Out of Darkness

Doriath: 18th Chapter

"Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death.

And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them?

Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment.

For even the very wise cannot see all ends."

– JRR Tolkien

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, and welcome to mandyTbickerson and veka01. I really appreciate everyone's input. Thanks to everyone who has been reading along. By the time you finished this chapter you will have read 171,411 words or 348 pages according to Microsoft Word.

If anyone has time, I am really interested in hearing how Thingol is coming across to you guys. You can review or PM me. Any critiques on other topics/characters are very welcome too! Happy reading!

"It is of orcish make," Melian murmured to her husband as they paced quickly through the halls. "By the pattern of the stitching and the curing of the leather I am sure of it. And besides, I can sense their darkness in it." She turned the leather pouch over, surveying it with a critical eye.

"That is ill news indeed," Thingol whispered. "I wonder how it came to be in her possession." But he stopped short, pulling his wife into an alcove, his hands going gently to her shoulders.

"Melian," he said softly and his wife looked up at him, her eyes hiding whatever it was that churned in their depths. "Tell me what is in your heart."

"I…" the queen hesitated, something so rare for her. "Perhaps we have not given her enough credit. The Feanorians are far more dangerous than you anticipated and the information she provided to Celeborn was of great use. I sense that there are things afoot, evil things, that we do not yet know and it may be that we will need an ally amongst the Noldor ere…"

"No," Thingol stopped her, concern in his eyes. "That is not what I mean…not politics. I want to know how you feel, you, my wife, not the queen. The girl was dear to you once."

"She is dear to me still," Melian said, her eyes flashing with sorrow. "There are many who call foresight a gift and yet it is a terrible burden to live under. She is yet young, but has endured so much; war in Valinor, the darkening of the trees, discord in her own house, the slaying of her mother's kin, abandoned by her father, forced to cross the Helcaraxe, her young life already condemned by Mandos himself. And, what is more, I have foreseen pain in her future, far greater than that she has already endured. She is strong, Thingol, but she has endured much and is in pain; do not levy more of it upon her."

"And yet she must endure a while longer," he said, "if she lives. For things would go worse for her if I treat her with too gentle a hand. If the people think I have been unjust then they will seek their vengeance against her on their own. I must levy upon her some sort of punishment to appease them, for her own good."

"There must be some way that she can be protected," Melian said, "some position where none will be able to harm her. Menegroth is not safe for her."

"I have thought of that," Thingol said. "It may indeed be that the girl has much value. We are in over our heads, so to speak, when it comes to the Noldor and it seems to me that Illuvatar has, perhaps, dropped an answer to my problems directly into my lap…but all things in time. I would ask your council concerning this matter later, in private, for this is a delicate position that we find ourselves in now and it could go either well or ill for us; we must tread very carefully. For now I shall issue orders that she is a ward of the state, a prisoner of the crown. But she cannot remain so forever; we shall have to think of something else. And what is more, my own anger with her has not entirely abated. I still resent her secret keeping, though not as much as I once did."

"Then let us go in," Melian said, "and speak of the rest later, for they are most certainly waiting." And with that the king and queen entered the council chamber to find, indeed, that the counselors were all assembled there and they were arguing, as it seemed they constantly were, but this time with an unusual amount of ferocity. The majority of them were either in some sort of half dressed state or were still wearing their nightclothes and it seemed that their anger was directed at Celeborn, who himself was only wearing a shirt and breeches and who was shouting, red-faced, back at Saeros and his supporters even as he was being only barely restrained by his own supporters, including Venessiel and Mablung.

"You engineered this! It has your name written all over it, Celeborn!" Saeros was screaming, livid.

"Couldn't live without your Noldorin whore, eh? Well the rest of us won't suffer her!" Lirdir, the Minister of Agriculture chimed in.

"How dare you speak to your prince in such a fashion!" Mablung cried, struggling to hold back Celeborn, who looked for all the world as if he wished nothing more than to beat Saeros into the ground.

"How would I have managed that!" Celeborn cried. "And if I love her, as you claim, then why would I devise such a dangerous plan as to send her out into Beleriand alone to be brutalized by orcs?" Apparently news had already spread.

"SILENCE!" Thingol cried, moving to take his seat, and at his entrance his councilors seemed to calm themselves somewhat, though he still heard a few muttered oaths and espied several dark glances. "How dare all of you behave in such a manner in my council chamber? You and you," he pointed to Saeros and Celeborn, "if either of you ever dare to do such a thing again I will have both of your heads shorn like traitors. Do I make myself clear?" All around the room he observed grim nods.

"Then Saeros, I will tell you that I am entirely certain that Prince Celeborn has nothing to do with this. Have I made myself clear?"

"You have, your Majesty," Saeros said, bowing his head in obedience.

"And, Celeborn, you ought to know better than to react in such a fashion to unjustified rumors," Thingol reprimanded his nephew.

"Yes, your Majesty," Celeborn replied, shaking off Mablung's restraining hands with a dark look before taking his seat.

