Arwen looked beautiful as she said her vows. Her grey dress shone like silver in the lamplight and the white elanor flowers sprinkled through her dark hair was like a mirror of the stars that blossomed above them. Most beautiful of all though was her smile. Celeborn had not seen her so happy in decades.

He turned to Galadriel to say as much, but found she was standing in a meadow. Grey mist rolled off her and she seemed to blur about her edges. She held out a cup of white mead to him solemnly.

"Already our evening draweth nigh," she said. Then she dissolved completely into a grey cloud that blew westward.

Then there was a sound behind him, the slow, relentless beat of enormous wings growing louder and closer. Celeborn's heart raced and he turned towards it.

As he turned he found himself in the midst of a battle at the borders of Lórien. A gore-crusted claw came into view above him. Celeborn dove for his spear and thrust it upwards, but the beast grabbed it by the shaft and wrenched it from his hands. A second claw grabbed the back of his hauberk and lifted him upward. He managed to grab his knife, but before he could use it he felt himself thrown against the trunk of a tree. He collapsed, dazed, and the beast pinned him against the earth.

A Nazgûl lept down from the great winged beast and came towards him. Celeborn had seen many foul creatures in the ages of his life, but none quite so horrifying and repulsive as a Nazgûl. Men were not made to exist in the world so long. Its very being was rotting and putrid, but somehow this decay simply preserved it further, like some evil fermentation of the spirit. Through long years in darkness all humanity it once had had been devoured and transformed until it was toxic and wilted and no longer a man. And now it was so close the edges of its cloak brushed against Celeborn's chest. It sniffed at him questioningly.

"This is the leader," it said, and its voice was like the scraping of steel on glass. Celeborn struggled. In a more rational state, he would have chosen to save his energy and wait for an opening, but as he was now, dazed, overcome with revulsion, he could have done nothing else. As much to his own surprise as to the Nazgûl's, he managed to free one arm, though not the one that held his knife. With all his might, he threw his fist against the wraith standing over him.

It screeched with anger and the mouth of its winged beast clamped like a vise about his arm in retaliation. Celeborn screamed as its jagged teeth sank through his skin. Blood and saliva dripped onto his face and the roots of the tree beside him.

"Reveal the ring to me," the wraith rasped, but Celeborn wasn't listening. He was too distracted by the stinging cold spreading through his arm.

For a moment only, he felt a familiar presence brush against his mind, warm and bright as a sunbeam though the clouds. Then it was gone. At a command from the wraith, the jaws clamped tighter. Celeborn hissed with pain.

"This is not even a taste of what I can inflict. Give me the white ring," the wraith said.

So that was what this was about! The enemy's power over the elven rings was less than over the others. Unable to sense Nenya while Galadriel kept it dormant, the Nazgûl simply assumed he, as lord of the land, would have it. How very like the enemy.

The wraith grabbed him by the hair. "You may give it to me now, or I will make you reveal it in Dol Guldar."

Through great effort, Celeborn managed to slow his gasping breaths enough to speak. "No power you possess can find it upon me."

"By what arts do you think you can hide it from its master."

"An art he, apparently, cannot conceive of."

There was a flash of white in the distance, and the orcs cried out in terror as a burst of Nenya's power surged through the trees. The warm presence returned, this time like starlight - Galadriel.

"He has it not!" the wraith hissed. It lept back onto its steed, which took off towards the flash, still holding Celeborn by the arm in its teeth. But now Celeborn's other arm was free. He grasped his knife and rammed it into the beast's shoulder. It opened its mouth in a hideous shriek and then he was falling. Darkness closed in about him.

Celeborn woke with a start to a comfortable bed and a white ceiling lit with the pink glow of dawn. It took him a moment to remember where he was. There weren't many ceilings in Caras Galadhon. Slowly, it came back to him. Gondor. Arwen's wedding. He willed his racing heart to slow. The Nazgûl had been weeks ago.

His arm stung horribly though, and blood was beginning to seep through the bandages; small wonder he had dreamed of it again. He supposed the healers had warned him against traveling so soon after such an injury. Perhaps he should not have stayed so late at the reception.

There was nothing to do about it now though except rebandage it. How though? Even if he had been more skilled in healing, it was not an easy thing to bandage ones own arm. Elrond had seen to it on the journey there, but Celeborn was loathe to bother him today. However composed Elrond had seemed in public, he could not hide the grief in his eyes. He knew better than any of them what would become of Arwen.

