time for Arisae to answer the summons, so long that Elrond was convinced he was right and she would simply ignore it. Why should she come? he asked himself. She has made it clear that she considers Briande Duchen no relation of hers…nor I, nor her brothers, for that matter. He was considering how to tell Briande when he heard the familiar boot-tread, and Arwen's figure darkened the door.

There were two guards outside, members of the Empress's so'jhin Deathwatch Guards, her personal retinue of bodyguards, and another man, one of the Seekers for Truth. A quick word from Arisae and they let her pass; she closed the door behind her as she stepped into the room. She did not look at or acknowledge her father in any way, and Elrond realized that what he had done earlier had destroyed any last vestige of their relationship. He barely felt this sting, on top of so many others.

"Banner-General Duchen," Arwen said, looking down at her mother.

Celebrian opened her eyes and looked up at Arwen. "You were right," she said, her eyes shining. "You….you did the right thing, Arisae. I….I just wanted to tell you….you've given me a gift, a more priceless….now I see why, why Eru called it the 'gift of Men.' I am ready. More….more than ready, even glad. Ciriel waits for me on the other side. And I…And I understand why you did it."

Arisae's face broke out into a smile. "Thank you, Mother," she said gently. "I thought you might."

"Tell me," Celebrian said now. "Tell me, Arisae, all that you did…all that you said I did. I want to make—I will petition High Lady Riyath," she said, "that I will make a full confession in exchange for the right to kill myself out of shame and restore my honor. But first, I must know all of what you said I did. In life I was an obstacle to you. In death, let me help you."

"I will tell you," Arisae said, and knelt by her mother's bedside and took her hand. As she began to speak, Elrond rose; he left, silently opening the door and ghosting past the Deathwatch guards outside. They were Ogier, both of them; and neither turned so much as a head to see him. He passed them, and stepped out into the grounds around Rivendell Garrison.

The stone path at his feet unrolled before him, and he followed it, only vaguely aware of where he was going; it wound away from the drab wood and stone buildings of the cantonment and into the part of Rivendell remaining that was left unspoiled; Arwen's gardens, the gardens that she had created so long ago. He followed it dimly, not thinking of anything, simply walking among the flowerbeds and the blooming trees, until he reached the fountain at the center. This was the fountain where he had sat and talked with Celebrian only the night before, and he lowered himself to the marble lip of the fountain, looking up at the face of Luthien. The face of Arwen.

He had had it carved for her over a thousand years ago, he remembered, looking up at it. He had had it carved, because he was proud of his beautiful daughter the Evenstar, whom all said was equal to Luthien Tinuviel in radiance; because he was proud of her, and because he loved her and wanted to please her, and the legend of Luthien and Beren had always been her favorite. And she had been pleased, so long ago. She had been pleased, and had clapped her hands and laughed, "Thank you, adar! I will always love this."

It looked nothing like her.

How had he not realized that before? he wondered, looking up at the statue. But he could see it now. Seeing his daughter's features carved in marble, he realized that they were frozen at one point in time, their meaning, their emotion, fixed forever. The smile on the lips of the stone woman was saccharine and insipid; it bore no resemblance to any expression that might be worn by the stern Seanchan soldier who had so ruthlessly run her own mother through earlier that terrible night. No resemblance to the Seanchan to whom he had kneeled in supplication, begging the release of her brother—to the Seanchan who had denied his request. Nor to the woman who now sat at her mother's bedside, helping her mother to find her own death. He had meant the statue in tribute to his daughter, but as he looked at it now, he was almost shocked by the depth of naiveté displayed there. How had he ever thought that was all his daughter was? How had he ever thought it was all she ever would be?

I will pull it down, he told himself. As soon as I can—I will pull it down. He did not know what he would do with it afterward, but at least he would have rid himself of this smiling falsehood. For now, he sat there as the darkness of that terrible night thinned and paled with the coming of the dawn, knowing and dreading what the following day would bring.

