Elrond knelt there for how long, he could not say, holding his blade in his hands

Elrond knelt there for how long, he could not say, holding his blade in his hands. The edge was sharp; the light gleamed off it. It was a thing of beauty, as all Elvish blades were. He knew what he was going to do with it; his life of four thousand years had come down to this one moment. It was time. He was ready. He had nothing left. He watched the edge, turning it on its side, the light sparkling in the etched vines and leaves up the side.

It was the door opening behind him that stopped him; he jerked up, half-raising the blade by reflex action, then stopped when he saw who stood in the open doorway. For a moment he turned over in his mind the idea of simply attacking, of charging and cutting down the one who stood there, but ultimately dismissed it. Even if he won, he would lose in that way, for if it was death by slow torture to lay hands on one of the Blood, what would be the penalty for an assault on the Daughter of the Nine Moons?

"What do you want?" he demanded. His jaw clenched.

Her so'jhin was at her side, as always. Amatya stepped forward. "The High Lady Riyath has come to see you, Elrond of the Others; she has graced you with her presence—"

"Graced?" he demanded bitterly. "She has graced?"

"She has graced Rivendell Garrison with her presence," Amatya continued sternly, "and honored you by choosing to be a guest in your house. She will—"

"Amatya, stop."

Riyath had spoken. Riyath. Elrond stared at her. He had never heard a woman of High Lady Riyath's rank speak in his presence, but one had spoken now. Amatya, he noticed peripherally, looked no less shocked than he was to hear it. Riyath's voice was clear and light. Her eyes, wide and dark against that dark face, watched him.

"High Lady—"

She turned to her so'jhin. "Leave us, Amatya."

"High Lady, it is against all custom and ritual—who will protect you, should I leave your side?" the taller so'jhin asked in tones of outrage. "What if this—this—barbarian—should seek your life? Bad enough that you choose to grant this Other the honor of your direct voice, but that you—"

"Amatya, I command you. Leave. Wait outside the door. Now."

Grumbling to herself, the so'jhin nevertheless obeyed; she dropped into a deep bow and retreated—backwards; she would not turn her back on a High Lady of Riyath's rank. The door closed behind her. Riyath did not move; she stayed there, watching Elrond, her eyes dark against her dark face. She had no hair at all on her head; the Highest of the High shaved their heads completely as a sign of their rank.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

She did not answer at first, simply continuing to watch him. She was tiny, very small, not much larger than a hobbit or a dwarf, and slight and delicate, like a doll made from dark porcelain. She looked very young; her baldness made her look even younger, somehow, and more frail. The silence dragged out. He turned away from her, staring down at the blade clenched in his fist.

"You are very brave, to remain here without your so'jhin at a time like this." The words were almost a threat; he knew this, and did not care.

Riyath ignored it. She took a step closer, her dark eyes intent. "You stand sei'taer before me," she said quietly in her slurring voice, "though I have not given you permission to be."

Elrond did not acknowledge this.

"I have read much about you," she continued, "reports dating as far back as Little Tarmon Gai'don, over a thousand years ago, when High Lady Suroth's Expeditionary Force made landfall on this continent. High Lady Suroth later turned out to be a Darkfriend," she added, "though it was not known so at the time. Her name and family were broken and scattered by the Empress at the revelation, made da'covale and so'jhin….some are among the Seekers for Truth to this day."

Elrond had not known it, but he supposed it made sense; he and Gandalf had sensed a darkness in her, though it was not the darkness of Sauron or of Morgoth. He did not care. He did not think he would ever care for anything again.

"High Lady Suroth spoke quite dismissively of you, Elrond of the Others," Riyath continued.

"She was arrogant. All Men are arrogant." He remembered Suroth—the strangest looking creature he had ever seen at that time, with her hair shaved in a single crest, and nails of her last two fingers an inch long and lacquered in blue. He had not known enough, then, to recognize the signs of Seanchan nobility. He remembered how she had moved and looked on all she surveyed from behind half-lidded eyes, as if there were no crisis that presented itself to which she would not be equal, no obstacle she could not overcome, nothing that could pose a challenge to whatever goal she had wished to accomplish. She had looked on him that way as well, he recalled; had swept him and his objections aside as easily as the trained Seanchan legions had swept aside the forces of Mordor.

