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Arwen's Heart  by Bodkin

Left Behind

They had left – and the halls of Imladris rang with their absence.  There were dozens – hundreds – still walking the corridors, debating over stiff maps, corners held down with velvet-covered weights, sharpening swords and polishing old skills, gathering small treasures into convenient packs.  But they had gone.

Arwen found herself sitting where she could watch her Adar.  Whatever happened, her world would end.  Whatever happened, she would lose the elf who had offered her unstinting care over the best part of an age.  If Sauron prevailed, Elrond would take up arms as he had before and he would spill his life on the battlefields of Arda before he would surrender.  If, against all odds, the Dark Lord was overcome – then her beloved Adar would fulfil his promise and place her hand in Aragorn’s.  And smile, no matter what it cost him.

Her brothers had been less than impressed when Elrond had decided that they would not be at Aragorn’s side through this – endeavour – but she could not help but be glad.  It was bad enough as it was.  And, as Glorfindel had told her as they sat in the winter garden and listened to the wind blowing through the bare trees, it was not force of arms that would achieve success.  With the exception of Boromir, all those chosen were accustomed to passing unseen, unheard, unsuspected.  To watching from the shadows and slipping past dangers without being noticed.  Even the hobbits.

Still, the twins had been furious – although they hid it well.  Being left behind did not suit either of them.   She could understand only too well how they felt.

‘It is too cold, Undómiel,’ Elrond said gently, sitting beside her on the bench where once Gilraen had spoken to her of her son.  ‘Come inside and take a glass of wine with me.’

Arwen took his hand and twined her fingers in his, but did not speak.

‘It does not help Aragorn,’ her adar said after a few moments, ‘if you sit here until your fingers are icy and your gown is wet…’

‘Has anything I have ever done helped him?’ she asked in a low voice.  ‘Or have I just given him one more thing for which to feel responsible?’

Elrond’s thumb smoothed over the back of her hand.  ‘You have,’ he acknowledged without embarrassment, ‘but it is a responsibility that he treasures.  You are, my dearest daughter, a constant inspiration in his life – the one who cares for him no matter what, who soothes him when he is worn, heals his spirit, trusts him implicitly, has faith in him when his own falters.’  He leaned closer and rested his head against hers.  ‘You are his hope – you do not need to fight dragons to help him, my child.  Your simply being is all he needs.  You stir him to actions beyond the capability of most men – you give him the strength to resist.’  He hesitated.  ‘His love for you is pure,’ he added, ‘and wards him better than any words of mine or wisdom of his own.’

‘Will he succeed?’

‘I do not know,’ Elrond said honestly.  ‘It seems an impossible task.  And yet I cannot say that trust is in vain.  In my heart,’ he admitted, ‘I believe that they will pull through – and yet, at the same time, my mind says that the chances are infinitesimally small.’

Arwen tightened her clasp comfortingly.  ‘And yet Lúthien and Beren retrieved a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown,’ she said, ‘and Eärendil passed the Valar’s barriers to reach Aman.  Why should they not walk in the Black Lands?’  She lifted her chin defiantly.  ‘You have chosen well – and they will succeed.’

Elrond drew her to her feet and they walked hand in hand to the doors leading to their private rooms.  ‘We will not doubt them, my daughter.  We will have faith in their constancy – and we will continue to prepare for the war that is coming.’

***

‘The Gap of Rohan,’ Elladan insisted, ‘is the obvious path.’

‘Obvious,’ his brother retorted, ‘but not necessarily right.’  He tapped the map.  ‘You know Daeradar has long had his doubts about Curunír – and, from what Mithrandir says, his treachery is now beyond dispute.  It would be foolhardy beyond belief for them to place themselves within the reach of Isengard.’

‘There are only nine of them!’  Elladan prodded the map in irritation.  ‘If they cannot slip past Curunír, I would be disgusted with them!’

‘You want to take the chance?’ Elrohir asked incredulously.  ‘Mithrandir says that Curunír has one of the Palantíri, and you want to take the chance of walking past him carrying the one thing he most desires?’

‘What are the alternatives?’ Again his twin focused on the map.  ‘The Redhorn?  That would be a hard route – and no safer than the Gap.  Or do you perhaps think they should head for the sea and sail round to Cair Andros so they can arrive at Mordor’s gate properly rested?’

‘There is no need for sarcasm, my brother,’ Elrohir replied, unimpressed.  ‘The Gap of Rohan will be watched – and Estel is not careless enough to risk it.’

‘You do realise,’ Glorfindel sprawled easily, his long legs stretched out in front of him, ‘that it makes no matter what the pair of you decide.  It is out of your hands.  Estel is a grown man and has long since been able to make his own decisions.’

‘Have you seen his choice of clothes?’ Elladan protested.