The morning dawned pale, gray and misty, with tendrils of fog leaving jeweled droplets on stone and marble, tile and leaf. The Seanchan assembled on the terrace at daybreak, their breath misting in the chill air, come to watch the execution of she who had once been Celebrian. She who had once been Elrond's wife.

Elrond stood in the shadows at the edge of the terrace and watched, as she was led out by the Ogier guards. He did not have to be there—she was no kin of his anymore, not under Seanchan eyes—but he could not have stayed away if his life depended on it. He watched, shadowed and silent, as she who had once been Celebrian knelt before the Daughter of the Nine Moons and made her obeisance. The slender figure of Celebrian, clad only in a ragged shift and with her head shaven, seemed very distant from him; she seemed tiny, small, as if seen through the wrong end of one of those Seanchan looking glasses. Her voice raised, high and piping, in the still and misty air, as she spoke her confession. Elrond could make sense of none of the words Celebrian spoke; it was all done in the slurring Seanchan speech, and his weary mind refused to translate the words into Sindar or Common, but he could tell all he needed to know from the inscrutable faces of the onlookers, the perfect, smooth visage of the Daughter of the Nine Moons and her so'jhin onlooker. From the stony, forbidding expression of she who had once been his daughter, Arisae.

Elrond watched, thinking how serene and calm Celebrian looked, and how utterly distant from him; he watched, as Celebrian fell silent, and the Daughter of the Nine Moons' fingers flickered. One of the so'jhin stepped forward, holding a naked sword crosswise in his hands. Elrond watched as the blade was presented to Celebrian; his hands curled into the stone pillar beside him as Celebrian raised the blade, perfect and silver before her perfect face; watched, helpless even to look away as she placed the tip of that blade against her chest, and as the fatal blow fell he himself sagged against the pillar, stricken, feeling as if the blade had pierced his heart too.

My wife. The words graced the misty morning air, and he did not know if it was he who said them. He leaned against the stone pillar, staring at the flagstones in the yard, as the sounds of the so'jhin gathering up Celebrian's lifeless body and carrying it away came to his ears. My wife… He murmured the words over and over again, till they were bereft, as he was.

Elrohir was next; he was brought out, hanging limply from the arms of one of the massive Ogier guards. He did not struggle, did not speak, seemed almost dazed and uncaring of where he was. The Ogier held him motionless, as a tall, thin man that Elrond recognized as one of the Empress's Seekers for Truth read out the charges against him—charged with treason, for assaulting a member of the Blood of Paendrag with intent to do harm; punishment: the Death of Ten Thousand Tears, commuted by the mercy of the Daughter of the Nine Moons to the Flower Garrote, to be carried out on this day on this year in Rivendell Garrison… The onlookers watched, as stonily as for Celebrian. More so, if anything. The so'jhin stepped forward, and Elrond saw what he held taut between his fists: a cord, strung with flowers. The Flower Garrote.

He did not want to see what came next; as Arisae watched, face frozen, as the huge Ogier Gardener gripped Elrohir's arms, pushed him down, and bent his neck for the rope, Elrond simply turned away. He turned and walked with precise, even steps, away from the terrace and back into the building that was supposedly under his rule. None of the Seanchan gathered on the terrace—none of the guards, none of the High Blood, none of the generals, morat'raken, soldiers or so'jhin paid any attention to him at all; they were all too occupied watching the Seeker for Truth declaim. Ignored, he made his way back into the depths of the Last Homely Home.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, where his sleeping chamber was located; he stopped once, to look out the window. The darkness of the night had given way to a day that was so overcast it was almost as dark. Beneath the clouds flew flights of raken; lower, heavy-laden flights of to'raken crossed overhead, bearing people and ore and minerals on their way to the sea. Carts rumbled past, piled high with lumber and stone and metal. The smooth, pleasing shape of the land of Imladris was gone; hills and vales had been leveled in the name of Seanchan efficiency, and in the distance, he could see the drab, blocky gray and brown buildings of the barracks of Rivendell Garrison, the chief administrative unit for the Province of Imladris. As a chill wind rose, his sharp, Elven hearing caught the chants and shouts of Seanchan soldiers being drilled, the calls and responses of sentries, and the distant roars and shouts of animals, drifting from the cantonment center.