"Suroth was a woman," Riyath commented, a small smile curving her lips.

"It comes to the same."

Riyath moved now, gliding across his chambers; she stopped by the table under the window. She picked up a vase idly, turning it this way and that, handling it with her fingers bent delicately back to accommodate her inch-long, curving nails. Elrond watched her. The vase she handled was ancient; it had been part of Celebrian's dowry, brought with her from Lothlorien at the behest of her parents. It was old and priceless. Riyath turned it over, then set it down as if it were no more than a cheap trinket, worthy of a casual glance at best. He looked away as she settled herself easily in the chair under the window.

"Suroth did not think much of you, Elrond of the Others—"

"I did not think much of her," he countered.

"She said you were, how did it go, 'ignorant, superstitious, disrespectful, and did not demonstrate a proper awareness of his place or of the respect due an emissary of the Crystal Throne—in all things, a typical barbarian,'" she quoted, smiling.

Elrond did not bother to acknowledge this either; he stared down at the blade, running his eyes over the twining patterns of vines and leaves.

"The judgement of other High Lords and Ladies who have been quartered at Rivendell Garrison over the centuries is quite similar," Riyath continued. He tilted the blade, watching the light sparkle, letting her words flow over him without listening to what she was saying. "While it is generally agreed that you are hospitable to those who seek to shelter, it is also generally agreed that you do not understand or fully accept your place in regards to us, nor your duties to the Empress of the Nine Moons—may she live forever," Riyath added coolly.

May she live forever. Elrond wished it too, in that instant; wished that the damned Empress and all her damned Seanchan, and not least this damned daughter of hers, might live forever as he had; might live forever, and suffer, as he had.

"You have never rendered the full obeisance to any of the Seanchan High Blood who have sheltered at Rivendell Garrison, even though four times you have hosted those of the High Blood as highly placed as I myself. You are the only Other not to do so: Galadriel of Fort Lorien rendered the full obeisance to Daughter of the Nine Moons Jao-li, three hundred and fourteen years ago, and again two hundred years ago to High Lady Xiaoyu, the sister of Empress Tiy. It is also written, however, that the full obeisance has never been demanded of you."

She paused. He was silent.

"Be sei'taer, Elrond of the Others," she said, and he heard the edge of warning in her voice. "You have chosen to be sei'taer, though I had not given you permission; now be sei'taer. Look at me."

He raised his eyes to meet her own unwillingly.

"Would you render the full obeisance to me, Elrond of the Others?" she asked softly. "Would you perform the full submission? Go down on your face and kiss the ground before she who is the daughter of the living embodiment of the Light?"

He gave a jarring, strangled sound that might have been a laugh, thinking that this Seanchan did not, in the end, know everything; he had rendered the obeisance, this very evening, to a blooded Seanchan noble. To his daughter. And it had been in vain. "Would it save my son?" he spat at her, the words so twisted and ugly that he barely recognized his voice.

Riyath regarded him. "No."

"Then no."

"Though I were to command you?"

"Command, if you wish; I will not obey, and then you must do as you must. I expect it will mean my death. That is well, except that it will come too late for my liking." He looked pointedly down at his sword, and then back at her, wondering in the back of his mind how undone he must be to speak so to anyone—much less a human, and one of the Seanchan no less. "Leave me but a moment, and everything can be arranged to your satisfaction, Daughter of the Nine Moons."

"I do not wish your death, Elrond of the Others," she said.

"Do you not?" he asked distantly.

"No." She rose again, gliding to the window, standing with her hands in her sleeves, looking out across the grounds of what had once been Imladris. Again the idea of simply charging her—of raising his blade, crossing the room, and skewering her with it—came to him; he could have done it in a heartbeat, too fast, he knew, for her to react. It took a long moment for him to lower his sword. Then she turned her head, just enough so that he could see one dark eye, and he suddenly realized that she knew what he had been thinking. She smiled slightly.

"I think perhaps you do not understand the Seanchan, Elrond of the Others," she said now, turning and resuming her seat.

"I understand far more of you than I have ever wished," he said with feeling.

"You do not. You think you do, but you do not." Her long, lacquered nails clicked against each other as she placed the tips of her fingers together. Those eyes were swallowing him up.

