Vigil of the Condemned

In Cavern's Shade: 36th Chapter

"Nothing escapes me. No one escapes me."

- Death, The Seventh Seal

Author's note: Guys I am so unbelievably sorry this took so long. I thought I was going to have a bunch of time to write but then I had final exams, professional exams, graduation, I moved 3,000 miles across the country, started a new job, our kitchen in the new house has to be torn out and redone because of water damage, my parents decided to get in a huge fight and throw my husband and I in the middle of it, and you know who is back. The commute to my new job is pretty long so I haven't had much time to write during the week but hopefully things will settle down a bit now…hopefully. You guys are seriously the best. Thank you for being so patient and for also checking in to see if I am ok. All of you are so nice and I love you!

Luna: Muahahahaha! Sorry I left you in limbo for so long. Yes, the whole mess will be revealed in chapter 37 so that should be exciting! You will find out more about Bainwen and Paniel soon (ish) but I can't reveal too much!

Guest: Thanks so much! I actually am thinking about writing a book and getting it published. I absolutely adore Southern gothic fiction so it would probably be something like that.

Bohme: Thanks! I'm so glad you like the supporting cast. I was really worried about writing OCs and minor characters at first because I'm worried it can come of cheesy but I think it is impossible to write the First Age without making OCs so I had to! I'm actually not sure yet what I'm going to do with Nellas so we'll see ;)

Character profile: Galathil

Ok so, Galathil was actually THE most difficult character for me to develop and he is the huge reason why I delayed so long in publishing this story after I started writing it. There's no textual canon info about him so I had to create him the way I would create an OC.

As Celeborn's brother, I knew he would play an important role in the story so I thought his characterization had to be strongly developed and it was very difficult for me to settle on a characterization for him. I don't usually draw primarily on real people I know for characterizations although I sometimes will take aspects of different people's personalities and cobble them together into a character.

But, because I had so much trouble developing Galathil, I tried to base him off of my own brother for a while. Well, the problem with that was that my brother actually is a lot like Celeborn (although Mablung is really the character I based off of my brother) so Galathil basically ended up being a Celeborn clone like this and it didn't work.

Eventually I just had to sit down, start from step one, and decide what qualities in Celeborn I wanted his brother to draw out. So I decided that I wanted his brother to draw out the more fun, playful, younger, and less serious side of him. From there I started to build Galathil and he began to develop really nicely. I actually wrote a lot of the sequence with him and Inwen getting pregnant with Nimloth quite early in the story and this helped me to develop the relationship between him and Celeborn. Once I had developed that relationship between them, I felt much more comfortable developing Galathil and building his character because I though I had a solid foundation.

Although I wanted him to have aspects in common with Celeborn, like their playful kind of goofy nature, I also wanted him to act as a foil for Celeborn in some ways. So I decided Galathil should be more into the arts instead of being into kind of athletic and political stuff the way Celeborn is. I think this gave a lot of depth to Galathil's character and also allowed me to expand the cultural side of the Sindar more. I think Galathil has a much softer heart and much more compassion than Celeborn does. In that way, I think he helps to draw out those qualities in Celeborn and help him get more in touch with those aspects of himself and his life. I think it was in large part due to the relationship between Galathil and Inwen in part II that Celeborn was able to ultimately see what he wanted with Galadriel and have the courage to fight for that and face his fears.

If you have any more questions about Galathil please don't hesitate to ask in a review or send me a message!

As much as he could be sure of anything, Celeborn was sure that he had fallen asleep and come to again. And, if this were death then it was remarkably calm, more so he had anticipated, and he wondered why Mandos did not come. Or else, perhaps the old Sindar had been right; perhaps he was now a star and that was why it was so dark all around him, as though he were lying on a massive pane of glass that stretched from one end to the other of a great black void.

He was conscious of very little, only that there was a blackness above and around him, soothing it was, and calming. He felt as though he were lying in a small boat in the shallows of the Sirion while the waves gently rocked it, like a baby in a cradle, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep, for it seemed at last that in that sleep he would find peace. He smiled and prepared to sleep but then, just as that peace was about to envelop him in her arms, his vision began to clear and the room that he was in slowly began to shift into focus.

The starlit ceiling floated overhead and he watched it for a while, confused, wondering where he was. His other senses came back slowly as well and he gradually began to feel that there was cold stone at his back - a floor. But, strangely enough, he could not feel anything below his waist. His lungs burned as though he did not have enough air and so he tried to draw a deeper breath but it was unbearably painful, as if white-hot fire had lanced through his bones all of a sudden and he resumed his shallow breathing, feeling as though he were slowly suffocating. He was dying, certainly, and he knew it, but for some reason he felt so very calm.

The smithy: he remembered now; he was in the smithy. But he wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be somewhere else... His wedding - he was supposed to be at his own wedding. At the thought, all of his memories came flooding back suddenly in a torrent of emotion that broke him and he began to weep with abandon at the thought that it would all go unfinished. He wanted so badly to feel as if he had lived a complete life and yet he knew that he hadn't because he had not yet married Galadriel. The thought was unbearable: that he would die without having joined with her. Die: because he was certainly dying.

He could feel his blood seeping out onto the floor, flowing away from him, and he was powerless to stop it. He could not move and he had not the heart to look down and see what had been done to him. Seeing it would not save him and if he was to die then he wanted to remember how he had been, young and strong, and not as he was now, broken and torn open. His eyelids felt as though they were made of lead and he had to struggle with all his might to keep them from closing. The walls of Menegroth seemed to pulse around him, as though he were in the great beating heart of some beast that lived and breathed.

It was then that he saw something, some shadow, some figure, some form moving in the dim light of the dying forges. He struggled to remember who she was, and when at last he realized that it was Melian, he saw that she looked nothing like he had ever seen: her appearance grown taut and gaunt, the skin of her body and face as pale as the moon and stretched over her bones as though they were merely a frame with no muscle at all, giving her the appearance of a famine victim or some spectral spirit that haunts the nights in which there are no stars and all is blackness and myth.