He climbed.

His chamber was at the end of the hall on the second floor; he passed the empty rooms of Elladan and Elrohir, of Arwen, and the room that had been Celebrian's chamber, when she had still lived here. When she had still been living. The floor seemed to echo with that cavernous emptiness. He entered his room, and closed the door behind him. Elrohir was certainly dead by now.

He leaned back against the door, closing his eyes, and remained like that for a long while. His mind, his heart, were as empty as the rooms he had just passed. It hurt to move, but at last, he straightened. He opened his eyes.

His sword hung on the wall above his bed, a slender, curved Elvish blade; it was strangely similar to the Seanchan weapons known as "heron-mark" blades in shape. Arwen—Arisae—carried one such blade. It had been that blade, in fact, that had drunk her mother's blood. This blade had hung in its place on his wall for over four thousand years, untouched, undrawn, since the war of the Last Alliance. Since the last battle against Sauron.

He took it down.

And as his hands curved around the light, well-balanced hilt, it seemed he could see it again, the world of Arda as it had been in those days and as it had not been for over a millenium; everything came flooding back, people and places long gone—there was Gil-galad, fair and bright as a sunbeam, yet stern and terrible; there was Isildur, full of fire and spirit, strong and brave and doomed though he did not know it. He saw the field on which Sauron had been brought to battle, the sweeping lines of Elves and Men gleaming in bright armor, standing side-by-side against the darkness; he felt the weight of the armor he wore, felt the heat of the sun on his shoulders, heard the jingling of the Elvish armor behind him, saw the awful dark figure of Sauron himself, and the despoiled forms of the Orcs that made up his forces. It came flooding back and he saw it all, then, standing there with his hands around the hilt of that gleaming crescent blade: he saw Middle-Earth as it had been, in all its wild and noble and proud beauty; the strong herds of the Rohirrim galloping free across the plains of Rohan, Gandalf the Grey, in his broad-brimmed hat and leaning on his gnarled staff and smiling; the stout, sturdy Gimli with his axe over his shoulder; the wonders of the great city of Minas Tirith, the gloomy forest of Mirkwood where mysteries waited in the depths, the twilit beauty of Lothlorien where Galadriel and Celeborn held sway. He saw Isengard and Moria, as they had been before the Shadow fell over them; thought of the Ents, walking abroad on moonlit nights, heard the calling of Eagles to one another on distant mountain peaks, saw the towering stone figures of the Argonnath. He saw Boromir, all full of reckless, daring passion, and there was Aragorn, whom he had raised and watched grow, like unto Isildur but without Isildur's darkness. But most, he saw Celebrian, as he had seen her for the first time, walking toward him under the trees of Lorien, so beautiful he had wondered for a moment if he dreamed; he remembered the moments when the newborn twins had been laid in his arms, one by one, the moment when he had seen Arwen take her first steps, her little slender fingers twined around his as she looked up at him trustingly with his own gray eyes, and those of his brother's. He lost track of the length of time he stood there, remembering a past and a people and a time when all had been glory and wonder and deep mysterious beauty, a time that he had thought would never end.

At last he opened his eyes again. The bright memories gave way to the cold, grim confines of his chamber, dull and dreary and chill in the dim light from the cloudy sky over Rivendell Garrison. That time had passed, and it would not return. He would never look upon its like again.

Dethrone your pasts;

this done, day comes up new,

though empty-hearted….

A Seanchan poem, he remembered distantly. It was fitting.

He slid to his knees. The blade was still sharp; he tested it on his wrist and it drew blood easily. It had been said among Men, in the years years ago, that Elves could die by fire, and steel, and grief. It did not seem true that they could die of grief, he thought. Not of grief.

Elrond knelt there, in that dull gray room. Outside, a light rain had started to fall. He stared at the blade, for a long, long time.