"Very well then," Thingol said, setting the pouch that Melian handed him on the table. "As you have doubtlessly heard by now, Artanis Finarfiniel, accompanied only by a horse, was observed within our borders first sometime last evening on this side of the Sirion. She appeared gravely wounded and, as our wardens tracked her path towards Menegroth, they observed that her condition was rapidly deteriorating. Sensing that she bore us no ill will judging by the fact that she had been able to pass through the girdle unhindered, they allowed her to continue but sent word to me, which I received early this morning. By that time she was beginning to approach our gates and I ordered for the march wardens to intercept her. She appears to have been savaged and poisoned by orcs. We cannot ascertain at this moment whether she will survive and, if she does, whether or not she will make a full recovery. She lost consciousness shortly after we took her into custody but, before she did so, she gave this to me."

The king opened the pouch and extracted both the coins and the jewel. "The pouch is of orcish make but we do not know how it came to be in her possession. If any of these objects have any meaning to any of you then I beg you speak now, for she seemed near mad with worry that I receive them as soon as possible but, until she is able to speak, if ever she is again able to do so, then I do not know what it is we ought to guard against." The counselors stood, all of them leaning over the table, craning to get a better look at what was there.

"The stone is called The Elessar," Celeborn said gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest. "It was crafted in Gondolin by one of that city's chief jewel smiths, Celebrimbor, son of Curufin. He gave it to her in his pursuit to win her hand, though as far as I know she did not accept his offer. As to why she would have brought it with her I do not know."

Thingol felt his anger flare at his nephew and he turned to him with accusing eyes. "Why did you say nothing of this to me upon your return from Nargothrond?" He asked and Celeborn met his gaze with simmering anger of his own.

"I did not deem it to be important," he replied, tight-lipped. "I thought it was a personal matter only, not one of state."

"Do you not understand the meaning of intelligence gathering? Is there anything else you have not told me?" Thingol queried. "Is there anything further you know regarding this stone?" Celeborn merely shook his head and the king turned away from him in exasperation. Celeborn was, had always been hot-headed and he allowed his anger to rule him more than he realized. Thingol ground his teeth in frustration. That, at least, was one thing Artanis had been good at: cooling Celeborn's head.

"Venessiel," the king said and the minister of the treasury stepped forward to examine the coins.

"There is nothing particularly special about them," she proclaimed after a few moments. "They are normal coins, the currency of the dwarves of Nogrod, minted during the reign of Naugladir, some of them recently, others not so recent." She turned them over and shook her head, looking up. "If there is any meaning to them then I cannot discern it."

"Then I will say it," Tinuil, the minister of commerce said, her pale blue eyes hard. "Dwarven coins have been discovered in an orc's moneypurse. It is not so difficult to understand that we have been betrayed. The dwarves of Nogrod are in league with Belegur."

A rumble of conversation rose up in response to what she had said but Fingaeron spoke, saying; "Let us not jump to such a hasty conclusion. Countless times have our wardens discovered elven or dwarven objects on the corpses of orcs, things that they had stolen from those whom they had slain. It may very well be that these coins were pilfered from dwarves that orcs had slain. After all, orcs have been known to do far worse have they not?" This inspired another burst of chatter.

"Perhaps we had best not jump to any conclusions at all. After all, our king has asked merely for information, not for speculation. When Lady Artanis awakens she will be able to tell us the tale." Mablung put forth.

"If ever she does awaken," Saeros said. "From what I have heard she is at death's door." The barb had been designed to provoke Celeborn's ire but he managed to remain silent.

"That will be quite enough for today, I think," Thingol said. "My apologies for having awaken you at such an unusual hour. You may all be excused." And all of them stood, filtering out through the door, save Celeborn, who remained seated, as Thingol had expected he would. But no sooner had the rest of them exited the room than the prince started up with such force from his seat that he nearly knocked the chair over backwards. His fingers curled into fists, the knuckles hard against the table, and his jaw clenched in anger.

"You reprimanded me in front of them! What else could you possibly do that could injure my credibility any further?" The prince cried.

"And I vouched for your credibility earlier, not knowing that you withheld news of the Elessar from me! If your credibility is within the realm of reproach then it is you, not I, who made it so!" Thingol replied, his voice hard with anger. "You were ordered to tell me of all that passed in Nargothrond but you did not!"

"You know it now!" Celeborn replied, his voice filled with quiet anger, his eyes simmering with it as he met his uncle's gaze, like a pot about to boil over.

"How often those words fall from the lips of those I trust, only for them to later be revealed as lies!" Thingol cried, and Melian took her husband's arm, her eyes fierce with an otherworldly ardor.

"How many times will you turn away those who love you?" She cried. "Celeborn is your nephew. Remember yourself." And then turning to Celeborn she said, "and why must you hide away from your uncle that which he wishes to know? What cause have you to distrust him?" Yet she might as well have remained silent, for neither man paid any heed to her words.

Celeborn's anger had already been provoked beyond his means to control it and he spoke, saying; "do not compare me with her, Thingol! You did not hear the pride and ignorance with which she spoke in Nargothrond. And are you her apologist now, you who exiled her? Have you forgiven the sins of the Noldor so quickly? Well, I have not forgotten, uncle, I have not forgotten so quickly as you what it was to have our kingdom sunk into bitter and total war. You have said that the kinslaying does not mean as much to me as it did to you, that I did not know those who died by Feanor's sword. But I would ask you if you have forgotten Denethor's death! I would ask if you have forgotten how you abandoned Amdir and his men to destruction! I would ask if you have forgotten what I sacrificed for your sake!"