She walked, hunched, as old dwarves or mortals did, as though she had borne a great burden upon her back for far too many years, and slowly, shuffling, as though every bone in her body would shatter if she were to move too fast, she came forward towards him. Celeborn thought he could see strange wing-like protrusions from her back, though those too were skeletal, with ragged and musty dark feathers that seemed to fall as she walked. Her corporeal form was falling slowly away.

She came to a stop over him and he felt the drip, drip, dripping of some warm liquid falling upon him: blood, the king's blood, he could see that she was soaked in it, herself dyed incarnadine, almost as though she had tried to intern her body within her husband's as his life had bled away, as though she had tried to exchange her life for his and failed. It began to dawn on him then that she must have been here for some time now, in that span during which he had thought himself dead and been conscious of nothing.

She looked down at him with wide and uncomprehending eyes, horror etched into every line of her face and he wondered where her power had gone as it began to dawn on him that this truly deathless creature was not herself capable of comprehending death. He wanted to speak, to move, even to blink so that she would know that he yet lived, that his life had not fled him yet, but he found that he was completely incapable of any sort of movement and so he could do nothing more than stare up at her with unmoving, half-lidded eyes.

"And you too my Silver Tree, my Celeborn?" She said in a whisper. Just as the beauty of her body was gone, so too was the beauty of her voice, and what words came forth from her mouth were a croaking, retching utterance deeper than the voice of any man, resembling more the cry of the crow than of any songbird. He tried his hardest to move, to show her that there was life within him yet, but it was all to no avail. His traitorous body, seemingly made of pure stone, did not even twitch and Melian let out a harsh, keening wail that he thought would nearly shatter his ears, tears rolling in a flood down her gaunt face as she tore at her hair, ripping out great chunks of it until she was nearly bald.

Tears streamed down her face like rain and then her wail tapered to a shallow whisper. "I too shall pass," she said, turning back, taking one last mournful glance at Thingol but the sight seemed too much to bear for she turned away violently, staggering towards the door like a wounded deer fleeing the hunter hwo will perish alone in some unknown place. She paused there for a moment, suspended it seemed between this world and some other, and then she passed, but not into the next room or into the corridor; her entire body seemed to dissipate, as mist at dawn, and Celeborn knew by it that she was no longer in this world.

Thingol, the blood had been Thingol's, he thought, and some strange feeling awoke in his chest, clawing to get out, to escape. Thingol. He needed to protect Thingol. He had to. Thingol, Thingol, he cried his uncle's name over and over in his mind yet he could not force his traitorous lips to move. He had to, he must. Celeborn concentrated with all of his might to force the shock away, to overcome it and, momentarily, he was able to make it pass, but as it left him, the pain flooded in, excruciating pain, unbearable pain, and he let out a horrid shriek, beginning to weep violently from the terrible pain that wracked his body.

His legs were still completely numb and he could not move them at all, so, mustering his strength, he turned himself over. The pain nearly caused him to lose consciousness again it was so great, and he trembled, closing his eyes tightly, trying to will the blackness away. Momentarily the darkness passed and his vision cleared again, though he still felt lightheaded, as if any moment he could plunge again into that deep void of unconsciousness. Slowly, he reached forward, grappling at the stone floor with blood stained fingers, faltering, then finding purchase at last.

He dragged himself forward, the horrible squelching sound of blood accompanying him as he moved, his nails breaking on the rough stone. The effort of moving just that small bit exhausted him and he stopped for a moment, raising his head. Blood was running into his eyes but he could see Thingol not so far away, lying on his back, his hand outstretched, his eyes blank, and Celeborn began to sob but, as he did so, blood bubbled up from his lungs, running over his lips to drip onto the floor in a pink and red froth that he vomited out, his body spasming in pain.

He put out his other hand, found purchase in the stone floor, and pulled himself forward a bit more, this time screaming out loud at the agony. His bones felt as though lightening had surged through them, cracking them like the charred wood of a tree, lighting his senses on fire, and he reached down, fumbling for a minute with his stomach, trying to hold it together with one hand as with the other he dragged himself the rest of the way to Thingol's side.

He grasped desperately at the king's head, tangling his hands in Thingol's silver hair. Tears washed down his face as he pressed his forehead to his uncle's, sobbing uncontrollably "Thingol, Thingol," he wept, unable to believe it was true, yet as soon as he spoke he coughed violently, his ribs aching in pain, and blood poured forth from his mouth. The pain was unbearable and Celeborn lay back, gasping shallowly.

"I don't want to be alone when I die," his whispered to Thingol's corpse. Yet Celeborn could feel his own life slipping away like the leaves of autumn and he wondered briefly what his body looked like, what sort of wounds he had sustained and how long it would take him to pass, but he had not the courage to look. "I don't want to be alone," he whispered again. "I don't want to die afraid."

He clung to Thingol tightly as he cried into the king's bloodstained robes, his spirit as broken as their bodies. Yet he did not see all the events of his life flash before his eyes as some had said they had seen, when confronted with near death in battle. Rather, he could only think that he would not see another spring in Doriath, or feel the rain showers upon his face as he stood at the top of the tallest tree, or watch the stars float overhead, otherworldly and ethereal, the enchanting heavens of middle earth, and, briefly, he thought he heard Galadriel's laugh echo in his mind and he smiled.

"Thingol, I am not so far behind you," he said, closing his eyes and at last surrendering to that sweet sleep. "Wait for me."

"There are dwarves in the corridors!" The wardens were shouting as Galadriel and Paniel made their way into the hallways. "Dwarves covered in blood!" Galadriel gripped her spear tighter, swallowing hard. She could still feel Celeborn through their weakening bond, but he was only barely alive and she did not know if they would reach him in time or, if they did reach him, if there was anything they could possibly do to save him. She could feel that she was on the verge of panic, just as she had been in Alqualondë, her heart thundering in her chest, her hands sweaty, trembling.