"I have been fascinated with you Others since I was first aware of you," she said, and smiled gently. "My mother had an Other among the Deathwatch Guards, bearing the tattoo of the raven on either shoulder to mark him as property of the Crystal Throne. He had been renamed, and was known as Gaidash'man Aleet Paendrag—very unusual for one of the so'jhin to hold lands, but so'jhin means 'a height among lowness,' or alternately 'both sky and valley,' and it has been done before. We were close; when I was only three, I asked what his name had been before—ignorant at the time of the insult—and he told me, it had been Glorfindel. Later I saw from his file that he had lived in your house, though he spoke not of it."

"So that is what became of him," Elrond murmured, and looked away.

"Gaidash'man means 'guardian in battle' in the Old Tongue, and it is appropriate; for Gaidash'man has saved my life more times than I can count," she said quietly. "The first attempt on my life came when I was one day old; it was Gaidash'man who stopped my nurse from smothering me in my cradle, at the instigation of my mother's sister. When I was five, another in a long line of attempts on my life almost cost him his; he took three arrows shielding me with his body. Others and humans are different in physiology, and for a time the healers despaired of being able to save him. For that, so he has told me, I gave him what was at that time my most precious possession: the doll I carried with me wherever I went. Years later, on my thirteenth truename day, he told me that he still remembered the words I spoke to him then." She smiled, then quoted, "'You have saved my life, so it is only right that you take Aurelinda to look after you in return. She can't really protect you of course; she's only a doll. But take her to remind you that should you ever need help, you have only to speak my name and I will hear it. If I'm still alive, of course.'" Riyath's dark face grew sober for a moment. "It was that, he said, more than anything, that bound him to me."

Elrond tried to picture the Glorfindel he had known, growing so attached to one of the Seanchan. He could not do it.

"That is the way of it, in Seanchan," she continued, tapping her nails together. "Blood counts for little in the way of affection, among the ranks of the Highest; it is often said that 'no knife is sharper than a kinsman's hate, and no knife so often sharpened.' Do you love your daughter, Elrond of the Others?"

"Do you threaten her now too?"

"Not at all," she said, raising a brow. "For she is not your daughter anymore. Threatening her will do no good to me, or would not, were you Seanchan. Do you care for her?"

"Do I—" He stared at her. He did not know what she wanted, finding the entire line of questioning very strange. "She is my daughter, for all that you Seanchan do not recognize the bond. I raised her from a child, I held her in my arms, I—" He stopped, feeling grief rise in his throat, and raised his free hand to cover his eyes briefly. He observed that his hand was shaking. "Why do you ask this?" What gives you the right?

"You…raised her from a child." Riyath's voice sounded strangely wistful. "My mother did not dare to. She has never even held me, not even once; that would be to show me affection and to put my life even more at risk than it has been, once it was known that I was valuable to her. I have seen her twice in all my life, on my first truename day, and again on my—you Others keep your birth names, correct? On my eighteenth birthday, when I came into my majority. I will most likely not see her again while she lives."

Elrond was silent.

"In Seanchan, among the ranks of the High Blood, all is power. There is no room for affection among equals—how can there be? Among the High Blood, there are no equals—there are inferiors and superiors, and those who are inferior may scheme or plot to gain a higher place, but there are no equals. And those closest to you in status are often the most dangerous, because they are those with whom you are in competition for rank. No man or woman of rank or status is trustworthy, only those who are their owners' property. Since the da'covale and so'jhin cannot gain status, except at the favor of their owners, they have nothing to gain and everything to lose by betrayal, and therefore they, and they alone, are safe to trust. My so'jhin, Amatya, raised me from birth. She is more of a mother to me than my own mother ever was, or dared to be, even volunteering to stay with me as so'jhin when I reached my majority, instead of accepting the traditional manumission and reward. I….yes, I—I love her….very much. I trust her with my life. As I do all my so'jhin."

He said nothing, looking back down at his blade, waiting for Riyath to fall silent. To leave him to himself, so that he might continue what he had set out to do.

Riyath paused, looking at him again. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was calm and composed, watching him. Looking past her to the window behind her, he could see that the rain had stopped outside, and the dark overcast was clearing slightly; the sky was covered with a single sheet of light-gray clouds through which the sun's light shone, though dimly. What Riyath said next jolted him.