So not Elrond then. There were other healers with them too, of course, but he was unlikely to find them awake at this hour, unless it happened that they had not yet gone to sleep. It was even more unlikely that he would find them sober.

Perhaps outside his race? He remembered one of the buildings they had passed in the procession into the city. It had been a place of healing of some sort. That would surely be sufficient.

He glanced beside him. Should he wake Galadriel? She was no healer, but Elrond had warned him against walking alone while injured. He brushed a lock of her golden hair behind her ear. He would prefer not to wake her. She had had a difficult night. Celeborn had done what he could to stop the songs of Beren - Lindir now seemed thoroughly frightened of him - but elvish music is too decentralized at such events for him to have stopped it completely.

But the main reason he didn't want to wake her was more selfish. While she was asleep, it was easy to forget the sea-longing that weighed down on her. The weariness and remoteness of her spirit was not so different from the natural state of sleep, and he could pretend for a while that she was whole again. He couldn't ignore it when she was awake. All he could think of then was their upcoming separation, looming behind them like some dark beast, now so close he could almost feel its breath on his neck. No, he preferred her asleep.

Besides, not walking alone was clearly advice for the wilds on the way here. He was in a city now; he would not really be alone. He dressed gently and set out.

The streets were nearly empty. It seemed most of the city had been out too late last night. They were missing a lovely morning. The air was still, the sun was gold, and the birds sang in the eaves of the buildings.

Celeborn wished he could appreciate it more, but the pain in his arm seemed to grow with every step. Was it really this far away? And was the road always this steep? He stumbled on some loose stones and without thinking, flung out his arms to keep his balance. This was a mistake. There was a sharp pain, and he felt something shift beneath the bandage. Large spots of blood began to blossom across his sleeve. He paused, alarmed, watching it drip onto the white stone of the road.

That was quite a lot of blood. He wondered if he should turn back, but no, it was too late for that. He must be nearly there. He pressed his good arm against the injured one and continued, growing more dizzy with every step. He felt his knee buckle. The paving stones rushed towards him.

But he didn't fall. Something grabbed him about the waist. Celeborn looked down to see a Gondor woman supporting him under his good arm.

"Oh, you're lighter than you look. That's good; my knees aren't what they used to be." She pulled her kerchief from her head and wrapped it tightly and his bleeding arm. "Come on, you're almost there."

"Almost where?" Celeborn asked.

The woman laughed. "The houses of healing. And if that's not where you were going before, it certainly is where you're going now. My name is Iorath, I'm a healer there. I was just on my way in when I saw you. I was running a bit late actually, but I suppose that worked out for the best. Fate takes strange paths, as they say.

"And what a strange path this is, headed to work with an elf over my shoulder! But no stranger than anything else these days. What a spring it has been! A king on the throne and Mordor defeated. Defeated! It's like the ancient days have come again."

Celeborn managed a weak smile. "I believe this is actually the first time in Gondor's history that both have been true."

The woman's eyes widened at the realization. "You're right! It would be. The war was won, but the king was lost, that's what they say about the ancient war with Mordor. How blessed we are then, to live in such times."

Her excitement was infectious. The world must seem so full of possibilities now to the people of Gondor, Celeborn thought, who had lived for generations in the shadow of the enemy. He suddenly realized that there could be no one who lived in this city who might remember it any other way. He wondered if that had made their hardships easier to bear, or more difficult. It must at least make their victory seem all the more wondrous.

"So you're from Imladris?" she asked.

"From Lothlórien."

Her eyes widened. "Really? Many strange tales I've heard of that land. It was absolutely surreal to see the lady of that land ride by yesterday - on this very street too if you can believe it, oh, of course you can you were probably there. And there was a lord too; I didn't realize they had one. I couldn't tell you a thing about him though, utterly forgettable next to her."

"I can see that." He didn't feel a need to correct her. In fact, he found it an amusing novelty to be unrecognized. That certainly never happened in Lórien.

"Oh good, it's not just me then. It's strange, everything I've heard about her says she's a dangerous, powerful sorcerer, but I saw her and she looked so beautiful and gentle. Which is true?"

Celeborn sighed. "Why do so many think she must be only one or the other?"