The images flashed through her mind, silver-haired Teleri bleeding their lives out onto the white sand, the red gore of intestines bobbing in the water of silver fountains, the swords of her cousins drip, drip, dripping with blood that fell like red rain. She felt the familiar lurch in her stomach at the gruesome memories, the tightening of her chest as if she were about to asphyxiate, trapped beneath the water. She closed her eyes for an instant, fighting, willing the panic away.

There would be a time for tears, a time for pain later, a time when Celeborn's life did not depend on her maintaining a cool head. The guards were pushing past them in a rush to get somewhere, she knew not where, and she reached out, grabbing one by the arm, stopping him.

"Where are you going?" She asked. "What has happened?"

"I do not know, Lady," he said, shaking his head. "No one knows. Only, dwarves were spotted near the gates, covered in blood and bearing with them the Silmaril and other items from Doriath's treasury."

"Whose blood?" Galadriel demanded to know, her eyes flashing.

"I do not know," the guard said. "Mablung has ordered us to pursue these dwarves and so that is where we go now."

"No, you shall come with us now," she told him.

"Lady, we cannot!" He exclaimed. "We are under orders to proceed to the gates."

"Speak to your commanding officer then!" Galadriel exclaimed, refusing to be dissuaded. "I believe that the king and the prince were attacked in the smithies but I do not know if there are still dwarves there. I need several of you to accompany us." She would not relent and the guard seemed to understand, nodding stiffly.

He looked hesitant for a moment and then jogged up to the front of the regiment, speaking to what Galadriel could only assume was the captain. A few nods were exchanged and then the soldier made his way back towards them, three others in tow. "We have permission," he said simply. The minutes it must have taken them to reach the smithy seemed like interminable hours as they followed the winding passages, curving staircases, and long bridges down, down, down into the depths of the earth. It was far darker down here and the enchanted sky above seemed less bright, the trees became sparser, and the walls of stone less beautiful and more imposing.

A sob started in Galadriel's throat and she choked it back. This could not, must not be the place where Celeborn met his end, so far from the trees, and the stars, and fresh air. They crossed a narrow bridge spanning a deep dark chasm, a bridge upon which bloody boot prints remained, and then they were at the entrance to the smithies, a great iron gate towering above a long staircase that led down, down, down into blackness. She heard the guards drawing their axes and glanced to her right, Paniel's nearly imperceptible nod urging her to set foot upon the stair.

It was a long way down into the blackness but, when she reached the bottom she saw that the fires were burning in the far room and there on the floor…just as she had seen in her visions…was Celeborn. She felt for a moment as though she were about to collapse, as if her heart had stopped beating, but she still felt it: that tenuous thread that stretched between them and she knew that he was not dead, not yet, that some hope remained.

"Celeborn," she gasped in a strangled voice and she ran to his side, her heart shattering into a million pieces like fragile glass upon a stone floor. "Celeborn," she sobbed, sinking down on her knees into the broad pool of blood that surrounded him and Thingol. She heard the guards shouting as if from far away, one of them running back up the stairs. It seemed as though everything was moving slowly, as if underwater.

Thingol was clearly dead, his eyes gone still and blank, his head thrown back, facing the stairs, a look of surprise frozen on a face that would smile no more, laugh never again. His chest had been cleaved open, his throat slit. Celeborn had fallen at his uncle's side and he was so coated in blood, both his and Thingol's, that she could not tell what color his tunic had been. There was a horrible deep gashes all over his body. "Celeborn," she whispered. His eyes were closed, the salt of tears dried upon his face amidst the blood. What need had there been for this?

It seemed as though he had dragged himself to Thingol's side and his face was pressed into Thingol's shoulder, his arms wrapped around the king. "Celeborn," she gasped, and the tears were falling freely now from her eyes as she carefully gathered her beloved into her arms, holding him tight against her, remembering how only this morning he had been alive and laughing, his body warm against hers…his smile. His skin was cool to the touch. "Celeborn, don't leave me!" She choked out frantically, her tears falling to mingle with the blood on his face, the blood that coated her hands, that stained her dress, as she held him in her arms. It was as if a nightmare had come to life and moved amongst them now, a phantasmal specter brought to life.

"What have they done to you?" She whispered, her eyes roving his form with horror. There was a deep gash in his stomach through which she could clearly see his insides, long cuts on his arms meant to drain his blood. His nose was broken and part of his scalp torn back. Tenderly, she lay him down on the floor, her ear pressed against his chest, listening to the faint and faltering rhythm of his heart, and while his heart was slowing hers was beating frantically like a hammer on an anvil. She knew it was only by Ilúvatar's grace that he had endured so long in this mangled state.

He seemed to come to for a brief moment, his eyes half opened, shifting into focus yet still clearly delirious as he raised trembling fingers, straining for a brief moment to touch the green silk of her gown before they fell away, the motion left incomplete. "Your dress…" he said in a dying whisper before his eyes rolled back in his head, his body going completely limp.

"No…no…no!" Galadriel cried in a ragged whisper, her entire body trembling as it never had before.

"The healers are on their way," Paniel said, her voice low and quick, unable to keep the worry from her voice.

"It will be too late," Galadriel said, her voice low and frightened, terror ringing in her heart like a hollow bell. She bent closer to Celeborn, embracing him fully, lying down by his side, her body flush against hers.

"What are you doing?" Paniel hissed, sounding frantic for the first time since Galadriel had known her.

"We are bound by blood," Galadriel whispered, "what life I have…perhaps it can pass to him."

"If he dies!" Paniel cried.

"Then what is left for me that I should wish to live?" Galadriel replied softly. After that she remembered nothing, only that she had grasped at that slender thread that connected them, that thread that had seemed to be slipping away, like a boat come loose from its moorings and drifting out to sea. Not yet, she thought, not yet, she pleaded, weaving the threads of her life together with his.

