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Greenleaf & Imladris 12 - Prelude to Grief	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 5841 -:- 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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Part IV: Broken

Imladris, hrivë

Their return was marked by great joy and vast relief. It seemed every member of the household and most of the valley’s warriors had turned out to greet them. Most wondrous of all, Celebrían joined her husband and daughter in welcoming them home. The three stared at her in visceral appreciation. Her hair had grown back and regained some of its former luster. And the scars that had despoiled her face were no more, her shimmering beauty readily apparent once again. She bestowed a tender smile on the twins and their Mirkwood friend, enfolded each son in a loving embrace, placed a warm hand upon Legolas’ cheek and even went so far as to gently chide them for departing so precipitously with nary a word of farewell to her. It heartened her sons to see her so seemingly recovered. Mayhap their mother would finally be whole once more.

But on second glance, she seemed as brittle as sugar pane. Her coloring had always made her seem ethereal but now she seemed little more than a will-o'-the-wisp. And behind her sparkling eyes and beaming lips lurked traces of her erstwhile distress. It roused the twins’ forebodings anew.

However, as the days went by, they strove to bring her naught but happiness and contentment while in their presence. They sought to please her in all things even if it meant joining her in the most unlikely of activities. Thus, the inhabitants of the Last Homely House were treated to the astonishing sight of Elrond’s virile sons industriously baking nut breads and sweet cakes alongside their mother and sister or patiently learning the finer points of embroidery under Celebrían’s critical eye. Not even the prospect of helping her care for her prize roses by winter’s end fazed them if by doing as she bid they could elicit her stunning smile. Naturally, they did not allow Legolas to escape taking part in their toils and the Mirkwood prince quickly found himself sunk in placid domesticity, will he, nill he.

On occasion she would demand that all three regale her with tales of their adventures. They readily humored her but took care to leave out anything that might recall to her the dark days of her hideous captivity. And always the brethren kept a close watch on her, praying fervently that their fears be proved unfounded.

Their prayers seemed answered as December came to an end and nothing untoward occurred. The days passed without incident, the nights in peaceful silence. She was even merry enough to join them in their whimsical winter games, hurling icy missiles at a spuriously indignant Elrond and rolling in the snow with her delighted children. It seemed all so normal that they all to an Elf came to believe that she had found the wherewithal to start healing.

But as December flowed into January, her spirits began to droop. She became withdrawn once more and would start or flinch at any sudden movement no matter how slight. Her fear of the dark returned in full, as did her nightmares and her screams. Worst of all, she soon turned violent, oft striking back at Elrond or the twins when they attempted to aid her. Arwen was all but forbidden to approach her alone.

They realized then how thoroughly she had fooled them all even her husband who knew her so well. Out of love for them, in her reluctance to continue burdening them with her troubles, she had put on the act of her life. But the strain of keeping up such a masterful charade had proved too great a drain on her already frail spirit. Now she was paying the price in full.

A shroud of apprehension settled once more upon the family. It was becoming patently clear. There would be no miracle for her or them.

The end came with resounding anguish.

*******

Elrond smiled indulgently as he observed Glorfindel and Erestor from his bedroom window one lazy afternoon near the end of January. The two had gone for a stroll in the snow-covered gardens, the captain solicitously helping the steward negotiate the downward slope that led to the orchards beyond.

Erestor no longer limped but his game leg was still prone to sudden fits of weakness and would buckle without warning especially when he traversed uneven surfaces. That wasn’t surprising considering his leg had been broken in two places and his kneecap near shattered. It had taken all of Elrond’s skill and then some to restore the injured limb and ensure it would mend properly.

The long recovery period had been the hardest for Erestor. For an Elf who always kept busy at one task or another, the enforced inactivity proved agonizing at worst and tedious at best. Only Glorfindel’s love and attention kept him reasonably sane throughout the dull days of his confinement

Now that he could move about again, he took every opportunity to walk around, so happy was he to be freed of his necessary captivity. Glorfindel seldom strayed from his side during these periods and they were oft seen wandering about Rivendell, arm in arm, Erestor’s brush with tragedy drawing them even closer to each other.

As Elrond continued to watch them, Erestor’s leg chose that moment to fail him and he lurched forward awkwardly. He would have fallen but for Glorfindel’s quick reflexes. The captain swiftly caught him and helped him regain his balance. Then, when Erestor leaned momentarily against him, Glorfindel snaked his hand around his mate’s waist and pulled him close for a kiss so heated Elrond feared it would turn all the snow to mush.

Releasing the flustered advisor, the golden Noldo suddenly scooped him up in his arms as he would a mere Elfling and bore him back to the house. Elrond laughed softly as Erestor’s vociferous protests resounded through the quiet gardens. Glorfindel paid him no mind. The captain’s wicked smirk made his intentions quite clear as he carried his now red-faced spouse to their conjugal quarters.

Elrond continued to chuckle, amused by his friend’s actions. It seemed that as time went by, Glorfindel’s appetite for Erestor only increased. Seldom a day went by that the steward did not go about in high-collared garments to hide the flagrant marks of passion the fair captain enjoyed inflicting on him. Not that Erestor objected to such usage; he was as enthusiastic a bed-partner as Glorfindel. But he was reserved by nature and shied at the prospect of flaunting such obvious signs of his mate’s considerable ardor.

