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Suffering	By : Catalina Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 2472 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Suffering

Chapter Nine, Part Two

It�s been a long wait. Sorry.

A/N: Flightfen is my creation, and thus not mention in Lord of the Rings.

A/N2: There is now a third part of the Fornost Erain episode in the works.

Thanks to Isis for betaing this.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sun was already warm on Elrond�s shoulders as he took his seat at the trestle table, although the hour was early yet. The golden light even now rising above the trees bode fair for one of those rare, bright days which were the glory and treasure of Arnor. The waters sparkled beneath a sky clear and blue, and a light breeze shuffled through the ripening corn, and all things of death and darkness seemed so very far away.

Anor�s rays struck the young king full in the face, raising gilded sparks from the circlet at his brow and the belt of linked discs at his wife�s slender waist. The sceptre of Annúminas, cradled in the arms of the liegeman who stood at his back, shone softly, filling the man�s dour face with an unaccustomed warmth.

Long tables were set up in a great meadow before the walls of Fornost Erain, their boards laden with food and drink until the wood sighed with soft torment. Green grass showed between the wooden trestles and the booted feet which swung in idle rest. The linen cloth which covered the high table already showed signs of wear, crumbs scattering its surface, although the elf-lord was not late to break his fast. All the other tables sported no such cloths, and that was, perhaps, just as well. Pitchers and flagons, platters and trenchers, beer and mead and ale, bread and cheese, mushrooms and bacon, ham and eggs, fresh fruit and honey comfits from the South Kingdom, the latter a gift from Valacar of Gondor, the king�s kinsman from afar. It was a feast to sate even the Periannath, although few of that folk were present.

A roar of laughter startled the elf-lord, and he glanced up from his scrutiny of the breakfast table to see Mirwen of Arnor blushing furiously at some ribald jest pertaining to the marriage bed. The scarlet flush in her husband�s cheeks was little less noticeable, even as the mirth of his sworn men drowned his chagrined curses. Elrond spared him a smile of sympathy, but in the next moment his gaze had slid past the king to meet the eyes of the lady who sat at Mirwen�s left hand. Her eyes were wide and chill in a face as still and white as the first snows of winter. The blue in their depths was curiously dulled, as if she stood in the shade of some peril yet unseen.

Elrond forced a smile to his lips, inclining his head politely. "My lady."

"My lord." She shivered, and her hand tightened about the handle of the eating knife she held. Her fingers seemed perfect, smooth and slim against the chased metal, and he swallowed convulsively, his body tightening. He bowed his head to hide the flush in his cheeks, and a humourless chuckle escaped him. Easy enough to imagine that she wished that knife in his heart, and no great surprise. Had he not forced this marriage upon her, half an Age past? And if his spirit were sped to Mandos, would she not be free again? And yet, in truth, he did not wish for death, and his thoughts afforded him little surcease from the hapless yearnings of the flesh.