The stars were bright tonight, brighter than he had ever seen them, burning like ether in the deep blackness of the night and beneath them on the wine-dark sea the tide flowed out, dragging him with it into the depths of the ocean and he beat back against it, ever back, borne ceaselessly back against the current. Where he walked in space and time he did not know, only that everything seemed so still, but he had heard that drowning was a peaceful death and, as he sank deeper and deeper into the darkness of the ocean he felt the water wrapping her arms around him, pulling him ever the more inexorably down into finality.

He could feel his life leaving him slowly as his memories bled away like mist evaporating at the coming of morning only beyond that morning there was no existence save for a blinding stillness adorned in light. If it were possible to be born in reverse then he would have said that death resembled such a thing, for at first he recognized the people in his memories: Thingol, Melian, Lúthien, Beleg, Galathil, Galadriel, but gradually the names grew fainter and fainter until they were nothing more than unfamiliar faces: a silver haired man, a dark-haired youth, a girl with hair like sunlight. A moment ago they had had names…but no…they were strangers now.

"Adar?" He rubbed small hands over sleepy eyes and, in the dim light of the stars, blinked up at the still blurry shape hovering above him, but though his vision had not yet cleared, he knew well that gentle touch, the soft kiss pressed now against his forehead.

He could hear fires crackling in the distance, the quiet hubbub of the night watchers' conversations. "I'm going hunting," his father whispered, stroking his son's silver hair back from his small forehead. Galadhon's own hair shone as bright as the stars as well, a lone light in the dark. The memory faded to black and another swam into view.

An elven maid with hair of gold and every fiber of her being imbued with a magnificent power so that he stood in awe, having half forgot who he was or what he had been doing while he watched with rapt wonder as she stood slender as a reed in the dying light of summer, her eyes fixed upon his as if she too beheld some marvel. In those eyes as pale as morning he had seen unfathomable pain and suffering beyond measure, and yet she stood, tall as a queen and just as proud, unbreakable as the foundations of the earth. In his mind at that first moment he had called her…

But the name had faded from his memory and in a final fit of desperation he struggled to hold on to that last small and precious thing, for though he could no longer recall her name, he somehow knew that this memory, that she…was the most important thing, his most treasured thing…but no…it was fading now, the way that things faded to white when you stared for too long at the sun and then…then it was gone.

And, just as he was about to slip over that horizon into that unknown and unknowing world beyond the edge of things he felt some tug, as if at his heartstrings, and a light passing into him as if through a single, fragile thread. But the thread was growing thicker now, more secure, less tenuous, tendrils of shining, glowing, magnificent light wrapping around it, binding to it. Like a weaver passing a shuttle through a loom some unseen soul was binding the threads of his life back together. He knew then that he was not alone, that there was another, another soul who stood against the tide, and against time and the stars, and against everything.

"Do not leave me, do not leave me alone in this world where I cannot find you," he heard a voice, not pleading but commanding and then he saw the face of a being, not woman or man, but the raw power of a soul unclothed, more radiant than the dawn in a flash of blinding white light, as though this being had forced the darkness away through will alone. "Ilúvatar," he gasped, for who else could this be save heaven herself. Then slowly the image faded from dawn into night and he slept again for a time in the deepness of the earth.

It was strange to see Thingol so still and cold, Galadriel thought as she stood alone by his bier, the light of a thousand candles casting an eerie glow onto his pale face. His body had been washed, cleaned, and mended as best they had been able, his ice-blue eyes were closed forever, his long silver hair brushed out straight until it shone like the tail of a comet.

It was always strange to see someone in death, but even more so someone who had been so vibrant, so powerful, so very…alive. Thingol had always felt things so wholly, whether it had been anger, or joy, or sadness, and to see him now devoid of those passions was sobering, surreal. She could hardly believe that she would never hear his great booming laugh again, never see that twinkle in his eye or that fierce calculating look of his either, never see that broad, carefree smile that reminded her so much of…

The sight of him sent a shiver down Galadriel's back, for Olwë, bore such a strong resemblance to his older brother, save for the color of their hair, that it might as well have been her own grandfather laid out there. The killing had begun in Alqualondë, but like the sea it had swept to theses shores as well. How many more of the Teleri will die? She thought to herself. And why are they the ones who suffer for the crimes of the Noldor? In that moment she well understood Celeborn's disdain for the Valar.

She tried to remind herself that it was not all chance nor could the blame be entirely placed elsewhere, but that Thingol had, in part, brought this upon himself…yet what good was it? He still had not deserved death and who was she to be the judge of him, or of anyone? Placing blame would not bring him back, it would not undo the trespasses of days gone past, it would not save them, could not save them now.

His hair drew her eye again, silver, like Celeborn's, silver as the edge of a blade. The thoughts swam up unbidden like bile, the memory of the horrific sight of Thingol dead, of Celeborn at his side, torn and broken. For a moment she had thought them both dead and she remembered how faint, and fragile, and frail Celeborn's heartbeat had been, how cold he had felt, how unlike himself. The thoughts threatened to drag her down into the abyss of despair and so she turned away, gasping, hand clutched to her chest, unable to endure the sight anymore. Maybe the worst thing about death, she thought, is that it makes you into someone you do not know before the end.

The caves had all gone dark now that Melian was gone and the ceiling was just a ceiling. No longer did the stars twinkle there or the sun and moon traverse an enchanted sky. The girdle must be gone as well, she knew, and even if she hadn't weakened herself so severely by channeling her life into Celeborn she had not sufficient strength to do what Melian had done. She was no Maia. The silver lantern she carried in her hand lit her way and the fireflies that danced through the dark corridors provided some welcome light as she made her way back to the houses of healing.