"Powerful and beautiful?" Ioreth considered this a while. "I suppose that's what every girl would like to be."

They arrived at a door in a large, well windowed building. Probably only one door - probably not drifting side to side either - but Celeborn wasn't in a state to verify.

Ioreth led him to a bed inside and, surprisingly gently, Celeborn thought, for one of her race, unwrapped the blood soaked bandage.

She gasped. "How did you get this? It looks like a bite, but it's much too large for a wolf or anything else I can think of."

"It was a Nazgûl mount," Celeborn answered. Most everyone among his people reacted with dread and horror at any mention of those dark creatures, but to his surprise, Ioreth practically jumped with excitement.

"Oh! I have just the thing for that!" She darted to a nearby shelf and returned with a bulging pouch and a basin of water. "Kingsfoil, if you can believe it. I know most people don't think it's got any medicinal value, but I saw it bring three folks stricken with the black shadow back from the brink of death." She grabbed a large handful of leaves from the pouch.

"My sickness passed with the destruction of the ring."

Ioreth paused, and her face fell. Her gaze shifted a few times between Celeborn and the bundle of leaves she so desperately wanted to use.

"Ah well." She shrugged, and threw them into the basin anyway. "It also smells nice."

It did smell nice. Maybe it even helped; Celeborn felt his head begin to clear a bit as Ioreth washed his arm, though he couldn't have said if that was from the plant or if it was because he was now lying down.

"As I imagine you already guessed, you've pulled a few stitches," Iorath told him. "I'm afraid this will sting a bit."

Celeborn nodded and looked up, away from the injury. The necessity of such leechcraft could not be denied, but he still preferred not to see the needle.

"Not that I'm complaining, but I'm a bit surprised you'd come to see us here and not go to one of your own people. Aren't elves supposed to be skilled in healing?" she asked.

"I am sure you are -" he grimaced as he felt the needle enter his skin, "- skilled as well."

Iorath laughed. "Are they all worn out from the celebrations then? I heard those went on well into the night. Luckily for you I am much too old for such things now." She paused. "That must sound ridiculous to you. Here I am calling myself old, when you've probably lived for hundreds of years."

Celeborn scoffed. "Rather more than hundreds."

"Well here's the first I've seen someone offended that I guessed too low, except maybe my grandnephew, but he's five - no, six. How am I supposed to know? Elves don't show their age."

"We do show our age, just not as men do," he said. "Time does not weather out bodies, but it weighs on our spirits and memories."

Ioreth nodded sagely, then suddenly seemed to realize that she didn't actually know what he meant. "And what does that look like?"

Celeborn paused, not sure how to articulate something that seemed so second nature to him. "I suppose it is mostly in the eyes?"

"Oh! Yes, I have noticed that, or at least I get a sense of this long memory and ancientness behind them. It all just seems so incomprehensibly vast though. I don't think I could discern a specific age."

"I suppose without any reference points it would be difficult," Celeborn said.

"Exactly! You know, I bet you wouldn't be any better at guessing my age than I am at yours. How old do you think I am?"

"I have had few dealings with men, but enough to know better than to make such a guess."

"Come now, I promise I won't be offended."

Celeborn looked at her, taking in the lines about her eyes which were narrowed in concentration at her work. Her hair, freed from its kerchief - he really should try to replace that before he left Gondor - had once been dark, but was now almost entirely grey. She looked much older than Aragorn, and he was - he thought back to when Elrohir had told him of Aragorn and his mother's coming to Rivendell - around ninety, probably. But Aragorn's people were longer lived than most men, even those in Gondor, so he must adjust for that. He should also try to guess a bit low. Most among the race of men, women especially, prefer to be perceived as younger than they are.

"Ninety-five?"

Her lips pursed and there was a long pause. "No."

"One hundred and five?"

"I'm fifty-three."

"Only fifty-three?" Celeborn said, surprised.

"Hey now!"

"I only meant that I did not realize just how short men's lives are."

"How short men's lives are? I'm not dead yet!" Her voice sounded insulted, but in her face she could hardly hide her amusement that Celeborn was even worse at judging ages than expected.

"You promised not to be offended," Celeborn reminded her.

Ioreth laughed. "And you seem determined to make a liar of me."

"My guess was still closer than yours."