"Very well, if those of Aman were so important to you then go," he continued, "if you can find a way, go to them. But perhaps it is true that the Battle of Beleriand meant more to me than it did to you, for we made our sacrifices there, our sacrifices for this land, slaying those we had once loved, who had grown twisted and foul and polluted by Melkor. Maybe you have forgotten. But I have not!"

"Do you want to act as if you are any better?" Thingol cried. "You do not want to be compared with her? Then when death comes to claim her you shall know yourself what it is to meet an arbiter with which there can be no reckoning and let her death be upon your soul!"

"Then let it so be!" Celeborn cried. "What a fool she is! What an idiot! Only someone entirely devoid of sense would wander in Beleriand alone! Such a fool deserves death!" Thingol had hardly ever heard such a tone of deep seated loathing escape his nephew and it surprised him in the utmost. Celeborn took up his vacated chair before throwing it down, and striding from the room with the hotness of tears burning his eyes.

But the anger slipped away like the tide over the coming days and weeks and he struggled futilely, like a man attempting to keep water in a sieve, to retain it, for what came to replace the anger was the most horrible thing of all: pain, unbearable, inconceivable, torturous pain, as if his heart were clutched in a giant's grip. The complete illogic of it threatened to drive him mad even as he feared his heart would rend in two. The tears would not stop, and the more they came the more he hated himself, for he did not know why he shed them or what sort of feeling this was that tore at his chest and he feared how weak it made him feel. And then the dreams returned.

He was turning, turning in the gyre of war, as if swept by a hurricane but things were not as they had been on that night atop Amon Ereb. The stars had shone down with a strange ferocity and he remembered it so well for the contrast it had drawn between the light of the heavens and the dark deeds they did upon that battlefield, deeds writ in blood, stamped in fury, carved like dark tattoos upon the flesh of the earth. But in his dreams it was only darkness, a great resounding, looming darkness that stood like a wall impossibly tall against the imperceptible blackness of the sky and with all of the ages of the world before him he would never have been able to surmount it.

They had reached Amdir at last, standing atop Amon Ereb with his few surviving soldiers, breathing hard. "Celeborn," he had murmured in grateful thanks as he looked upon the Sindarin prince, "we had thought we would perish…" there was fear in his eyes too and Celeborn realized how he must look, awash in blood and gore, a macabre fresco of red and silver.

But there had been no time for grateful rejoicing, for thanks, or even for fear, for there was a mighty orcish army descending upon them now and from behind Celeborn heard a cry of great anguish. What he saw in the light of the torches made his blood run cold.

The army lagged behind but Thingol had followed his wayward nephews with no regard for his own safety, rushing forward, thundering across the plains, across the miles that Celeborn and Oropher had traversed in pursuit of them, as if by the sacrifice of his own life he could save theirs. And he had reached them at last, and whether what followed was ill luck or some foul plan of Belegur's design Celeborn could not say, yet such a coincidence seemed impossible. And yet, there were many of the Sindar who had that day encountered among the orcs faces they had never dreamed they would see again.

Thingol had fallen, his horse slain, himself cast to the ground and badly wounded, and over him like a tower stood one of Belegur's generals. Very tall she was, and fierce, a female orc, or nearly an orc, for she was not entirely turned yet and her face was still recognizable, even to the child who had not seen her since he was but ten years of age. Her hair was long and silver, matted, tangled with blood and filth, and she sneered with yellowed, broken teeth down at the King of the Sindar, raising an iron tipped spear with a wicked point, preparing to deal him death.

Later, he could not remember how it was that he had come to stand before the king, how he had sprinted with unparalleled speed across that field of battle, slaughtering any who dared stand in his way. But stand over Thingol he did, his axe at the ready, his eyes fierce, his heart burning within his chest and he stared up into the face of the one he had once called mother, twisted and evil.

"Do you not remember me?" He choked out and it…she… paused, uncertain, the loathing of a moment earlier disappearing, replaced by deep memory, a longing, and he knew that she did remember, even if only faintly, she had not forgotten him.

"Stand aside," she commanded, but her voice was laden with doubt.

"Come back," Celeborn implored her. "Come back to Menegroth with us. Belegur has made you this way but still I recognized your face. The transformation is not complete. Perhaps it can be undone. Perhaps Melian can do something. At the least we can try! Come back to me, come back to Galathil! We can undo what Belegur has started!" Some imperceptible and subtle emotion shifted across her face, a sadness almost, and they stood in the silence of a moment.

"You cannot fix what he has broken," she said. "Who could ever love an orc?" Emotion shifted across her face like a shadow and then was gone.

"Only try," he implored her but her lips, if the broken and cracked flesh could be called lips, curled into a strange smile, a smile of regret it seemed.

"And who would love me?" She queried. "Even you cannot. You would rather strike me down than suffer his death," her eyes shifted to Thingol. "Stand aside." And she raised her spear again.

"No," Celeborn replied, his heart thundering with fear, with heartbreak, as he clutched his axe close to his chest, as if it were a shield rather than a weapon. "You do not have to do this. He is my father."

"He is not your father," she cackled, raising her spear. What emotion he had managed to stir in her earlier was gone and her eyes were glazed now with hatred. "You do not know me," she croaked and, later, he would be grateful to her for it, for it was the thing that had allowed him to do what he must.