She had hardly left Celeborn's side through this ordeal, though the healers had assured her he would live, that he would wake eventually, but she had deemed it appropriate to pay her final respects to Thingol and so she had gone. But it wasn't only because she wished to be by Celeborn's side that she dreaded leaving the safe haven of the healers, but also because the rumors were beginning to spread. Thingol's death and the betrayal by the dwarves had caused panic, and worse, suspicion to seep through Menegroth like poison. Tensions had grown once more between the Sindar, the Avari, the Nandor, and most especially between all of these and the Noldorin refugees from Nargothrond. As it did, ill will turned towards her.

Galathil was kind, and fair and…too much like Orodreth. Though he had managed to keep his wits about him thus far, he had not Celeborn's knack for leadership, nor the strength of will to do the unpleasant tasks that, now more than ever, needed doing. And, as the days and weeks passed in which Celeborn did not wake, her worry for him and for this kingdom grew. She knew that Mablung had sent word to Beren and Lúthien, that they would be coming to take control of Doriath, but she also knew it would take some time for them to arrive and in the meantime the role of king regent was being played by Galathil, though it should have been Celeborn, had he not been so badly injured. And she knew that, more than anyone, Galathil wished that the heavy crown had not fallen to him.

The houses of healing had taken on a phantasmal appearance, lit by a few silver lanterns here and there that cast meager light upon the long curtains that divided the beds, rising up into darkness. She tried to walk as quietly as she was able but the place was nearly deserted and her footsteps echoed in the stone caverns. She pulled back the curtains that surrounded Celeborn's bed and stepped inside, closing them behind her and setting the lantern on its stand, opening the little glass door. There was plenty of oil in it. But I ought to trim the wick soon, she thought, when a rustling noise caught her attention and she turned so quickly that she nearly sent the lantern tumbling to the floor.

"Celeborn!" She exclaimed, her voice an elated whisper in the silence. He was sitting up, or trying to at least, and he wore a look of complete and utter awe upon his face, as though he were simultaneously lost and amazed. She wanted nothing more than to embraced him, to throw her arms about him and weep with immense feeling of relief that had blossomed in her heart like a forest rose but she dared not touch him for fear of agitating his injuries. "Rest, rest!" She said, seating herself upon the edge of the bed, taking his hand in hers. "Do not tax yourself!"

He looked at her curiously for a moment, that same awestruck look in his eye, and said, "by the grace of Ilúvatar, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I thought for a moment that I was walking in a field of stars when I saw you." Galadriel smiled, blushing at her beloved's praise. She couldn't have cared less for the extravagant words, for the joy that was filling her heart so that it nearly overflowed now was because he was awake and alive; nothing else mattered.

"Oh I was so worried," she said, her voice a trembling whisper as she leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his brow. Tears were leaking from her eyes now and she reached up to wipe them away, smiling for his benefit, so that he would know that it was not from sorrow that she wept. "I suppose I have just been holding it all in," she remarked, "until now, until I knew that you were out of death's door. But it has been so hard: trying to be strong," she drew a trembling breath and released it. The words seemed so foolish and small but there was nothing she could think of to say that could ever convey how she felt at this moment, that strange and overwhelming synthesis of bitter pain and the sweetness of joy.

Celeborn looked at her quizzically, his green eyes turning fully to hers, confusion in their depths. "Where am I?" He asked. "What happened to me?" He looked down, at the bandages that covered his arms, his bare chest, his stomach, and then reached up to feel the gauze that was bound around his forehead, covering the wound where the dwarves had tried to scalp him. His hands were unsteady, unsure, trembling.

"I was hoping you could tell me," Galadriel said softly, reaching out to gently gather his hands into her own once more. "No one is entirely sure what happened down there between you, Thingol, and the dwarves, though of course there has been a good deal of conjecture. Your wounds…they were very bad, Celeborn, though the healers have assured me that you will mend completely given time…"

"Who are you?" He asked, interrupting her. He turned his eyes up to her once more, shaking his head, his brow furrowed, "and why do you care for me so?"

"I," Galadriel started and stopped, confused for a moment, a small and uncomfortable laugh escaping her. "One who loves you," she said at last with a smile, though she wanted to chide him, to tell him that this was not the time for silly jokes. But Celeborn only seemed all the more perplexed by what she had said.

"What is your name?" He asked her. "You…you speak with an accent…" He cocked his head, curious. "Where are you from?"

Galadriel opened her mouth and then shut it again, at a loss for words. "I…I'm Galadriel," she said, feeling as though her mind had gone blank.

"That is a beautiful name," Celeborn said with a kind smile. "It suits you."

"You…you gave it to me," Galadriel stammered, the realization of what had happened beginning to dawn on her. It felt as though he were slipping away, as though she was truly losing him now, even though he had threaded his fingers through hers. "You gave it to me!" She said again, desperate, as though the words could force him to remember.

"Do I know you?" He asked her, seeming worried, realizing that it was something he had done that was causing her this pain.

"Of course you know me," she exclaimed. "I am your betrothed." The tears had risen unbidden again, running down her face like drops of spring dew, and he reached up with his weak and trembling hand, wiping them away though they did not stop falling.

"Do not cry, Galadriel," he said, his eyes filled with concern. "You are even lovelier when you weep, so lovely I cannot bear it. But I can hardly bring myself to believe what you have said, for I do not know what I could possibly have done to win the love of such a compassionate lady."

His words were too much for her to bear and she stood, grabbing the lantern and pushing through the curtains, practically running down the rows of curtained beds. Her footsteps had brought the healers running and it was Inwen who reached her first. "Galadriel?" She said, taking her hand in hers, her eyes quick with worry. "Is something the matter? Has he taken a turn for the worse?"

Galadriel shook her head, feeling as though her heart were pounding in her throat. "He is awake," she said, "but he remembers nothing. He could not even recall my name…He knows me not."

"You called me?" Paniel heard the soft voice, the gentle voice, but she did not look up, dared not look up. Her heart was leaping about in her chest like a jackrabbit, fluttering nervously. She had half hoped he would not come and for a moment she thought she might be sick. She scrubbed harder, staring down intently at the dress. The laundries were dark, deserted, and she heard him shuffling about anxiously, approaching nervously.