"Your son Elrohir is not dead, Elrond of the Others."

"What?" He jerked upright, the sword forgotten, as he turned to look at her.

"Your son is not dead."

"You lie," he said. His voice shook. "You are lying to me—You dare—to—to lie about this—"

"One of the High Blood never lies, Elrond of the Others," Riyath said forbiddingly. "The truth she tells may not be the truth you think you hear, but she will never lie."

"He was under sentence of execution—he faced the Death of—the Death of—" Elrond couldn't go on. His eyes clung to her face, searching desperately for any sign. "You—" He gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "I refuse to believe that you Seanchan would rescind the penalty for attacking one of the Blood. How then can you tell me that he is not dead?"

"Nevertheless." A small smile played around her lips.

He raised his hand to his head. "The sentence has not been carried out yet. That must be it. Is that why you are here, then? Did you come here to command me to beg for his life?" he asked, laughing again, hearing a wild edge in his voice that he did not at all like. "Ask. Ask as you will, and if it is within my power I will do it. I will do anything you command—anything—as long as you promise to let him go."

"You need do nothing," Riyath said, smiling. "His life is no longer in danger."

What? He stared at her suspiciously. "Why?" he asked after a moment. "I thought the—the execution—would be carried out at dawn."

"It was scheduled to be," Riyath responded. "However, when he was brought out—after the suicide of the former Banner-General Briande—there was an unexpected development. When the Deathwatch Guards went to strip him for the penalty, it was seen that he bore tattooed on his shoulders the twin ravens, the sign marking him as one of the Empress's so'jhin." She observed his frozen expression. "I see that this is a surprise to you. As indeed it was to us. The tattoos appeared to be very recent; most likely, he had received them during the night."

During the night. During the night… "So….what, then?" Elrond asked, swallowing. "What does this mean?"

"If one bears the ravens of the Empress's so'jhin," Riyath said quietly, "then one is so'jhin. That is how the law works in Seanchan. A da'covale would not dare to mark him or herself in this way, and it is a catastrophic loss of sei'taer for a freeborn man or woman to do so, but the law is clear. The ravens are the Empress's, and so is he or she who bears them; so it has always been. A story is told," she continued, "of a young lord and lady of the Blood who one night over two thousand years ago, in a drunken folly, had themselves so marked. They were flogged within an inch of their lives for their presumption. Amatya is their descendant. The mark of the Empress is forever.

"As one of the so'jhin," Riyath continued, "Elrohir is technically the property of the Empress (may she live forever), and may not be executed except at her command. His assault on Banner-General Arisae Moribet Paendrag, while still a crime, is also no longer treason—Arisae is a member of the High Blood, but Elrohir is the property of the Empress. Only betrayal of the Empress is treason for one of her so'jhin. Therefore, even could we consign him to the death, his offense no longer merits it."

"What—what will you do to him?" Elrond had not heard his voice so faint in many years.

"He was flogged," Riyath said softly, "for his assault on High Lady Arisae earlier, and for his presumption in daring to mark himself in this fashion. The beating was severe, as it must be, given the weight of the offense; he is sorely hurt, but he will recover. I have commanded my own personal physicians to see to him. When he recovers, I will have him added to my retinue; he will join my so'jhin, and possibly even my Deathwatch Guards, should he show aptitude for it, should he want it. In time, if he performs his duties well, he will be respected, honored and even revered; so'jhin means a height among lowness; and he may even come to be granted lands and a new name, as was done with Gaidash'man Aleet Paendrag. Your son will live, Elrond of the Others. Your son will live."

Your son will live. Elrond bowed his head, struggling to master himself. He could feel tears stinging his eyes; not here, not now, not in front of this Seanchan-- He fought to hold them back, but could not; the best he could do was to turn aside, so that she could not see him weep. And even as he wept, he could only think of how much he had lost, and how very bitter this sliver of good fortune was: for Riyath had said that she would add Elrohir to her retinue, which meant that she would take him away with her. To Seanchan.

"You will take him away with you—" His voice was thick and uneven; he barely recognized it as his own. He scrubbed fiercely at his eyes with the back of one hand.

"He is so'jhin now. He cannot remain here," Riyath said coolly from behind him.

"Then I have still lost him."