She drew back her spear and Celeborn averted his eyes, for he could not look into the face he recalled as his mother's and do what he had to. His axe was a flash of silver as he swung, cleaving deep into her side, and she had not protested, had not tried to block his blow as he clove her clean in two. Her body fell and she lay now, dead on the ground, her eyes gone cold and dark, and Celeborn stared down, trembling. She had wanted it, she had welcomed death. What was this evil that Belegur had worked? There were tears pouring down his face now, and they were less tears for her than they were tears for his people, for the wrongs that had been forced upon them. How keenly he now understood Belegur's mind. He was vaguely conscious of the Sindarin soldiers streaming past him to join the battle.

"Celeborn, cousin," he felt Oropher embrace him, hard. "You had not choice."

He turned back to Thingol in a daze, helping the other soldiers get him up. There was a deep gash in the King's side and Celeborn frantically pressed his hand over it, for now he was confronted with the possibility of losing everything, of losing Thingol; he had already lost himself. "You must save him," he blubbered to no one in particular, tears streaming down his face, feeling more an elfing than a general.

"He will be well your highness," the healers were assuring him. "But we must get him to a place were we can safely close the wound. He felt Oropher's reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Command is yours," Thingol gasped, grasping his nephew's hand. "Celeborn," he gasped with tears in his eyes, "I was wrong. What I said before…I did not mean it. I am sorry."

"I know," Celeborn said, grasping his hand tightly, "I know." He watched the healers retreat, carrying the king away and then he turned, pain and sorrow warring in his heart, but his anger towards Thingol had left him entirely, replaced by fierce determination, for it was only now that he felt that he understood the King's words... That is what war is. That is who Belegur is. He turned back to the teeming sea of the battlefield. He will not have us, he thought, not today.

Celeborn woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, breathing hard, his heart thundering in his chest and he clutched at it, his fingers trembling against sweat-soaked skin. His breath was coming in great gasps and his throat was dry as sand. He let his hands fall to his lap, clutching the sweat-drenched sheets that were pooled there. He could feel his hair stuck to his back. Monster. The word reverberated in the shell of his skull.

He stood and walked to the next room for a glass of water, stopping for a brief moment to steady himself, his hand clutching at one of the lifelike stone trees that adorned his chamber out of fear that he might trip and fall; his legs were still unsteady. Slowly he stepped down into the next room and stopped, standing still, trying to collect himself. He sighed. The fireplace was cold and dark. He looked up at the ceiling, at the sun floating lazily above and sighed again, shaking his head and reaching up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. He turned, reaching for the pitcher of water that he knew was on the table to the right but he knocked a glass over and it fell, smashing into tiny fragments on the floor.

He looked at it, seeing himself multiplied, reflected in each of the fragments. It had been so very long since he had dreamed of the Battle of Beleriand. Immediately after it had happened the dreams had haunted him with each waking step and in the long hours of sleepless days. They had waned in time, but they had never stopped entirely, not until she had slept beside him every night. And then for nearly twenty years his sleep had been dreamless. He would have thought the dreams would come back when she left but they hadn't, not until he had looked into Curufin's eyes, and since she had returned they had only gotten worse. He reached for the table again, taking up the second glass, and this one he hurled to the floor.

"Aule's balls!" Galathil hissed and grumbled as he pulled the door open, still rubbing the sleep away from his eyes. "What in Arda are you doing awake at this hour? Why is everyone running about during the day all of a sudden these past few weeks? Can you not see how bright out it is?" The Sinda rubbed at his eyes as though he were in terrible pain.

"Galathil," Celeborn pulled his brother aside, and his face was so serious, so contorted as though he had endured torture itself, that the younger of the brothers forgot quickly his ire at having been awakened. "You must help me." Celeborn said. "I can trust only you and no other." The younger elf's eyes went wide and he swallowed hard. He could tell well enough when his brother was being serious and now was one of those times. "Listen to me."

"Oh Valar, is this one of your schemes?" Galathil sighed, rolling his eyes. As ever, humor was the means by which he attempted to assuage worry, both that of others and his own, but this seemed to have no effect on his brother whatsoever.

"Brother, this is important," Celeborn hissed, licking his lips nervously, looking very unsure. "I need you to…to injure yourself, badly enough that you must go to the houses of healing." The words had come out in a rush and Galathil paused to be sure that he had heard them correctly.

"Are you mad?" The younger prince cried. "Of course I will not do such a thing." And he wondered at what could have made his normally sensible brother have such a wild idea.

"There is no other way for me to see Artanis," Celeborn whispered and Galathil scowled. Of course, of course it would be her. He remembered well how his brother had been before she had come here: boisterous, jovial, happy. Now he reminded him of an alcoholic deprived of his vice.

"I should have know…" he shook his head, a bit angry himself, truthfully. "Dairon, Oropher, and Saeros are right. Celeborn the wise! Huh!" He scoffed. "You have little more wisdom than a teakettle and a lot more foolishness! I thought you were still furious with her. You returned from Nargothrond all in a huff and you slandered her nigh every moment we passed in conversation. You cannot be thinking – Celeborn, this is foolish! And, what is more, it is killing you! Can you not see how your personality has altered, how you are grown so sulky and somber? Where has my brother gone who used to laugh, and joke, and drink, and tease? Can you not see how I miss him. You may mourn her. But all of the rest of us mourn you!" It was rare that the genial herald spoke in such a confrontational fashion.