"Oh?" she asked. She was obviously very curious, but even with such a clear invitation, Celeborn noted with amusement, she could apparently not bring herself to outright ask him his age. Mannish taboos were too strong. He answered the unspoken question anyway.

"I am not sure of the exact number, as my people did not keep a count of years when I was young, but my memory begins before the first sunrise, and that was over seven-thousand years ago."

Ioreth gave a stunned laugh. "Well I was off by - but wait, my 'guess' as you called it was simply 'hundreds.' I didn't say how many. Maybe I meant seventy-hundred."

"Ah yes, I had forgotten that peculiar feature of Gondorian counting," Celeborn said flatly.

"Yes, 'hundreds' can refer to any number over two-hundred here," she laughed. Then she grew pensive. "The lady of your land, is she very old? It certainly looked like something was weighing heavy on her spirit. It was almost as if she wasn't really there, as though she was just a memory of something that used to be."

Celeborn sighed. "The sea longing is heavy on her. It will be only a short time before she sails west."

"Who will lead you then? Is her husband going also?"

Celeborn shook his head sadly. "He is staying. The west calls him not, and there are still things on these shores for which he is needed."

"Not his time then? That's sad, that they should be separated. It's not the same thing of course, but I lost my husband when I was young. He just went to bed one day and never woke up. His heart, most likely. It's like losing a part of yourself. You heal and move on, but there's always this little empty spot where they used to be."

"I'm sorry." Celeborn wondered if he was seeing a glimpse of his future in her. "As awful as the dread of losing of my beloved is, I think it would be worse to lose her so suddenly."

Ioreth looked at him curiously. "I take it you're in a similar situation to your lord then?"

"The exact same one, in fact. People tell me that things will get better with time, but I find it hard to believe them."

"I always hated people telling me that, but they're right, it really does get better. Not better as in 'back to how it was,' and of course not better as in 'things are so much better now that they're gone' - I assume anyway; I suppose I don't know your wife. When I say that it gets better, I mean that it starts as this horrible, world-ending tragedy and slowly it fades into the past until it's just something that happened. That still hurts, but it's a lot better."

Celeborn sighed. So that was what he had to look forward to. How unfair it was that he - that anyone - should have to go through such a loss. Perhaps he had been foolish in marrying Galadriel. After all, what other end could he have expected with a Noldo?

He said quietly, "If I might ask a very personal question: had you known when you were young that you would lose your husband, would you have done anything differently?"

Ioreth thought a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I'd make him drink a big cup of willow bark tea every morning. Good for the heart. He'd just have to learn to tolerate the taste."

"I meant, would you marry him again, knowing you would lose him?"

Ioreth seemed surprised at the question. "Of course I would. Better a few years than nothing at all. Yes, it hurts now, but pain's not the opposite of joy; it's the price of it. Flowers wilt, fruit rots, loves ones die. Everything's lost in the end. The best thing to do is appreciate it while it's there."

Celeborn thought on this. Better a few years than nothing at all. What a very mannish sentiment! There was wisdom in it though. Elves valued permanence, but that was not in the nature of the world. Seasons pass, trees grow, rivers shift their path. The world is in a constant state of change. It was not surprising that men would grasp this better than elves. Perhaps that was why they now flourished while his people faded.

If he were honest, he had not been making the best of his remaining time with Galadriel. In fact, he realized, on some level he had been avoiding her. The dread of losing her was strongest when they were together, so he had kept his distance. Why lose her though before she is even gone? There was still joy to be found together, even if he must buy it with sadness. He should have woken her this morning.

Ioreth clipped the thread. The stitches were complete. She brought out bandages and began to wrap them snugly about Celeborn's arm.

"You are a talented healer, Ioreth."

She blushed. "I'm sure I know a lot less than an elvish healer would."

"Then you should come with us to Lothlórien for a time and learn more."

Ioreth nearly dropped her bandages. "The golden wood? Well that, well I," she seemed at a loss for words, which Celeborn suspected was a rare occurrence. "Well, do you think your lord would allow it?"

"His permission will not be an issue, nor will your king's I think." Not if he wants to keep the favor of his new grandfather-in-law, anyway.

"Why then, yes! Why not? Many strange tales there are of that land, but there have been many strange things in this land too of late, and all have been wonderful. I'd be willing to risk a bit more strangeness."