A/N: This chapter takes place in the same earlier time as the previous one.

Chapter 5: The Departure of Celebrían

The elf-woman moaned weakly as the poison burned its way through her veins. She had been struck by a poisoned blade while fighting off orcs in the Ettenmoors, and no healer had yet managed to help her. Elrond hoped that he would be the one to expel the poison from her blood; if he failed she would surely die. But as he worked foresight came upon him and he froze, horror binding him as he endured the vision.

'Elrond? What ails you?'

Dimly he became aware of Glorfindel's anxious voice. He blinked, his head pounding. 'Orcs – at Redhorn Pass. Ready riders at once – Celebrían is in danger.'

Glorfindel left immediately. Elrond was about to follow when his patient gave a low groan of pain. He looked down at her, almost indifferent to her suffering in his fears for his wife. The woman's forehead broke out in sweat, and automatically he began to wash it clean. But as his hands tended her, he found he could not even remember her name.

Hooves rang distantly; he turned his head to look out across the entrance of the valley and saw two riders on black steeds galloping up the path, out of the dell. He knew at once that they were his sons. He dropped the wet cloth back into a bowl, his mind already working out how many hours it would take for him to reach Celebrían on horseback.

'You must stay, Elrond.' Glorfindel appeared at his side, and his thoughts were cut short. 'More riders are just now setting out after your sons; together they will be more than a match for any orc horde. But you are our most skilled healer; and Menelwen needs your aid desperately.'

Menelwen. He glanced down at his patient, then out towards the fading figures of his sons. He felt Glorfindel's gentle hand on his arm and forced himself to focus on the elf-woman.

He worked steadily and thoroughly into the night, until at last the poison was expelled from her system and he himself shook with fatigue from the effort he expended. But ever his thoughts were with his wife and sons.

Three days later, at dawn, the riders returned. Though Celebrían had set out for Rivendell with several companions, she was the only one of her party left alive. Elrohir held his mother before him in the saddle, his face grim and closed.

She had been tortured, receiving a poisoned wound that was rapidly claiming her life. For four days Elrond stayed at her side, spending all his strength and all his skill in healing her. On the fourth day, with her children gathered around her bed, she opened her eyes for the first time.

As she looked from one child to the other, and then to Elrond, she smiled. Each of them kissed her softly. But when they drew back, fear and pain dulled her eyes until she lost awareness of them. No words they spoke nor any of their embraces soothed her.

Over time her panic faded, but the memory of her torment did not. For many weeks she spent hours at a time pacing restlessly in the gardens, one of her children at her side. Elrond firmly discouraged her from attending councils, fearing she would overstrain herself. She never laughed any more, and her smiles were fleeting. At first Elrond spent whole days with her, talking to her of happier times, her hand in his. But soon she sent him away, telling him not to neglect his duties. He began to work harder than ever, to keep his thoughts occupied, and to avoid her presence so that he might not see the helpless pain come over her face, or be reminded that he could do nothing for her. Having fought in wars, he recognised well the symptoms of despair, but he had never thought to see them in his wife. Worst of all was the knowledge of those who began to fade only a handful had recovered enough to stay in Middle-earth.

After two months had passed with no sign of improvement, he begged her to go to Lothlórien, hoping the companionship of her parents might help her where he could not. She agreed and departed with Arwen at her side and a guard of twelve warriors at her back; no chances were to be taken with her safety. The following months were hard for Elrond. His family had scattered; not only his wife and daughter had departed, but his sons had ridden north to hunt orcs in the Ettenmoors, consumed with guilt at their mother's fate. Nothing anyone said would soothe their consciences. Though Elrond never spoke of it, he shared their feelings of guilt.

Some eight months after the attack, Celebrían returned to Rivendell, unchanged but for a new calmness and purpose that filled Elrond with foreboding. The day after her return she asked him to meet her privately. During their meeting his fears were confirmed. Alone with him in their shared library, she told him of her wish to sail for Valinor, and to leave Middle-earth forever. He knew at once that nothing he said would change her mind – but when he asked if he might accompany her he was stunned and hurt by her refusal.

'Your duties tie you here – and what of our children? You cannot come with me. I must go alone.'

He put his hand to her hair then caressed her cheek, striving to reach her through touch where his words fell astray. But she only turned her face away, and he let his fingers drop.

'If there was anything I could do to keep you with me, I would do it.'

Her eyes saddened but she was silent. She walked away from him, seeming to grow smaller and frailer with each step. 'There is nothing you can do – nothing anyone can do.'