"Then you must do this for me!" Celeborn hissed. "For there is no other way that I can purge myself of her, that I can cleanse myself and be done with this! I need to see her. I need to see her ruined, and torn, and broken. I need to see that she has suffered! Only then can I be content!"

Galathil narrowed his eyes, for his brother's words had been dark indeed, foul even, and he would not have thought that Celeborn could think such wretched thoughts, but he reasoned with himself that it was better to have it over and done with than to let this persist for yet another century.

"The dreams," Celeborn said, rubbing his chin, "they have returned." And Galathil softened, seeing how his brother's hands were trembling.

"How long have you been having them now?" He asked quietly.

"Since Himlad," Celeborn gasped. "But they have been worse since she returned these past three…four weeks, however long it has been." Galathil shifted.

"You think it has something to do with her?" He asked and Celeborn nodded.

"I just…I keep thinking…how is what I did any different?" Celeborn's motions were quick, agitated. He touched his chin, folded his arms, uncrossed them again. "How are any of us different."

"It was different. It is different," Galathil said sternly but Celeborn shook his head.

"Melkor, Melkor, it is Melkor."

"Melkor…" Galathil exhaled. "Melkor is in Angbad, far from here. We have the girdle to protect us."

"No, no," Celeborn shook his head again, looking manic almost. "He is everywhere. The girdle cannot keep him out." Galathil asked no more questions. That was a path he knew better than to pursue. They had already been down it once before, after the Battle of Beleriand.

"And why must I injure myself badly enough that I must be hospitalized?" He asked skeptically.

"Because I must have some pretense by which to enter the houses of healing," Celeborn said. "If I can say that I am visiting you then it is a legitimate excuse and no one will question it."

"I have a very long list of objections to this plan," Galathil began, "the first of which is that you wish me to injure myself for your benefit and then that you do not even mean to visit me while I am injured, but to use me as an excuse to visit her."

"It is not so very bad, Galathil," Celeborn seethed. "You aren't a dwarf after all. You'll heal completely."

"Such a loving older brother you are," Galathil quipped, mildly offended at being compared with a dwarf. "Why don't you just hospitalize yourself?"

"I've already thought of that. Everyone would figure it out. I am not as naturally accident prone as you are."

Galathil sighed. "I can think of many other ways to do this, Celeborn," he said, "all of them better than what you have come up with. Why can I not just make sure that everyone has left the houses of healing and then you can go in while they are out?"

"That would be nigh impossible," Celeborn replied. "And it would be highly suspicious besides."

"Well you're the high prince aren't you? Why can't you just march your pretty self in there and say that you've been ordered to interrogate her."

"While she is unconscious? That makes no sense," Celeborn said, "and besides, it would be all over Menegroth by the end of the day. I am a prince, not the king; I am not above reproach."

"You are a terrible brother," Galathil said, his jaw clenched tight in anger.

"Have you forgotten that the houses of healing are filled with nurses?" Celeborn asked.

"I really do despise you," Galathil glowered.

"I know," Celeborn replied.

"What were you planning on?"

"Alcohol poisoning."

"Alcohol poisoning?"

"It's believable…for you. It wouldn't be the first time."

"Perhaps."

"Yes."

"The King's vintage, nothing less."

"You have my word, and my thanks."

"Don't forget you will owe me one for this."

"I assure you I will not."

"Begging your pardon your highness, but how could you allow him to drink himself into such a state? And on the King's finest wine no less!" The pretty, dark-haired nurse asked Celeborn with worry in her eyes as Galathil was carried to an empty bed.

"No, no, not there!" Celeborn directed. "He cannot abide children!" For they had very nearly placed him by the elflings, which was the furthest place from where Artanis lay. They moved him then to a much more suitable spot, much closer to her bed, which was the only one completely cordoned off by curtains.

"Oh dear!" The nurse exclaimed as Galathil began to vomit violently and the other nurses rushed to fetch him a bucket. They returned momentarily and, in addition to cleaning his mess, forced a powdered medicine down his throat that seemed to make him retch all the harder.

"Get it all up now your highness!" Celeborn heard one of the nurses exclaim as Galathil continued to expel the contents of his stomach into the bucket.

"He has suffered a very cruel heartbreak recently," Celeborn said with feigned sadness to the pretty, dark-haired nurse. "A most distressing event. The girl he thought to marry was caught in the arms of one of the march wardens."

"How cruel!" The nurse exclaimed, sadness in her gentle eyes as she glanced towards Galathil. "He has always seemed so kind to us…begging your pardon, not that I know him at all of course. I do not mean to presume." She blushed a furious shade of red.

"Yes," Celeborn sighed, "I have been trying to help him, but he has turned to the drinking to ease his pain. It is a very sad state of affairs, truly.

"Poor dear…" the nurse said, a sincere look of pity coming over her face. "I am afraid," she said, turning back to Celeborn, "that we shall have to keep his highness at least until tomorrow for his own safety."

"Of course," Celeborn nodded solemnly. "In that case…I hope it is acceptable if I wish to stay with him this day, for I could never sleep knowing that my only brother is suffering."

