Chapter Three
"You do not have to stay," Celebrian said. She stood over the catafalque in the sanctuary where they had laid Aradess' body. Arwen stood across from her, visibly grey.
"I don't know what to do," she said, unable to take her gaze from Aradess' bloodless face though the sight so disturbed her.
"We will wash and dress her. We will give her back what grace we can."
Arwen nodded and that motion was enough to loose her tears down her face.
"Iell-nín." Celebrian offered a hand, but Arwen was too absorbed with her grief to notice it. Celebrian let her have a few private moments, but had to draw a line before they were both mired in their sadness. "Draw some water and bring some washcloths."
Arwen took her opportunity to leave the sight of death behind her and Celebrian set to undressing the Queen of Mirkwood. Though she had more experience than her daughter with death of their kin, Celebrian's wisdom failed her in the face of such brutality. In a time of supposed peace, no Elf—no being—should be killed so savagely, found in devotional white robes stained with mud and blood. Celebrian tried to keep her anger away from Aradess' eternal peace, but it burned like an ember deep inside her.
She unfastened the pearl buttons down the front of Aradess' surcoat, gently lifted her off the catafalque to strip it from her shoulders. Though the garment could never be salvaged, Celebrian folded it neatly and laid it on a bench in the corner of the room. Aradess' long tunic beneath had kept some of its finery, its pure white run with veins of silver embroidery. But there was still a tear where the knife had pierced her, soaked through with blood. Aradess' sleeves were stained black halfway up her arms; her hands smeared with the same colour.
The cold penetrated Celebrian's immortal skin. She wavered and caught herself on the edge of the catafalque. The air was suddenly too thin to breathe, her heart too weak to beat. For a moment, the gifts of elven grace left her and she was but a woman standing at the feet of mortality. But the light of the moon and stars renewed her luminescence and she returned to her task, albeit with trembling fingers.
Celebrian worked the long rows of tiny pearls and loops on the wrist of each sleeve, undid the silver hooks all down the front of the tunic. Removing it was a less delicate task than the surcoat and Celebrian was thankful that Arwen did not return until it was done.
"Their wedding was one of the most beautiful ceremonies I have ever seen," Celebrian said as Arwen set down the pitcher, bowl, and cloths she bore. "It opened the Greenwood to the rest of Elvendom for the first time in centuries. Everybody wanted to know who had finally tamed the great Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion."
Arwen soaked and wrung out two cloths and passed one to Celebrian. She waited to see where her mother started and kept in line. First, the black-stained hands.
"Both of them had lost their parents, so their betrothal was a little untraditional. But their people were so happy for them. I don't know that there was anyone who didn't attend, there were so many people." Celebrian wanted the memory of happier times to fill her mind and her senses, take her away from where she was.
"Her ring is lovely," Arwen said sadly.
Celebrian tried to see Aradess dressed in that famous golden gown and cape; the gown had flowed like rushing water struck by the light of the setting sun and the cape had been thousands of cloth leaves stitched together with golden thread, reaching yards behind her so it seemed like the whole forest floor moved with her.
It was jarring to imagine her then and to be washing blood off her cold body now. A pale body in a white silk undershirt and deerskin breeches, laying on a pale stone in the pale moonlight.
"She was a creature the like of which we had never seen," Celebrian said. "But we will meet her again in paradise."
After the exertion of just opening his eyes, Thranduil lay watching Elrond work over his hand, recovering what energy he would need to speak.
"Stop," he said on an inadequate breath.
"There's something in the wound," Elrond said. "Do you remember what happened?"
If Thranduil could have pulled his away, he would have. "Aradess… go…"
"Celebrian is with her."
"I didn't bring her to see Celebrian," Thranduil hissed. "Go. Save her."
For the first time, Elrond stopped. He sat up straight and looked at Thranduil, a small frown in the corners of his mouth, shadows lingering in his eyes.
"Thranduil, Aradess is gone," Elrond said, his voice a deep and heavy thing he had only just enough strength to lift.
Thranduil could not remember feeling anything but exhausted, not for ages back in his memory. He could not lift even a finger to fight Elrond's words, could hardly raise his voice but for an unyielding, "No."
Elrond flinched. "There is nothing to—"
"She cannot be dead!" Fire and ferocity ignited in Thranduil's heart. He sat up, braced on one punctured, bloody hand and one burnt one. "If she were dead, it would kill me. It would take the heart from me, it would turn the world to stone. She can only be dead if I fell trying to protect her!"
"Thranduil—"
"Go!"
Despite his obligations as a healer, Elrond left. Thranduil collapsed back in the bed, burning, rasping breath and thudding heart only agonizing him further. The rush of blood surged in his hand, thundered in his ears, but not enough to drown out what he heard.
She is gone.
The vision of her lying still and cold in the dawn overwhelmed him. The thought split his head, struck him blind, renewed every pain he had ever known in his long life.
Thranduil choked and instinctively sat up, the light-headedness a small discomfort by comparison. He grabbed the shallow bowl off the bedside table and vomited into it, laying his forehead against the cool porcelain between convulsions. There was little to wring out of him to begin with; he was certain the next lump in his throat would be his own heart.
Pale hands took the bowl from his trembling-tight grip, eased him to sit back against the headboard. She took his bloody hand and started to dab the wound with a warm cloth, adjusting the pressure when he winced.
"Tell me what happened," Celebrian said. She raised her eyes to him, but did not stare. Her expression was grave, but not unkind.
"I don't remember." Thranduil watched her turn his flesh from black to white, bloody to clean. The wound shone with bright fresh blood.
"Can you move your fingers?"
He curled each finger into his palm and fanned them out again.
"You rode far," she said, gently scrubbing up his wrist.
"It was all I could think to do."
"You will need rest," she said, and at her words, the sickness and the pain began to sink under the rising tide of exhaustion.
"Where is Legolas?" she asked, now only a soft voice in the dark.
"On the hunt… in Lorien."
"I will send word to him that you are here."
"Celebrian—"
"Shh. Sleep now, Thranduil."
A hand on his face, a kiss on his brow. Too familiar to be Celebrian, too sweet to be real.