"Yes," she said finally, simply. She would rather have said nothing but she had to make some sort of reply. He was quiet for a while before he spoke again.

"Are you going to tell me why?" He asked.

"Does it matter?" She said, looking up at last, glaring at him. She wondered if it was madness that had driven her to write the message to him.

"No," Mablung offered her a small smile and leaned up against the wall. "I would happily sit here all evening and watch you scrub that dress." She knew he meant it.

"You've been gone weeks now," she said curtly, cutting off his line of inquiry. She had no use for his romanticisms and she did not wish to follow them to where they would lead.

"We had to send word to Lúthien and Beren, to track down the dwarves," he replied, stretching.

"And did you?" She asked. He nodded.

"They're all dead now. Not that it makes much difference as they've already dealt us the heaviest of blows," he shook his head. Silence stretched between them. "I never thought it would come to this," he said softly and she looked up briefly, her eyes meeting his for a moment in which she understood that his world, like hers, had been destroyed in the matter of a moment.

"It won't come out," she said, turning her attention back to the Galadriel's gown as if to distract the both of them from the immensity of doom that hung over them. It wouldn't. She had tried every trick she knew and still the great, horrid bloodstains remained. "It's ruined." She scrubbed harder.

"Some stains never come out," Mablung murmured and she slowed, stilling her fierce scrubbing. "That doesn't make a thing any less precious."

She stilled, casting the brush down, wiping her soapy hands on her skirt, turning her eyes towards his, but Mablung looked down at his folded hands, smiling and shaking his head, a small laugh escaping him. "All those years ago I searched for you…I should have known," he said, "that you were in the laundries, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning," he laughed, "cleaning everything just like you used to; trying to clean yourself, no matter how many times I told you that you weren't dirty." Paniel rose to her feet, her heart thundering. It was now or never - before she lost the nerve to do what she had summoned him for.

"I'm not," she said, believing it for perhaps the first time, "I'm not unclean." Mablung looked up, startled, his eyes widening. He uncrossed his arms, letting them fall at his sides and then he smiled, that uneven smile of his, the left side of his mouth rising higher than the right, seeming suddenly shy and embarrassed as if he knew not what to do.

"I've been trying to tell you that for ages," he said with a shy little laugh, looking down. Paniel thought she might even have seen a hint of a blush on his face. "Only you never listen to me…or to anyone really," he mumbled. But she had already crossed the room, taking his face in her hands and he looked at her in surprise, his eyes searching hers as though he wondered whether he had done something wrong.

"Mablung," she whispered, "I marry you. With Eru Ilúvatar as my witness I marry you. I marry you." He stared at her in shock for an instant and she feared in the span of that heartbeat that his feelings towards her had changed, that this sudden leap of faith was all for naught.

But then the tears welled in his eyes and, blinking them away, he whispered, "I marry you Paniel. In the name of Eru Ilúvatar I marry you. I marry you." Then his lips met hers for the first time, tentative, unsure, and she opened her mouth to the unfamiliar taste of him. She felt his arms wrap around her, holding her tight, and his hands were trembling so badly she could hardly believe it.

"I love you," she whispered into his mouth, tears running down her cheeks. "I always have…only I never knew how to trust you until that day." Their kiss intensified and now they were unafraid, her hands quickly and nimbly unbuckling the straps that fastened his armor, his hands deftly undoing the laces of her bodice as clothing made its way to the floor and at last they stood naked before one another.

"You are sure?" Mablung asked, concern evident in his eyes, but Paniel nodded, unafraid.

"My life is not his," she said. "My life is my own and I will do with it as I chose, not as the past dictates."

"If this is your choice then I respect it," Mablung said, his eyes filled with great affection, and, at long last, she felt the beginning of a strange sensation tugging at the corners of her mouth: a smile. Then she reached up to the long rows of shelves holding freshly laundered sheets of cotton and silk and linen, newly pressed and folded, and she pulled them from the shelves, tossing them into the air where they unfurled like banners and floated like many colored streamers to the floor in an array of whites, and blues, and golds. She sat down in the midst of them, her eyes lit with resolution, and extended her hand to him.

"Come Mablung," she said, "I have made our bed. Now will you make me your wife?" He joined her there amidst the smell of soap and cleanliness, his hands gentle, his kisses tender, and slowly, with all the care in the world, they joined. It was not what she had thought it would be, not pain, and pushing, and taking. Rather, it was giving, and pleasure and, more than that - joy, trust. It was slow careful movement and lips soft on skin, hands that were gentle and caring, that left no doubt in her mind that Mablung loved her just as much as he said he did and even more, until suddenly she was crying aloud not in agony, but in a sort of bliss she had never known, while he gasped, holding her tight, so close that neither she nor he existed as they felt their souls seeping into each other, melding to form one heart beating between the two of them before they collapsed into each other.

Afterwards, lounging in the loose embrace of his strong arms, she traced his skin with her fingertips, her eyes lost in his gaze as, smiling, he stroked her hair, and their thoughts and feelings flowed between them like water, a perfect confluence. She didn't need to say it out loud for him to know, not anymore, but she did it all the same, "this is the first time," she said, "that I ever remember feeling safe and happy."

"May it be the first of many," Mablung said, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow.

"It may take some time for him to recover his memories," Inwen said, a look of gentle concern on her face as she and Galadriel sat together in a small antechamber. "He lost a great deal of blood and the injuries he sustained to his head were quite severe, but hopefully all of his memories will return in time."

"Hopefully…" Galadriel said, the dreaded word dropping from her lips. "It has been weeks now."

"I can't promise…" Inwen began to say.

"No, I understand. My apologies," Galadriel said, her voice as tense as her body felt and Inwen squeezed her hand.