And if I die, what then of the Ring that is lost? What then of the world and its burdens?
```
And no distance of Mandos was needed between them, when the peaks of the Hithaeglir so often stood between his bed and hers.
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He shook his head, scooping mushrooms onto his plate, watching as the dark juices oozed slowly across the brilliant pewter, a grey-brown flood that steamed gently in the morning air. Accepting a slice of fine white bread, honeyed in token of sweetness for the king�s marriage, he took a slow bite, chewing as he thought.

Araphor had not hesitated to give him chambers separate from those of the Lady Celebrían, and, in truth, that had been no bad thing. Sleep had not eluded him, nor had he awoken tormented by her presence to watch the moonlight gleam on her silver hair and the play of shadows across her sleeping face. With no half-hidden swell of breast and hip to haunt his dreams and plague his waking it had been a fairer night�s sleep than many he had passed in Imladris or Lórien.

Elrond stirred uneasily, risking a glance at his wife. Would it were that the light of day brought me equal surcease... But Celebrían was unaware of him, her head tilted to listen to the words of the elderly seneschal who held the place beside her. Perhaps this is as it should be, he thought. Perhaps I have been too long selfish in keeping her in my bed, even though it be as far from my arms as such a thing may allow. Aye, I shall speak with her of it...

Even as he contemplated it sombrely, a shrill cry broke the peace of the morning. The music fell silent, hands stilling on strings while others flew to the hilts of swords too easily unsheathed for the grisly business of war. The air was suddenly leaden with the weight of expectation. Eyes abruptly bleak scanned the open land before the city. The keen sight of the Elves found the rider first, the maid whom he had startled still standing screaming behind him.

He was indeed a grim sight, one cheek slashed open and only crudely bound, still seeping blood. Gore and filth encrusted his face and his clothes were in ribbons, flapping loosely about him. The blade of his sword was naked at his side. His mouth was caught into a rictus of fear, and although he sat slackly in the saddle as if too weary to ride, he clung to the reins as if to life itself. His horse was lathered and foaming, its sides heaving, blood flecking its coat. It trembled and staggered, head low and eyes rolling. They had galloped clear through the night until flesh and blood gave way, and all that was left was needful purpose.

The rider slipped from the horse�s back before the high table, casting the reins over the beast�s head, and stumbled as his feet met the ground. His legs gave way beneath him. Someone caught him, and he looked up into the eyes of the fairest woman he had ever seen. Even in his dazed state, her beauty pierced him to the core, her ebon hair falling about her face as she held him steady. But nay, not a woman, for no creature born of mortal man could have such beauty in life or in death. An Elf-maiden. Another arm caught him, and he looked into the face of another of her ilk. She was fair as the morning in late summer, while the other was the twilight in the dawning of days. He smiled weakly, not quite sure that he should believe his eyes. Perhaps these were not Elves at all; perhaps he had passed beyond the Circles of Arda, slipping from his horse to die by the wayside... That thought shocked him from his stupor; he could not have failed in his duty to his king, not this day...

He tore free of the Elven maidens who had rushed to his side, and staggered forwards, falling to one knee before his young king who still stood as one frozen, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other clutching a crumpled napkin. The meadow was very quiet, and a lark carolled amidst the clouds.

"My lord..." His voice broke with pain and weariness. Even as he spoke, Araphor vaulted lightly over the table, ignoring the plates and dishes that scattered before him. In a breath, the king was at his side, raising him to his feet, fingers searching and probing his many wounds. His clear voice called out for athelas and clean cloths.

"My lord," he began again, his fingers plucking at the king�s tunic in his frantic haste. Dried blood cracked at the nape of his neck, and he winced. "My lord, I come from the vale of Flightfen, northwards on the shoulder of the Downs." Pain wracked him then, and he stopped, gasping for breath. His face burnt with pain, and he could feel the air hissing through the gash to his cheek, as if he were some gilled fish and not a man at all.

"Aye, man, I know the place." Araphor�s fingers soothed him, but his eyes were keen and sharp as a knife-edge.

"My lord ... they struck at the nooning, and we did not expect them. They came down upon us... The men of Carn Dûm came down upon us..." His words faded away, and salt tears stung his face. The king recognised him then, beneath the patina of grime and the pain of his wounds. He was a royal herald, oath-bound to the service of the kingdom of Arnor. But once he had been the sworn man of the last prince of Cardolan, who now lay dead beneath the green earth, and many of his household about him. Two years past it had been, when Araphor�s own father had been slain, and so many with him. And now, again, the herald had seen death beneath the blades and foul witchery of Carn Dûm.

He sighed, and spread his hand to encompass the wound which marred the man�s face, putting forth his strength into the healing. But the herald was not yet done.

"My king ... there ... they will not stop, not while aught lives of Arnor in these valleys... There is ... hope ... but only a little..."

A change came over Araphor then, and all present saw it, and knew it for what it was. His shoulders straightened, and his eyes gleamed with the hard sheen of oiled steel. "There is hope yet, and I do not forget it, my friend. While I have breath and life, I shall not leave these hills to the shadow and the darkness!" With a quick flick of his wrist, he broke the peace bonds holding his blade in its scabbard. The sword slid forth with a shimmering sigh and he brandished it aloft, even as his left arm held the herald upright. The sun glinted oddly crimson on the blade and on the circlet at his brow. "I ride for Flightfen within the hour! Who is with me this day?"

A great roar went up as the men of Arnor sprang from their seats, benches kicked carelessly backwards, swords in hand. Araphor nodded in acknowledgement, unsmiling. "Rest now, my friend. Those who may shall tend you while we make sure your errand was not in vain." He nodded again, gratefully, as Arwen and Celebrían stepped forward to support the herald, their arms slipping beneath his.