The Seanchan sighed. "Don't think of it like that," she urged gently.

"Why not? It is the truth. I have lost them all."

"Your sons still live, and your daughter—"

"She is not my daughter. You said that yourself. I have lost her."

"And you said she is," Riyath chided in gentle exasperation. "Which of us is right?"

"I have lost her." He swiped at his eyes with his sleeve, hating it, hating the knowledge that this Seanchan was seeing him so. "She will not know me. I have lost her. I have lost everything."

A rustling of fabric came to his ears, and he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder; he shrugged it off roughly. Unperturbed, Riyath continued, "She does know you, Elrond of the Others."

"She does not."

"She does. Think. Whoever marked Elrohir was someone who knew the old tales about the Seanchan empire, who understood how so'jhin and the Crystal Throne related to each other, and who cared enough for the life of this Other to attempt to save it. Who do you think that might be?"

"Arw—Arisae?"

"She admitted it," Riyath said. "To me. Arisae said that she hadn't thought it would work, but it was the only thing she could think of that might possibly be able to save his life. I will have to punish her for it—a fine, a penance, and a temporary loss of sei'taer—for under the law, only the Empress (may she live forever) and her agents have the right to choose new so'jhin; but she said that she was willing to accept whatever punishment was necessary. She said," Riyath continued, "that she was willing to accept the punishment, because she could not bear to inflict any more pain upon her father. Upon you."

Elrond was silent, pondering that. He didn't know what to think.

Riyath stepped closer. "Come with me, Elrond of the Others," she said quietly.

"Come with you where?" His voice was still unsteady.

"To see your son and daughter, for a start. I have said before, I had to have Elrohir flogged, for he had broken the law; and though my personal physicians are attending him, I have heard you have had some craft in healing. Perhaps you might want to see if you can do anything further for him. You might wish to see Arisae too—and I think she would like to see you—so that you can hear from her what she did, and why she did and how. And after that—" She paused, looking at him.

"After that?"

"After that," she said, "return to Seanchan with me."

He choked back a laugh. "As your so'jhin?"

"No. As my guest. As a member of my retinue, my soe'feia Truthspeaker, perhaps—to tell me the truth when others around me dare not speak. My last Truthspeaker, Naretya, succumbed to a fever some time ago, and I have not yet filled the position." At his look, she raised one brow. "You said yourself you have nothing left here. In truth, I can see that myself; the Captain-General of Rivendell Garrison tells me that you keep to yourself in this house and rarely stir outside it, unless your presence or attention is commanded. Your family is gone. Now that this life is finished, Elrond of Rivendell Garrison, perhaps it is time to try and make a new life for yourself. Your son Elladan occupied the position of Truthspeaker for over a century to the Empress of the Nine Moons (may she live forever). You may do the same. Come with me, Elrond. Come with me."

Her eyes bored into him, intent. Come with me…. Elrond heard the words clanging meaninglessly in his mind. Come with me…. Slowly, hesitantly, half-seen images began to take shape in his mind: the Choedan Kal, of which he had heard so much; Imfaral, the Sen T'jore, the grasslands of the Serengeda Dai. The Choedan Kal….the White Tower….the Stone of Tear…. He had been hearing about these things, about the wonders of Seanchan, for half his life, or so it seemed, and had never thought to see them for himself. Never cared to see them for himself.

This life is finished, Elrond of Rivendell Garrison. It is time to try and make a new life for yourself.

As those words echoed in his mind, he began to feel the darkness surrounding him begin to lighten. It was no more than a fraction, no more than the tiniest bit….but perhaps, just perhaps….

He raised his eyes to Riyath, making no mind of the fact that he was standing sei'taer before her. She tilted her head, regarding him, seeing perhaps what he was and was not ready to give. Her lips curved the slightest bit.

"Shall we go to see your son, Elrond of the Others?" she offered gently, extending her hand. He was mildly surprised to see his own hand reach out to clasp it. Her fingers were as cool as a new dawn.

"I…I will go with you," he managed to say, and watched the curve of her lips deepen. The Daughter of the Nine Moons inclined her head, drawing him to his feet before taking his arm. As Arwen had, he thought, so many thousands of years ago.

"Then we will go together," she murmured, swinging the door open, and together they stepped into the light of the new day.

Finis.