‘Except sartorially,’ Glorfindel agreed.  ‘For that he has the Evenstar.’

‘I hope you are not suggesting,’ Arwen looked up at him reproachfully from under her eyelashes as she threaded her needle, ‘that the sole purpose of my existence is to ensure that the Dúnadan is colour co-ordinated.’

‘No,’ Elrohir declared, ‘you are also needed to see that he brushes his hair.’

‘I have no wish to be his naneth,’ his sister objected.

Noting her pallor, her brother joined her on the window seat and eased a strong arm round her waist.  ‘I think that is just as well,’ he observed.  ‘He does not, it seems to me, look at you in a way that would be suitable for a man to look at his naneth.’  He squeezed her gently.  ‘He is a wily old Ranger, sister mine,’ he added, ‘and he has been in tighter spots before.’

Glorfindel opened his mouth, then closed it.  He looked at the map in front of Elladan.  ‘We would be better absorbed in preparing Imladris’s defences.’

‘We are in less immediate danger than the Golden Wood,’ Elladan took his eyes from his sister’s face and looked down.  ‘Lothlórien – and Thranduil’s realm – are vulnerable to attack from Dol Guldur.  And Daeradar has to deal with the threat of Moria – and who knows what evil might breed in the depths of the mountains.’

‘The Wood is as prepared as it can be,’ Arwen told him, ‘and neither Daeradar nor Daernaneth is exactly inexperienced.  Thranduil has been fighting the evil of Dol Guldur for centuries – he knows what he is doing.’

‘Yet, should the quest fail…’ The words came involuntarily from the Balrog-slayer.  ‘Should it fail, no amount of experience will prepare us for what we will face.’

Elrond’s children looked at him.

‘If the worst should happen,’ Glorfindel’s gleaming eyes settled on Elladan, ‘you and your brother are to take Arwen and ride for Mithlond as if the Dark Lord himself were after you – which he will be.’  His gaze turned to Elrohir and Arwen in the window.  ‘For there will then be no hope left for men or elves in the wreck of Arda.’

***

The atmosphere under the trees would undoubtedly seem serene to those who were unfamiliar with the timeless peace of the Golden Wood, but Cúraniel could taste the tension.  It was that feeling of apprehension that filled you as you waited for the first crack of thunder, she thought.  The anticipation of a threatened storm that could rend apart the world with which you were familiar – and yet which you could do nothing to evade.

She worked at her loom.  There seemed little point.  If they needed more bandages than they had prepared, there would be none left to wind them.  But it gave her something to do that occupied her hands and made her feel useful.   The scent of simmering salves pervaded Caras Galadhon as others worked on producing vats of creams and lotions – cleansing, soothing, healing – to provide against injuries caused by fire and blade and poisoned arrow.  As yet, nothing had happened – or, at least, nothing more than had happened over any similar period of time over the last centuries: a broken bone, a training injury or two, a burn from cooking too many salves!

It was interesting, she thought, to observe how subtly preparation had been made for war.  Who would have thought that Arwen’s swathes of marigolds had been scattered with this end in mind?  Or that the hills of nettles had been encouraged so that there would be the fibre needed to spin into thread for weaving these narrow cloths?  And yet, now she looked, it had been in far more areas than the obvious provision of blades and arrows that Arwen had been busy.  Cúraniel only hoped that she had had the time to do the same in Imladris.

She felt it when the borders were breached by the strangest group of travellers she had known.  Elf, yes: he could have passed unnoted – but the dwarf?  Not since the last days of Amroth had she seen one of Aulë’s folk – and Lord Celeborn was known to be none too fond of the race.  Two men – both of them with elven blood running in their veins.  She knew one of them at sight, although he no longer looked as he had done when he escorted the Lady Undómiel down from Cerin Amroth.  The small folk – one of them was in shadow, and all were grieving with the simplicity of a people who did not find it necessary to pretend. 

The news of Mithrandir’s fall spread swiftly.  How could it not?  Odd though he was, he was a character with an aura of ancient power about him: old, yet unchanging, he was clearly more than he wished to seem.  And then, the Lady’s sorrow whispered through the trees like soft winter rain, to find an echo in the hearts of the Galadhrim.  If Mithrandir could fall, how could any be safe?  If Mithrandir could be lost, what chance was there for Celeborn or Galadriel, for Thranduil or Elrond?  If Mithrandir could perish, so too could the world of the elves.

They sang for him, their voices twining with the song of the forest and the mournful melody of the flowing streams.  Even the rock beneath the layers of leaf litter and soil held and returned the sound. 

They sang for Mithrandir, but on the whole they watched the strangers from a distance – they were too different, too dangerous.

‘I would have denied them entrance,’ Haldir sniffed.