"Of course you may!" The nurse said in a profusion of pity. "I shall fetch you anything you like but I had best do it right away, for the day is dawning even now, which is when most of us retire to our quarters to sleep. I fear the day staff is rather sparse."

"My thanks," Celeborn replied. "What was your name?"

"Inwen, your grace, at your service," the girl said with a curtsy, drawing the curtains about them as she made her exit.

"The first thing you should have said is that there would be nurses," Galathil slurred at his brother later, when the sun was at its zenith and only the footfalls of the few remaining healers on the day shift broke the silence. "I would have been much more amenable from the start and we would not have had to argue." Celeborn laughed.

"I will remember that for next time," he said.

"There will not be a next time," Galathil replied, "I assure you. Valar, I feel as though something has crawled in my mouth and died. I'm going to feel absolutely terrible in the evening and it is all your fault."

"If you are even sober by evening," Celeborn remarked. "And do not out me. The nurses believe that you are pining after your fiancée, whom you caught in the arms of one of the march wardens."

"Which march warden?" Galathil asked, pressing his palms against his closed eyes.

"Whichever one you like I suppose," Celeborn said.

"Mablung," Galathil slurred. "He is always involved in those sorts of things."

"That pretty nurse with the dark hair felt ever so sorry for you when I told her of your sorrows," Celeborn said.

"Did she?" Galathil opened his bleary eyes and gave his brother a lopsided grin. "Well then it is not all bad then, is it?" But the next moment found him vomiting into the pail again while his older brother held back his dark hair. And at just that moment Inwen returned bearing blankets under one arm and a pitcher of water in the other hand.

"Oh my!" She exclaimed, and Galathil managed to stop the expulsion of the contents of his stomach long enough to flash her what he deemed a winning smile. Inwen grimaced. "Some blankets to make yourselves more comfortable your highnesses," she said with a nod towards Celeborn, placing the blankets on the end of the bed. "And do make sure that you drink as much water as you are able, Prince Galathil," she instructed, setting the pitcher on the table beside his bed and wiping two of the glasses there with a cloth she carried in her apron.

"Your name, fair maiden," Galathil gasped, grasping her hand. But Inwen looked distinctly disturbed, as though she worried he would get vomit on her, and gingerly pulled her hand away.

"Inwen, your highness," she murmured, before ducking into a quick bow and scurrying away.

"Charming," Galathil remarked, laying back and fanning himself. Celeborn managed to crack a grin. "Do you think our parents would have approved of a girl like her?"

"You don't even remember them," Celeborn said.

"That's why I asked you," Galathil replied, his eyes glimmering with a bit of anger that might have been more intimidating had he not been so spectacularly intoxicated. "But what does it matter anyway whether I remember them or not? Absence is just as powerful as presence is it not?" He said, and then murmured; "More powerful even, perhaps, or you would not have spent a century acting like a madman as you did while she was in Nargothrond."

Celeborn's eyes were sharp and angry. "You had best not speak of things you don't understand." He said.

"And why not?" Galathil asked, his drunkenness making him far bolder than usual. "That is why you are here after all – because of her. Get on with it then."

"You're drunk," Celeborn said dismissively.

"You can't blame a drunk for speaking his mind," Galathil quipped, though there was worry behind his humor. Celeborn stood, and turned away, his hand pausing on the curtain.

She was nothing really, he tried to tell himself, only a girl he had once loved, like so many others before. There was nothing about her that was special, nothing genuinely unique, nothing that was unlike anyone else except…except that she had nearly driven him from his own mind. And that, that was something that no one else had ever managed.

He could not even say, truthfully, why he had wanted to come here, save that he seemed to have been compelled by some force unknown that had first driven him to pace restlessly and at last to quit the sleepless claustrophobia of his chambers. There was no relief, no balm, no salve that could resolve the madness that seemed to have laid claim over his mind, a psychosis that had been magnified and multiplied by her proximity.

It was not love that had moved his feet, nor hatred either, but some urge to look upon her, to see that she too could be so utterly and completely vanquished, to see that she was a girl, just a girl and that he could look upon her with carefully practiced condescension and that in no part of his heart, no recess of his mind did anything resembling affection for her remain.

He wanted to see her lying there broken and battered, bruised and destroyed so that he could see that he had only been beguiled, that he had been entranced, bewitched by her beauty; that it all had been nothing. He needed to see it, her ruination. Needed it more than he needed breath. That need had brought him to the curtain and now he slipped through it quietly.

He saw exactly what he had wanted to see - that great noble lady laid so low. He had wanted so desperately to say that he was unaffected by the sight of her, but he would never have been able to make himself believe it. Her skin was pale, paler than he had ever seen it, an unhealthy pale, a wasting pallor, like milk gone sour, and her veins were deep violet, so clearly visible against her paper-like skin that it seemed nearly as though she had been turned inside out. There were bruises in places, her wrists, he could see, and her neck too, where the skin was puckered around wounds newly closed but not yet healed – teeth marks. Her eyes were open in sleep, as they always had been, and there was a strange yellowing to the white of them, a thick, greenish mucous that had collected in the corners of them, like pus almost it seemed. Her breathing was slow, and there was a rasping crackle to it, like the sound of an old parchment being unrolled and then rolled back, continuously, interminably.