"I know it must be terribly difficult," the dark-haired healer said, meeting her eyes. "I would never wish such a thing on anyone." Galadriel nodded, but her heart was not in the conversation, caught up instead in her worry. "It is…" Inwen started again, her voice tentative, "…it is a good sign though that some of his memories are returning."

"Yes of course," Galadriel said tersely, standing and wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she paced back and forth in pinched and hurried steps. "Of course," she said again, more to fill the air than anything else. He was remembering some things now: the attack in the smithies, how Thingol had died. He had recognized Galathil's face after only a few days. And there were other memories, more distant memories that had surfaced, dark memories that caused him to shout and weep in the dead of night.

"Galadriel," Inwen stood but Galadriel could not find it in her heart to look at her, for she knew she would weep if she did. "I am no expert in these illnesses of the mind but…I have heard other healers say that in such cases the memories that people hold most dear are those that are the most painful to lose and thus they are the most difficult to recover."

Galadriel nodded numbly, feeling horribly selfish and wretched for being concerned over such a thing. "If I…you know of our bond…if I were to…" she toyed nervously with the silver band on her finger, "if I were to show him the memories…"

Inwen was silent for a moment before giving the answer that Galadriel had anticipated. "If you thought that was a good idea you would already have done it," she said softly, "and you would not have asked my opinion. He will remember when he is ready and…when he remembers then perhaps, slowly, you might let him see them."

Galadriel nodded stiffly and, conscious of what an uncomfortable position she must be putting the healer in, she said hastily, "I…I'll go to him. He is probably wondering where I've got to," turning on her heel and sweeping from the room. She played idly with her hands as she walked, pulling at the skin of her cuticles. As she had expected, she found Celeborn where she had left him with Galathil. They were in a less used ward of the houses of healing with a long and secluded veranda that looked out over the gardens below. It had been a very long, slow, and difficult walk for him from his bed to this place but she had thought that the sight of growing natural things might revive him somewhat and he had wanted to try walking a bit today.

He turned as she emerged through a curtain of ivy, tension evident in the way he was holding his body, and worry in his eyes. Galathil stood, a pleasant smile on his face as he took her aside. She found herself extraordinarily happy for the younger prince's ability, so unlike his brother, to feign joy when his heart was greatly troubled. Something about it soothed her aching heart if only a little.

"How is he today?" She asked in a whisper and, now that Galathil's back was turned to his brother, she saw the worry he let show in his eyes and the weariness that seemed to sit so heavy upon his brow.

"Somewhat better," he said, pursing his lips and then drawing them into a thin nervous line, "if one can call the remembrance of foul things better than having forgot them. He is still preoccupied with Thingol's death, with Melian, with what has happened with the dwarves…his thoughts today are very dark." Galadriel nodded numbly and Galathil reached out, clasping her hand in his. "I am so sorry all this has happened to you," he said, his kind grey eyes filled with unshed tears, his voice hoarse, "and on the day which ought to have been the happiest."

Galadriel drew a deep, shuddering breath and nodded once more, squeezing Galathil's hand briefly before letting go. "If it were in us to choose our fates perhaps there would be a great deal more happiness in the world," she said and Galathil sighed, nodding to her once more before bowing and making a hasty exit. She knew that this was just as hard on Galathil as it was on her, even more so perhaps as he had been saddled with the unexpected and unwanted mantle of power.

She turned back towards Celeborn though he was not looking at her, his eyes dark and tormented as he stared out into the gardens, but she could tell that his mind was focused elsewhere. Slowly, quietly, she seated herself at his side, feeling as if her body and soul weighed more than the earth itself.

"There are…" she began, broaching the silence, her mind occupied by the papers that she had found, "things that we must show you once you are well, once you have regained your memory." He did not turn towards her but continued to stare into space, his eyes dark, his countenance troubled.

"My brother said the same," he murmured. Galathil he had remembered after only a little time. Galadriel drew a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap as Celeborn shifted, his breath catching at the movement agitated his wounds.

"Thingol wanted me to wear the Silmaril," Celeborn said and Galadriel looked up, startled.

"Do you remember the wedding?" She asked, faint hope burgeoning in her heart, hope that dissipated in the next instant as he shook his head.

"No, I remember going to the smithies with him, I remember what happened there," Celeborn said. "I remember… I don't remember you…" Galadriel opened her mouth to speak but he passed over the thought so quickly that it seemed nigh inconsequential to him. "He deceived me, betrayed me," Celeborn whispered. "I am ashamed that I once called him father." The anger seemed to exhaust him and he leaned back against the bench, his face twitching with pain.

"He made mistakes," Galadriel said after a moment of thought, "just as we all have. You cannot expect perfection from him, Celeborn, either in life or death. And, besides, all is not yet clear, the extent of his culpability is still in flux. We do not yet know everything." All fell silent.

"The dwarves…" Celeborn grunted.

"Dead," she affirmed. "Mablung and the wardens tracked them, slew them, reclaimed the Silmaril." Celeborn shook his head.

"The thing ought to be cast into the sea," he murmured.

"When you are well enough you shall be king and then you may do with it as you wish," she said. "But will Galathil not rid us of it?"

"He is undecided," Celeborn said after a pause, "for Dior has urged him to keep it. That is what he came to tell me."

"Oh," Galadriel said, her heart troubled, and their conversation lapsed into silence, each of them staring out into the blackness of the caverns, the silver lanterns illuminating the dark canopy of the trees that the veranda looked out over. Fireflies flitted here and there in clouds of twinkling golden light, yet there was a darkness and solemnity to these halls that there had not been before and Galadriel felt as though happiness would never again bloom in these gardens or in this palace for a moment before the premonition faded like the dying of the light of day.

"I…" she turned at the sound of Celeborn's voice to find that he had drawn himself out of his reverie at last and was watching her curiously now, a quizzical look upon his face. "I apologize," he said. "This must be very difficult for you and yet still you come to me every day, sit with me. That is what you went to speak to the healers about just now, is it not?" His voice trailed off, giving way to a certain awkwardness that Galadriel sought to diminish.