'Very well,' he said at last. 'Then know only that I love you. And I will go on loving you until I join you in the Undying Lands.'

She looked at him keenly. 'No, Elrond.'

He felt his brows lower. 'What do you mean?'

She dropped her gaze, and moved towards a chair, sinking into it. Her voice was scarcely more than a sigh. 'I am but a shadow of the woman I was, the woman you have loved for so long. I will never be her again. I will not have you bind yourself to a memory.'

His blood ran cold. 'You cannot mean that. You cannot abandon hope.'

She showed no sign of acknowledgment. Her wrists dangled slackly from her lap; there was no life in her hands.

'I will not let you.'

She lifted her eyes at last – but they were emptier than ever, and his anger sank into a dull despair.

'Nothing in this world can reach me,' she whispered. 'I have known it since first I woke from my long oblivion. Do not waste your joy, Elrond, by spending it in hopeless longing. There is nothing I want now but to walk beneath the trees of Loríen and find rest there, and freedom from the cares of this world.'

A numb emptiness spread through him; he could say nothing. At last he was beginning to comprehend just how much the attack had changed her, and his powerlessness to help her.

She looked down at her lap. 'I must go,' she said, so softly it was almost for herself alone. She rose, half-stumbling; her thoughts were far away, across the sea.

'And shall I see you no more?'

An answering grief touched her eyes then and she came to him. 'You have been my greatest joy. You and our children.' Her eyes grew vacant. When she spoke the solemn honesty in her voice was like a blow. 'But you will see me no more, unless from a distance – should you come to the Gardens of Loríen and I am yet living.'

'And if I called you, would you know me?'

She was silent; at last her eyes met his. He saw the answer there and reeled. He felt her cool fingers on his brow, tracing his face. He did not stir, nor did he hear her soft sigh, lingering in the room after she had gone.

He could not bear to see her or speak to her, though he knew that in three days' time she would be departing – forever. He dreaded to look into her eyes and know that she was thinking of the Grey Havens.

Once he saw her in the gardens with Arwen, and immediately he turned and walked back the way he had come, though his daughter's inarticulate cry of pain made his eyes sting with tears. He felt torn in two: all his instincts drove him to show Celebrían support and encouragement, but how could he when he could not accept that she was leaving?

For over two thousand years they had lived and loved together. For two thousand years she had been at his side, giving him her advice and support in all things, from monthly councils to the raising of their children. Her love had mended him after all the losses he had known. He had cherished her and loved her and she had returned his love wholly with a tenderness and truthfulness that was more than he had ever hoped for. It was impossible to imagine life without her. Was he now to lose her? In his long life, he had suffered much; more than any mortal could conceive. He understood something of what she felt. Yet he had never felt more divided from her - and he was unable to deny his gnawing feeling of betrayal. He wanted to heal her, to love her until she was whole again - but she would not give him the chance. And, in his most secret thoughts, he did not believe he would truly be able to mend her. Never before, in all the years they had known each other, had they been so asunder.

The night before she was to leave, without having planned it, he went to her rooms and called for her.

After a while, she emerged, wearing a night-robe he knew well.

'Forgive me,' he said. 'I have wasted what little time we could have spent together in anger and resentment when I should have been gentlest.' He fell silent. An impulse rose within him; he took her hand and knelt, pressing her hand to his lips, and then to his brow. His voice broke. 'I will miss you more than words can say.'

When he raised his eyes he saw that she had joined him on her knees.

'Nîn meleth,' she murmured. 'Long have I loved you …' She lifted a hand and with a finger wiped away the tear that had fallen onto his cheek. 'If there is one thing I desire, it is your happiness.'

He struggled against his burst of anger; how could he be happy when she was gone, and when she no longer wanted to share his life? But there was too little time left to waste in discord, and he wanted nothing now but to give her love and understanding when she needed it most. He only wished he had been ready to give it before now.

'I want to give you this.' She held up a phial. At once he recognised it as Galadriel's, made to hold the light of the Two Trees. 'My mother gave it to me many years ago, but now I want you to have it.'

It was the most precious gift she could give him. But all he wanted was for her to stay – and he knew she could not.

Not trusting himself to speak, he held her face in his hand, his fingers instinctively curving to the shape of her cheek. Closing his eyes, he leaned forwards until their foreheads touched.

For long minutes they remained like that, and it was almost as though normality had returned. But then she drew back. 'I must go. The ship will soon sail.'

'You must leave Imladris, Elrond,' said Glorfindel. A week had passed since Celebrían's departure. 'At least for a while, until you are yourself again.'