A fool. She made him feel a fool: simple, and stupid, and ignorant. Not a false fool in jest, but an honest one in earnest. And there was nothing that Celeborn found more loathsome in himself than foolishness.

How simply she had done it. It had required no effort from her whatsoever. The light in her eyes, the glint of her hair, the elegance of her wrist, the twinkle of her hairpins had utterly robbed him of wisdom, he who was supposed to be the wisest, and had cast him down into the deepest recesses of the pits of folly.

Nigh on a century had he hated her so wholly, despised her in entirety for she had brought him to the very brink of insanity, so close that he had been able to look over the edge and, in Curufin's gaze see his own face reflected.

How strange she looked, how unlike herself, how unlike any living thing she seemed. He had never thought that she could look so weak, and yet she looked weaker than anyone he had ever seen, and he had seen many victims of poisoning. He could tell from her wasted limbs that she had lost a good deal of muscle in the past weeks. She was weaker than a child. He remembered when he was a child how his mother had told him tales of strange creatures, white as the moon and translucent as mist who wandered the forest with dark set eyes and limbs like a skeleton, searching, searching, ever searching for lost souls.

Somehow, he had never thought, never believed she was actually capable of death. The thought of it took the breath from him and in the vacuum he sat heavily upon the edge of the bed, watching her with a numbness so unfamiliar to him.

By his reckoning he should have been pleased, for she looked quite broken indeed and yet her frailty was not of glass that could fall, and shatter, and break, but of sunlight that, although it cannot run swift as the river and has not the weight of stone, nor the tangibility of anything with any real power, can still scald a man's skin just as surely as if he had been burnt by fire even as it is choked out by the coming of evening. And that quick-dying light seared him still.

Then he reached out and took one of her small hands into his larger one and it was cold, unbearably cold against the warmth of his own, like ice, and like ice he worried that he would shatter it, break the tiny little wasted bones like a bird clutched too tightly in his hand for he was only just now realizing that his hand was shaking violently, uncontrollably violently, quivering so much so that he quite lost his ability to grasp anything, as though his entire hand had gone numb and he drew a breath to steady himself but his lungs seemed to have gone numb too and now his whole body was shaking and the vacuum was filling, filling quickly as a flood with anger, furious anger, and his hand was clenching tightly, so tightly on her own that he thought he might very well crush every bone in her hand, all of those tiny, delicate bones to powder and he wanted to, he wanted to break them, crush them, to prove that she could feel pain, that she was alive, that she had not slipped so far beyond this world that there could be no returning. A century had come and gone yet Galadriel still held sway.

There was a strange, hot, wetness in his eyes, burning like fire, and his thoughts ran hither and thither like a bull in a rage, destroying all in its path. You fool! You fool! He cried out in his mind. What were you thinking? You idiot! Stupidest of the children of Finarfin! Why would you do it? I ought to have forbidden you leave Nargothrond! I ought to have ordered you to stay! But how – no never could I have guessed that you had fabricated such a foolish plan! Had I known I would have bound your hands and feet, put chains on you! It would have been better than this! Better than THIS! Or else you should have died! Death would have been better than this slow poisoning, this half-waking, a mind, a soul imprisoned in a corpse!

She had risked life and limb to return to a place where her name was a curse, and why? Looking at her, near lifeless, his fea was moved beyond what he could ever have imagined and, rising from his seat, he approached her. He reached, reflexively, as if to brush her hair away but the dull golden strands broke under the touch of his hand and fell to the floor like chaff.

He drew his hand back as if he had touched a searing hot stove, dropping her hand as cold as ice, - trembling, furious, frightened, pained. There was nothing so wretched as seeing something good twisted, and ruined, and made ill. It could hardly have been worse if every lamp in Menegroth had been put out, the stone trees toppled, and the caves entirely gutted of their glory and majesty. It was a perversion, she would become a perversion of what she had once been, Melkor's ultimate weapon, the twisting of promise into destruction, of trust into fear, of love into revulsion. He still remembered that orc he had met on the battlefield, an orc whom he had once called mother.

And he…what of his fea? He shuddered at the thought of himself, at the remembrance of Curufin's gaze, at the remembrance of his thoughts from only moments earlier. No one knew how Melkor had made elves into orcs. Perhaps it was not so very difficult after all, merely the matter of introducing a whisper of betrayal, a glimmer of doubt, a hint of hatred that would fester in the soul like pus in a wound, growing, ever growing until all that was left was the wound itself, the contagion, the entire body having been wrapped in it as though it were itself one living, breathing wound. Who was he becoming? He seemed to lose his ability to breathe for a moment until his lungs reminded him with an aching pain of how much he did, in fact, need air.

They might all feign that Morgoth lay far away in Angbad, that the girdle kept him out, that they had long since bequeathed that struggle to the Noldor, having washed their hands of it, but Celeborn knew, he knew that Morgoth was here in these halls, even now, that he was here in this room, that the seeds that had made him what he was were present in all of them, only waiting for the bitter rains of jealously, of hatred, of doubt, of betrayal to germinate them.

A determination came over him then as he drew in that deep breath, the same determination that had fueled him when Thingol had fallen and he had lead the army to victory. Melkor would not have him… and Melkor would not have her…not while he yet lived. He would cast him out.