"Of course it is difficult," she said. "But I promised to love you without conditions and I do…love you unconditionally I mean. You will remember with time I trust." Even as she said them her words felt curiously unfeeling to her, hollow, and she knew it was in part because she did not believe herself that he would ever be able to recall his memories of her, in part because it felt very strange to confess love to someone who did not know you. She wanted nothing more than to recall all of the memories, to push them into his mind through their bond but Inwen had cautioned her against it. Yet, it was strange to sit beside someone she knew better than anyone and find he knew her not at all.

"It is hard for me as well," he said and she looked up, startled, a hint of surprise in her eyes but Celeborn only smiled. "Do you think," he said, "that it is easy for me to sit beside such an astounding woman, knowing that I must have kissed her once upon a time, and not be able to remember it at all?"

Despite everything, that managed to bring a smile to her lips and, more than that a small and startled laugh, but a laugh of joy nevertheless. "You hardly know me," she murmured, "so I am forced to suspect that you only think about kissing me because of my beauty."

"A woman who knows her own power…" he said with a nod and a benign grin, staring off into space, "and wields it like a sword, adding to my wounds. Can you not imagine that it is because I care for you, the woman who so carefully nurses me back to health each day?"

Galadriel only snorted with suppressed laughter, rolling her eyes as a broad smile parted her lips. "You're being facetious," she said.

"Was I good at that?" He asked with a grin.

"At what?" She asked, feeling shy now for some reason. "Do you mean kissing, being facetious, or making me laugh?"

"Well I was going to say making you laugh," he told her, "but now you've made me wonder about all three." It seemed as if he had wished to say more but instead he hissed in pain, leaning back against the bench, his eyes closed, his teeth clenched tightly.

"The pains again?" She asked, her heart accelerating, and he remained quiet for a moment before he answered with a stiff nod. Gradually he relaxed, the tentative smile returning to his face, and she thought to make him laugh as he had made her laugh, to help him forget the pain for a moment.

"Well, whatever the state of your memories," she said, "I can see that you otherwise haven't changed a bit."

"Is that so?" Celeborn asked with a chuckle. "Was I this intolerable before?"

"Very," she said, watching as he cocked his head as if all of a sudden, something had risen to the front of his mind.

"Do you know," he said after a pregnant pause, his gaze fixed upon the gardens below, "now that you have reminded me of how very troublesome I can be, there is something about that tree that seems familiar." He gestured to the large oak and Galadriel swallowed hard, for it was familiar to her as well. "Was I…I feel as though I remember sitting in that tree, agitating you and…and then I was here, in the houses of healing."

"Yes," Galadriel said breathlessly, her hands trembling, her heart fluttering madly in her chest, "yes, you poured water on my head and I threw a potato at you and…"

"And I fell and broke my arm," Celeborn supplied, laughing.

"Yes, that's right," Galadriel gasped, nodding vigorously, feeling as though her heart was about to burst out of her chest.

"I touched your hair," he said, his eyes glimmering with joy, "and you almost touched mine…"

"And Thingol interrupted us," Galadriel gasped, her hands trembling so badly now that she could not steady them and she turned away, feeling as if the air had grown too thick, drawing a deep breath before turning back to him hastily only to find that all of a sudden his hand was about her waist, his other cupping her cheek.

"Are you going to…" she gasped.

"Yes," he murmured, a depth to his voice that betrayed the emotions that were blossoming in both their hearts, beginning to pass between them like slender, glowing, threads of light that slowly knit their souls together. Her eyes flickered to his for a moment before fluttering shut, and then she felt his lips firm and demanding against her own, opening her mouth to him she kissed him back with equal fervor as a bright shining light split the horizon like lightning, the memory of how he had first kissed her lapped at the shores of her mind, traversing the current of her heart to his. And that same swell of feeling that she had felt so long ago, as if the whole world now lay open to them, a whole life to be lived not in the shadow of fear, but in the promise of freedom and happiness.

They broke apart, eyes wide, hands clasped, chests heaving. "I remember, I remember when I kissed you," Celeborn gasped, his voice thick with emotion. "I remember…I had to…how could I not after I had seen the whole world in your eyes?" He sat still in amazement, as if frozen in time, but Galadriel felt desperation rising in her, clawing at her throat as it worked its way up, manifesting itself in words.

"Let us run away together into the east across the mountains, just the two of us," she gasped, blinking away burgeoning tears. "We can live in a tree and I will grow plants and weave our clothes, and you can hunt, and we will be perfectly, perfectly happy and perfectly, perfectly alone," she whispered, sounding for all the world as if she wanted to do nothing more than weep until she could not weep any longer. "I have thought the whole thing out," she said, "just you and me." Celeborn turned her face towards him, wiping away the tears that welled from her eyes even as he felt her delicate hand against his face, doing the same.

"You know I cannot," he whispered, reaching out to stroke her cheek. Galadriel caught his hand in her own, pressing the knuckles to her lips, kissing them with lips that trembled from the effort it took to hold back her tears, "but if you wish to go I shall not hold you to a promise you made to a man who barely remembers you."

"I'll not leave you," Galadriel said, her eyes flashing fiercely as she looked up at him. Their gazes met in the silence of a second, each as resolute as the other, until that silence was shattered by the faint and distant sound of screams. They only had time to be startled for a moment before Inwen emerged onto the veranda, her eyes wide with fright, her face white, her hands trembling.

"The dwarves have returned," she gasped, "with a great army and all of the guards on our borders have been overpowered. They are at the gates even now and Galathil…he is no soldier…"

Footnotes: Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! If you have any more meta questions for the epilogue please send to me in a PM or drop in a review if you don't have an account. Also…we're 7 reviews away from 2nd most reviewed C&G story ever! AHHHH!

Also, I think I am going to commission some art. If you feel so inclined, can you guys tell me either in review or PM what your two most favorite scenes from the whole fic are and a nice person will draw them for us?