Elrond said nothing, watching the spray of the waterfall shatter into thousands of diamonds.

'Your sons will not return for some months, and the Lady Arwen is well cared for in Lothlórien. There is nothing you can do for them for the moment. Do not fear that your duties will be neglected in your absence; Lindir and I will undertake to fulfil all those tasks which usually fall to you.'

Elrond saw that his friend's words were spoken truly, yet still he was reluctant to leave. But Glorfindel and Lindir would not let the mater rest, and at last he agreed to leave Rivendell for at least three months. He set off at dawn and rode south, purposefully avoiding the Redhorn Pass, the site of his wife's ambush. He had refused a guard, for companions would restrict his freedom and he desired most to be alone – at least until he was ready to return home. As the leagues slipped by he felt little of his usual wonder at the sight of the mountains or the open country. All he could feel was dulled dejection and denial.

The distance passed quickly; Glorfindel had insisted that he take Asfaloth, his white horse descended from the Mearas, a breed of horses surpassing all others in speed, strength and stamina. Within a week of leaving he had crossed the Gap of Rohan. Next he aimed for one of the passes that led across the mountains dividing Rohan from Gondor. But as the mountains neared, he turned east instead. His vague intent had been to go to Dol Amroth, where some distant kin resided, but he found he had no desire to stop anywhere. He continued south-east until he reached the borders of Harad, and then passed beyond them. Grass plains turned brown, and the soil grew hard and unyielding. The barren harshness of the land suited his mood. He rode on.

Ever since leaving Rivendell he had been growing steadily weaker, subsiding on the bare minimum that he needed, though he was careful to make sure to care of his steed, as much for the horse's own sake as for Glorfindel's. As he steered past the borders of Mordor he ran into a group of orcs. He managed to slay them all without sustaining any major injuries, but the encounter forced him to realise how weak he now was. He decided at that point to send Asfaloth back to his master; the horse would need more water and sustenance than he, and Harad was not known for its abundance of water or grass. At some point, he would himself turn north, but he was not yet ready.

The further south he went, the weaker he became, and on foot he was slower than before. Elves were not affected by long hours in the burning sun, but the lack of water and food was beginning to wear him down. Still he was determined to continue just a few leagues more. He drifted into the dreamless half-sleeping state of the elves, stumbling occasionally as he walked. As a last resort, he might be able to use Vilya's power over the elements to aid him, but he would not do so unless it was the only course of action left to him. The ring's true power lay in healing others – and it was no one's fault but his own that he was in such a predicament.

At last – when he was beginning to give up hope, his ears caught the low roar of water that meant a river – or perhaps even a small waterfall – must be near. An outcrop of rocks lay in the same direction: the water must come from there. He managed to find a narrow passage leading through the rocks, and discovered a small pool hidden inside a valley of rock – much like the Forbidden Pool the Rangers of Ithilien favoured. There was no one near – he would sate his thirst, wash his bloodstained clothes, and then leave. But as he bent to drink from the pool, some instinct told him to look up, and he saw a doorway in the rock. At once his senses went on edge. Something lay beyond in the darkness. It had been so long since anything had stirred his curiosity that he determined to investigate.

After drinking his fill, he went into the passage. Remembering the phial Celebrían had given him, he drew it out. Without having to say a word, the phial burst into light – there must be something in this dark place that it responded to. He continued on until he came to a vast hall lined with tombs. For a moment he hesitated, fearing to show disrespect to those who lay there. He muttered a phrase, and Galadriel's phial went out, its light fading to a soft gleam.

It was then that he saw the doorway glowing with light. It must lead to what the phial had responded to – he was sure of it. He could not leave until he had found out what it was.

As he came at last to the chamber which held the jewel, the phial again flared to life, its light catching the jewel in its brilliance, flooding the room with starlight. As he gazed at the jewel, awe and horror gripped him. A vision overcame him, so strong that he trembled. His mother, flinging herself into the storm-tossed sea, waves crashing beneath the darkened sky as thunder rolled in the distance.

When at last he returned to himself, he had no idea of how much time had passed. By now his strength was almost completely gone, and he sank to the ground, numb. As he lay there, stunned by the vision, he slipped further and further into oblivion.

A sharp pain made him jerk up. A dart had pierced his arm. He grabbed at it and pulled it out – but its poison was already spreading. His head hit the ground and everything went black.

A/N: Nîn meleth means 'my love' in Sindarin.

It is not strictly canon that Asfaloth is descended from the Mearas, but for the purposes of this story, he is.