He had the hands of a warrior, rude and ungentle, used to weapon and war, even as hers were. It was magic, old magic, dangerous magic, wild magic, primitive magic, but he knew no other; he was no healer, only a killer, and killers could not give any life save their own. Pulling the sheets down and opening the loose robe she wore, he reached for the knife at his back and drew it, no doubt in his mind now that he must do this, that it was the only way. The curved blade of the weapon shone in the sunlight, and slowly, he traced the line down the center of her chest to rest over her heart, touching the skin there, grey and flushed, the dark veins carrying the poison showing clearly beneath her nearly translucent skin. He felt the press of her heart beneath her breastbone through the steel against her chest, rising ever so shallowly into his blade. Carefully he pressed down and the sharpened steel bit through her paper-thin skin easily, tearing it almost, rather than cutting, and a red ribbon of blood blossomed now on her chest. He took the still wet knife and, pressing it to his own wrist, cut a long thin line down his arm, not deep, but enough to draw the blood forth. He pressed it there, over her heart, making a fist to force the blood to flow, and watched his blood intermingling with hers, speaking in a language older than himself, older than her, older than Doriath.

Imno agarixi em melkara agarixi.

Blood of my blood.

It was winter and yet it was spring that flowed forth, the slow blossoming of white niphredil on a hillside covered in the fresh green of new grass, the buds on the trees pushing through and shedding their hard casings to give birth to leaves, soft mist on a still pond, the slow climbing of ivy along a stone wall, taking hold, binding the stones together ever more tightly, the trickle of water in thawing creeks. And that ice choked river burst, the deluge coming now, pouring into channels, and creeks, and inlets, pushing out the stagnant bilge, forcing it, forcing it, forcing it out and away, forever away, interminably away, to the recesses of the earth and over its edge until it poured into oblivion away. Her body rose up slightly, straining against the bed, and the world, and eternity and the blackness began to ebb like the tide, disappearing, slowly moving away, first from her fingertips and then up her arms away, down from her neck away, to the center of her away as her heart pumped his blood through her body. He cast out that darkness and it dissipated, like dark mist in the air, a specter sent to haunt some other world.

He passed his hand over her chest, healing the wound he had made, and slowly he felt the power return to himself, shuddering at its return, breathing rather a little faster than normal, and it had carried something with it, some image of a great city upon a hill, alabaster towers shining in golden light, streets glimmering with thousand of diamonds strewn, and verdant hills of lush grasses rising up out of a sapphire sea.

He stumbled backwards, even as color began to come into her face again. It flowed back in like wine filling a glass until her skin began to glow the color of a peach, her lips were lit like pink blossoms, and the radiance returned to her hair. She looked like the dawn. And then she gasped, her hands twitching. But his hands were cold, his body struggling to recover, and he fled, though it was but a short ways, through the curtain and back to his brother's bedside, clutching his arm where his blood was mingled with hers, the look on his face one of a man who had just seen a ghost. Galathil looked at him questioningly, confused, his eyes darting to his brother's arm. "What…" he began incredulously.

"Come quick!" They heard a healer cry in response to the commotion that had risen up from the bed on the other side of the curtain. "The Lady Galadriel is awakening! Send word to the King immediately!"

And Galathil looked at his brother's panicked face and at the red stain of blood on his arm. "No, no…Celeborn," he murmured. "What have you done?"

Galadriel could only think that she must find Thingol, that she must speak to him, and she could not stop running, searching the thousand caves, each as interminable as the next. Yet the king was nowhere to be found and the lanterns were snuffed out one by one, the corridors seemed to turn in on themselves, shrinking, and she pounded her fists futilely against dead end after dead end. There was nowhere to turn.

And suddenly there was a great jolt and she found herself in the midst of a forest except that she was not so much herself in the forest, but she seemed to be a tree, a great birch tree, long and slender, stretching her branches up to the sun, feeling its warmth upon her leaves. She felt that she could grow and grow she did, up, up, up into the heavens. It was a marvelous feeling and she could feel the vigor of her new, supple bark, the freshness of her glistening green leaves. There was a child sitting on one of her branches, a small boy with hair like the moon and she smiled at him.

"Hello young wanderer," she said.

Another jolt ran through her body, as though she had been struck by lightening and she awoke, suddenly, her eyes snapping open. It seemed she had spoken aloud, for her voice had drawn the healers and they were bustling about her now, calling for all sorts of things and issuing orders. Her hearing was returning gradually and she could make out the commotion of voices and a high-pitched whistling sound that made her dizzy. She collapsed back into the bed and, as she did so, she realized that she had no recollection at all of sitting up. But she turned her eyes away from the sudden bustle about her, turning them up, up towards the heavens, watching the glowing sun drift lazily across Menegroth's enchanted ceiling. A hundred years…a hundred years. It felt almost that time stood still in this moment and nothing else mattered at all, not the pain she felt in her body, nor the pain that lingered in her soul. A hundred years. The tears slid slowly down her face but she felt the power, dwelling deep within her, growing.

"The Lady Galadriel has awoken!" She heard someone shouting, and within her heart was a strange feeling now, as if someone else's thoughts were all jumbled in with her own, a mass of confusion, and fear, and pain. She fell again into sleep.