A/N Thanks so much for all your lovely comments on the last chapter! Yugiyasha96, Eliza61, Shirebound and Sylvar Noriel, it's wonderful to know what you think, your reviews are appreciated. On with the third instalment; this one is probably the bleakest of the set. Brace yourselves, angst ahead!
My dearest Cel,
I cannot do this without you.
Ai, Valar, and again I inflict my own misery upon you as if it counts for something. I am sorry. I should have been the one to give you solace and I failed. And now I come crawling to you in these letters begging succour. I do not blame you if you despise me- but I doubt that you could despise me more than I despise myself. Because it really is true. I cannot do this without you. You asked me, when there was a flash of the real you, just before you left, to carry on and get the children through this. And even in this I fail you. I do not wish to burden you with these tidings and confessions, but I have already failed you in so many ways, I will not add lying to you to that list, even if only by omission from these letters you'll never read. My honesty is all I can give you now, and I feel I must tell you what has transpired.
On our journey back we hardly spoke. There was nothing more to say. Perhaps I should have made the effort then, tried to break the walls that were already coming down between us. But I could not summon the strength and I thought, misguidedly, that there would be time later. So we rode in near silence, speaking only of the business of setting and breaking camp.
The silence between us only deepened when we returned, and it has not yet lifted. I did my best to talk to them, but finding safe topics was, and remains, near impossible. We cannot speak of you yet, our grief is too raw and we are all too shaken. I know this without even attempting it. Speaking of the future, making plans just feels wrong, almost like blasphemy to begin to suggest that the world might carry on without your light to grace it. So we can look neither back nor forward, and there is little in the present to cheer us. The valley itself is in mourning, drizzling monotonously, and the leaves are falling thick and fast. Ai, what is there to talk about when even the weather reminds us of our grief?
Arwen has withdrawn into herself. I miss her singing, which ceased when yours did with the exception of an occasional lament. She seems to be coping the best out of all of us, though. Despite the rain, she spends much of her time in your rose garden, nurturing it with infinite care. She pours her soul into maintaining the seeds of life you planted in this valley, making her remembrance of you a living thing to be cherished. It is too early to say, but I think this will bring her healing, in time. We do worry that being drenched so often will not help her body to strengthen at a time when her fëa has been badly shaken, but eventually she always allows herself to be shepherded inside by her attendants, dried off, given new robes and wrapped in warmed blankets. I am told that she is silent throughout these proceedings, apart from the occasional murmured word of thanks, but that she submits graciously to their attentions. Far more graciously than I do, at any rate; I cannot seem to control my tongue and scare off my well-wishers with my prickly demeanour.
I can see Elrohir and Elladan slipping away into a cycle of revenge and hatred. They intended to set out hunting soon after our return. At first I reasoned with them, told them to rest, told them that this was not what you would want. But as soon as I mentioned you, they retreated into themselves, allied themselves against me and would not hear my pleas as a father. So I ordered them as a lord. Forgive me, Celebrían. I know that you would not want that, either, but I could not bear for them to leave Imladris yet, when they need the healing to be found here more than ever. I feared that if I let them leave this time, I would lose them forever. Losing people seems to be a bad habit of mine, you see. I am so terribly afraid that I will lose them too, either to the violence of battle or to the ruthless warriors now invading the hearts of our noble sons.
They were so angry, mutinous, accusing me of not caring about what had befallen you. And I, Cel I am so sorry, but that shattered my control, and I accused them of the same, of not caring about remembering you as you were and of dishonouring your memory by drowning their sorrows in blood. They stormed out of the room and they have not spoken to me since. I spoke thus to these our sons, these hurting boys who miss their mother. I cannot express how much I regret those words. I have lived long enough to know not to speak rashly in anger, because words once spoken cannot be unsaid, but since you left I seem to have all the restraint of a fifty-year old elfling. I did not think that I could possibly wrong you further than I already have, but it seems I was mistaken. I dare not even beg your forgiveness, but I am deeply, deeply sorry. You have every right to despair of all three of us, Celebrían. Accusing each other of not caring enough because none of us will admit that we care too much.
As the oldest and wisest in theory if not in practice, the responsibility of being the first to make that admission falls to me. I have tried to approach them, but they flee from my presence, understandably, and now I must wait until they are ready to speak to me. To their credit, they did not leave to hunt. They did not disobey a direct order from their lord, however much they resent their father. But they spar in the Warriors' Hall from dawn until dusk, eating only when absolutely necessary from trays they order from the kitchens. I watch them from the gallery, sometimes, and they are utterly formidable. I think they fight with all the more ferocity when they know I am there, as if they are trying to prove themselves to me. But they do not understand, they refuse to accept that my greatest fear is not that they are soft warriors, but that they will develop hard hearts. I have tried to explain this to them, but they use their anger like a shield against the sorrow and relinquishing it will mean opening themselves up to grief and pain, so they resist me when I suggest that they do so.
So there it is, Cel. You asked me to be strong for our children but I have made a complete mess of it. I really cannot do this without you and I have no idea how I'm going to make this right.
Love, always, from one who never deserved you,
Elrond