“They are so happy.”

Elrond turned around to stare at his wife in surprise. She was standing at his shoulder, her eyes riveted on the pair below until they disappeared from sight. Shrouded in a thick white wrap, which concealed her much too slender form, she looked almost otherworldly.

“I thought you were asleep,” Elrond said, curling a welcoming arm around her.

She shook her head. “I tried to.” After a moment’s hesitation, she admitted: “It hurts... there.”

Elrond sighed. “Lie down, meleth”—love—“and let me attend to you.”

Biting her lip, Celebrían complied. A sad expression crossed her husband’s countenance as he reached into the drawer of the bedside table for a small jar of medicinal salve. Though Celebrían’s wounds had healed and the sutures were long removed, she still felt pain every once in a while either in her shoulder where the orkish poison had severely damaged the muscles around it or in her nether regions. The salve had a numbing effect and gave her respite from the lingering discomfort of her injuries.

I have healed so many yet I cannot give complete ease to my own wife, Elrond thought somewhat bitterly. He climbed onto the bed and signed to his recumbent lady to part her legs. Celebrían obeyed then closed her eyes as she always did when her husband tended to her. Gently, Elrond applied the salve to her tender flesh.

It was a service he’d performed for her for two months now. Therefore, he did not in the least expect what followed.

He had just gingerly pressed a salve-anointed finger into her when she suddenly shrieked and jerked away from him. He stared at her in alarm, noting her terrified, wide-eyed countenance.

“Melethril”—lover—“what is wrong?!” he queried anxiously, reaching for her. “Did I hurt you?”

He gasped in shock when her hand lashed out and her fingernails raked his cheek, leaving scarlet streaks in their wake. He evaded her second attack, then caught her wrists as she lunged at him, hands ready to claw and gouge him. He bore her down beneath him, using his body to pin her down.

“Let go of me!” she screamed, her voice strident with fear and loathing.

“Celebrían, ‘tis me!” he shouted desperately.

When she became even more agitated, twisting, kicking and rearing in his grasp, he was compelled to resort to force. Tears stung his eyes as he did what he had never done in all the time they had known each other. He struck her hard, the sound of his palm against her cheek reverberating with harsh clarity in his ears.

She fell back limply. Almost sobbing, he cradled her in his arms, pressing his lips to her temple, brushing shaking fingers against the crimson splotch on her pale cheek. It was several minutes before she recovered her wits. She opened her eyes and stared at him dazedly, her hand reaching up to touch the unaccountable sting on the side of her face.

“What—?” She noticed the weals that marred the elegant curve of his cheek and frowned in confusion, her own pain forgotten. “Your face... How did you get hurt, hervenn?”—husband?—she asked, struggling to sit up.

“‘Twas an accident,” he lied. “Think no more about it.”

She regarded him curiously and raised her hand to tenderly touch the welts. It was then that she saw his lashes. His tear-damp lashes. Her husband seldom shed tears. She could scarcely recall when she had last seen him cry. Her eyes widened as horrid recollection came back in an instant.

“I hurt you!” she cried out. “Ai, Elrond, forgive me!”

“You were not yourself, meleth,” he protested.

She shuddered then slumped exhaustedly into his arms. She laid her argent head upon his shoulder.

“I was not,” she wearily agreed. “I have not been myself since...” She suddenly sobbed. “I fear I will never be myself again.”

“Hush, do not say that,” he objected.

“But it is the truth,” she said. She lifted her head and raised her hands to cup his handsome face. “Look at me, melethron”—lover— she whispered. “I am no longer the elleth”—Elf-maid—“you married.”

“You will always be my love,” he said fiercely.

“As you will be mine,” she said sadly. “Wherever I go, you will always own my heart, Elrond.”

“What are you saying?” he exclaimed, fear limning his words.

She laid her head once more on his shoulder. “I am so tired, meleth,” she murmured. “And I am little more than a burden to you and our children.”

“You are no burden,” he heatedly insisted. “We would gladly take care of you for eternity if need be.”

“And I would repay you with pain as I did just now.”

“‘Twas not your intention.”

“But it was my doing.”

“Celebrían —”

“What will it take for you to accept the truth?” she softly asked. “For too long have we denied it. Must I turn on Arwen to prove my eroding sanity? Would you have our sons recklessly court their deaths on my account before you admit that this cannot continue?” She turned her face into his neck, seeking his strength in this dark hour and sighed as he held her snugly. She drew a shuddery breath. “My body is whole but my spirit wanes even as we speak.”

Elrond closed his eyes. Defeat weighed heavily on him. The tears he had held back earlier now trickled down, their salt causing the weals on his cheek to sting. Celebrían burrowed deeper into his embrace and wept against his chest. They held tight to each other for the longest time, dreading the parting that they now knew would follow.

*******************

Glossary:

hrivë - Quenya for winter

To be continued…
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- 5
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Greenleaf & Imladris 12 - Prelude to Grief