My Dearest Cel

by LuteofLorien

Missing Celebrían, Elrond writes letters to her after she sails, even though he knows she'll never see them. These letters tell the tale of Elrond's grief, his family's struggle to pull together after their loss, and the attempts of their friends to help them through it.

2. Chapter 2

A/N Here's part two! Thank you so much to Shirebound, Sylvar Noriel and Oleanne for your reviews, and to everyone who followed and favourited. You all keep me writing and keep the inspiration flowing. Much love x

My dearest Cel,

The house is too quiet. You would remedy that in an instant if you were here. You would whisper to Lindir and persuade him to sing that ditty he says is too simple for him but secretly loves. You would convince our children to ride with you and go flying across the valley, silver hair streaming out behind you like the tail of a comet. You would call out as you passed, sowing smiles among all those to whom you spoke. You would laugh, and in their burbling and gushing all the waterfalls of Imladris would laugh with you.

But you are not here, and that is the problem. They don't really know what to do with me. They tiptoe around me, ask me how I fare in hushed voices, as though I am some wounded animal they are careful not to provoke. Perhaps I have given them cause to behave thus. I see their expressions of concern when I return trays of food to the kitchen hardly touched, but I simply glare at them and they flee. They come to me with their hesitant proposals, thinly veiled stratagems to distract me- walks, minor tasks in the library, music- and I wave them off dismissively. You would scold me for that. 'It's not their fault', you would say, with your usual impeccable insight, 'don't take it out on them,' and you would put me firmly back in my place. I really do try. I see someone I've snapped at and apologise, but when they give me that pitying smile and shake their heads, as if they expected nothing more from me, I feel my hackles rise again and struggle to remain calm despite having only just apologised for my temper.

Glorfindel is behaving strangely. He believes it will be his duty to have a Talk About My Emotions soon and I don't think he's looking forward to it. Neither am I, to be honest. Over the past days he has kept himself at a respectful distance from me (Giving Me Space, he probably terms it) and I am grateful for that- I think. But he will not let this continue indefinitely and he has made some tentative moves towards talking about the fact that you have sailed; I think he's trying to assess my state of mind, attempting to ascertain whether I am ready to speak of it yet, but treading carefully so as not to upset me. Sometimes I consider initiating the conversation myself, just to put the poor fellow out of his misery, but I can never quite bring myself to do it. Of course he doesn't realise that I observe all this. He thinks he's being subtle. But he's nowhere near as subtle as he thinks he is, and you would find that highly amusing. I would laugh, if I could remember how.

You would always make us laugh at ourselves, when we started taking being the Balrog Slayer and the Lord of Imladris too seriously. Oh Cel, you would laugh at me now, closeted away in my candlelit study writing letters I'll never send. I see you in my mind's eye, slipping into the study without a sound but bringing such a force of love and compassion that you shatter the silence around my soul. You make a joke about waking the fell creature lurking in the dark as you draw back the drapes to let the starlight in, catching it in the silver of your hair as you let it flow past you, standing framed against the balcony. You ask me what detains me in the darkness but you do not press me when my only response is a sigh. We will talk about it later, but right now you simply prise my quill from my fingers and set it aside, then stand behind me and unbraid my hair. You release it from its immaculate arrangement and run your fingers through it, bringing tousled abandon to the tresses I have so carefully tamed. And then you sing the nonsense song about the valley which you are so taken with in your clear lilting soprano. And your joy is so infectious that I cannot help but join in the duet, and our voices lift in light and song in defiance of whatever had shadowed my heart that day.

Your husband is such a fool, Cel. I just caught myself staring at the door, firmly believing that it would open, and you would be at my side again, my starlight warrior ready to battle the darkness with me. But you closed the door of my study that night you left for Lothlórien and you never came back.

For it is truly you I write to, you the Cel who left me that fateful night, laughing at your overprotective husband who talked you into taking an extra guard just for a simple trip across the Misty Mountains. Not the shadow who came back in your place, the shadow who was walled up against the world, too wrapped up in hurt to let me in even to offer you healing. Of course I know that this letter will never find you. Perhaps I'm writing to a ghost. Or perhaps not even a ghost, a memory of a person who will never be again. But I hope not. I hope that you are still there, hiding in some stronghold behind the shadowy defences, and that in the Undying Lands you will emerge from those shadows when you find the place of rest and safety I could not give you here. Perhaps it is a vain hope, but it is all I have. So I will keep writing to you, my dearest Celebrían. Though it is rude of me, I will take the liberty of assuming that you wish me to continue. And if one day in the West, you wish to chide me for this lapse in courtesy, know that it will be the sweetest scolding I have ever received.

Love, always,

Elrond