Even as he turned away, another voice called out. "And I, too, shall ride with you this day."

The Elf-maidens swung about, the herald trailing awkwardly between them, forgotten in their sudden horror.

"I do not forget my kinsmen in their hour of need, nor shall my folk stand idle while the men of Carn Dûm lay the North to waste."

All stared at elf-lord who stood tall and proud before them. He wore no blade, but few wondered that he might presume to fight, for in his face was a light of anger, and in his eyes a cold and martial certainty. Even as he spoke, he had stripped away the velvet mantle that had encompassed him and stood garbed in tunic and breeches, hale and fierce as a king of old.

"Master Elrond..." Araphor began, but stopped abruptly at the sight of the brilliance shining in the Elf�s eyes.

"Nay, taur-o-edain, I shall ride this day. Too long has the steel of Imladris been silent in this war, and I would not have it so again."

"Then I am honoured." Araphor bowed.

And in the next moment, all was chaos, albeit chaos within order, as men hurried about the business of war, all thoughts of breakfast forgotten.

In the midst of it all, Celebrían stood, biting her lip to halt the tears that sprang to her eyes. He is going to war� She could think of naught else, such was the terror of it. Dread visions filled her sight: that dark hair clotted with blood, those grey eyes dull and blank with death, the beauty of his face smashed and ruined, the strong, clean lines of his limbs twisted asunder...

"Naneth? Naneth?"

She blinked and slowly focused on her daughter�s face.

"Aye, here I am, Arwen."

~*~

"We ride with you, Adar."

Elrond flinched. "And what says your mother of this?"

The twins exchanged a guilty look. "We have not yet spoken of this with her."

"She would not be pleased to lose you, ionnath nín."

"And we shall not be lost."

Elrond sighed. "Have I no hope that you may remain?"

"None at all, father."

"Then get you to the armourer. I will not see you slain for want of a shield."

They left, their voices quietening into a murmur, and Elrond returned his attention to his own armour. He had borne a sword on the ride from Rivendell, for such was prudence, but nothing more. And now I pay the price. He eyed the jack o�plate with disfavour. The thick coat of leather, sewn with steel panels, flopped limply across his lap and waved about his ankles. It had seen service in the war two years past, and bloodstains marked its skirts. With a sigh, he pulled it on. It was as uncomfortable as he had feared, although, no doubt, not so uncomfortable as it would have been to wear another�s plate armour. Fastening the coat briskly, he looked down at himself.

If the situation had not been so dire, he might have laughed. The jack o�plate, more than wide enough at shoulder and waist, ended inches above his knees, as if he were a grown man dressed in a child�s garb. The soft fabric of his breeches would be little enough protection against the blows of a determined enemy, but there was little else to spare. The war had been hard on Arnor. He perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, the worn leather creaking and sighing as he moved, and picked up the greaves that lay beside him. Surely the man who had once worn this armour had been built like a bull: the greaves might easily have spanned the trunk of a fair tree and they flapped loosely about the elf-lord�s legs. He scowled at the wretched things, swearing softly pulling the buckles tighter.

Thus it was that he did not hear her entrance, did not hear the whisper of her silken skirts on the flagged floor, the sharp intake of breath as she saw the armour he donned.

"Husband."

His head jerked up, the blood fleeing from his cheeks. He tried to marshal his expression into some semblance of order, dreading her outburst. "Celebrían..."

"Do not go."

He frowned. This was not at all what he had expected from her. He raised one eyebrow.

"Do not go." She swallowed, and her face seemed to tighten. "There is nothing there that you could do that another might not."

"I am the Lord and Master of Rivendell. There is no other who holds that title. Only I can ride out this day."

"And what of the North? When you fall, what then?"

He had ducked his head to tighten the other greave, and he did not see the spasm of pain which passed across her face.

"Little though my skill in war may be, I shall yet endeavour not to fall beneath the blades of Carn Dûm, be you assured of that, wife."

Her hand, outstretched to him in pleading, fell to her side. "Then you will not hear me in this? Am I not your wife?"

"A wife in name alone may not command her husband�s actions, and I must needs do this." He scooped up his sword belt and cinched it about his waist, tugging viciously at the buckle which fastened it.

"Very well then, if you are so much inclined to play the fool as to believe that you alone can turn this war, then I am not much disposed to stand in your way." She folded her hands in her voluminous sleeves lest he see the bone-white sheen of her knuckles through skin pulled taut with fear. "I pray that your sons shall rule Imladris with greater skill than you have ever mustered, and they shall be wiser with that Ring of yours than you have ever been."

Ah, wife, but I have been not wise since first I saw your fair face... But he had learnt too much, suffered too much to speak such thoughts aloud.

"They ride with me this day," he said bluntly.

Celebrían�s eyes narrowed. "I should have known as much. They have all the sense of their father, may the Valar help them."

"That may be." He swung his cloak about his shoulders, drawing his gauntlets on, his head down and his eyes shadowed. He crammed the helmet onto his head, wincing as the nosepiece bit into the tender flesh of his bridge, and, with nary a backwards glance, he was gone.

Celebrían felt the tears sting her eyes, blurring her vision. Her words had been for naught, for still he went to battle, and her fear for his life far eclipsed his anger. A wife in name alone. Aye, �twas true, but it hurt cruelly for all that.

She sank to the floor, her skirts spread about her, her hands clenched into fists, nails digging ivory crescents in the flesh of her palms. She never saw them ride away to battle, a host assembled in haste but noble nonetheless.

~*~

ionnath nín � my sons (Sindarin)

jack o�plate � a term for the piece of armour described above, or so I am told.
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Suffering

Chapter Nine, Part Two