He seemed, Cúraniel thought with amusement, to have set his own guard on the motley group, watching them as suspiciously as a cat introduced to a group of wolf cubs. 

‘The Lady, of course, would have heeded your advice,’ she said solemnly.

‘They will bring trouble on us,’ he declared.

‘Trouble comes anyway,’ she shrugged.  ‘And they seem harmless.’  She shook her head at him.  ‘One is a kinsman here and has a right to our care.  One of the men carries the blood of our own – and the other is distant kin to both the Lord and the Lady.  You cannot convince me that you fear the halflings – and is the presence of one dwarf enough to lay the Wood low?’

Haldir scowled.  He jabbed a finger at her.  ‘You cannot tell me that the Lord and Lady are comfortable in their presence.  For all their smiling, there is something about this visitation that makes them uneasy.’

Cúraniel tilted her head in thought.  Since her undertaking to remain at Arwen’s side, she had found herself spending a lot more time in Galadriel’s company as the Lady ensured that she would have the experience and wisdom to support her friend – and she had discovered herself developing a greater understanding of the Elda.  ‘It is not the dwarf who concerns her,’ she reflected.  ‘Yet her guard is strong – and my lord watches her fiercely.’  She lifted an eyebrow at the Marchwarden.  ‘I doubt that it is our business,’ she told him.

He shrugged.  ‘If it affects the Wood, it is our business.’

The odd fellowship sat in the glade by their pavilion, absorbed in the tasks that occupied any group of travellers during a brief period in a safe haven.  Cúraniel watched them.  ‘I think there is something happening here that will affect more than the Wood,’ she said soberly.  ‘And those we see before us are as much victims of the workings of fate as we are.’

***

Travel-stained and exhausted, the Galadhrim closed the door behind them as they followed the elleth to the rooms prepared for them.  Behind them, they left a group stunned to silence.

Finally Glorfindel released a breath that he seemed to have been holding since the messengers had clattered over the bridge.  ‘At least Galadriel withstood the trial,’ he said.  ‘And Celeborn will not have that on his conscience.’

‘Not yet, at any rate,’ Elrond qualified.  He rested his head on his hand and used his thumb and middle finger to rub his temples.  Without speaking, Arwen moved behind his chair and began to massage the tension from his neck and shoulders.

‘Mithrandir was a fool to risk Moria!’ Elladan burst out.  ‘He of all of them must have known the dangers that slept there!’

‘Who is to know what is folly and what is wisdom?’ snapped Glorfindel.  ‘Half the time they wear the same face – and only the outcome proves which is which.’

Elrohir glanced at his sister’s frozen face.  ‘What is done is done,’ he said flatly.  ‘We cannot change what has happened.  The question is what we can do now to aid them.  Daernaneth suggests we send help.’

‘They will head for Minas Tirith,’ Glorfindel said.  ‘That is, if they do as I would advise.  It is the easiest route – and the place where they are mostly likely to gain aid in their endeavour.’

Elrond shook his head.  ‘Denethor is not his father,’ he said wearily.  ‘And Estel knows he can expect little support from him.  Estel will lead Frodo and Sam into Mordor, leaving Boromir to take the younger hobbits to the White City.  I suspect Legolas and Gimli will stand by the Ringbearer.’

‘Who now is speculating on matters they cannot know?’ Elladan smiled.  ‘What matters here is what we are going to do.’

Arwen dropped a kiss on Elrond’s dark hair.  ‘Aragorn is well enough at the moment, Adar.  I would know if he were not.’

Her adar reached up to clasp her wrist.  ‘You would not consider journeying to Mithlond, my daughter?  So that we can know that you, at least, are safe?’

She shook her head.  ‘Not this time, Adar.  I will remain here in Imladris at your side and await the end – whatever it might be.  I could not live with myself were I to seek safety when so many others cannot.’

‘Anyway,’ Glorfindel said practically, ‘it would be almost impossible to ensure safety on the road west – and Imladris’s warriors are needed here to guard the hidden valley.’

‘Except us,’ Elrohir stated firmly.

‘We will take the news to the Rangers,’ Elladan added, ‘and travel south with as many as can be gathered.’

‘It will not be many,’ Elrohir said.  ‘Their numbers are few and scattered and time is short, but, if Daernaneth has seen them in battle at Estel’s side, then the Men of the North must be there.’

‘Bring them back here first,’ Arwen commanded.  ‘We can provision them and see that they have all they need.  And some of them have family here who would wish to bid them farewell.’

Elrond lifted an ironic eyebrow at Glorfindel.  ‘When did we become superseded, my friend?’ he asked.  ‘It seems not long ago that such plans were our responsibility – and we sent these young ones to carry them out.’

Glorfindel grinned lazily.  ‘That is surely the point of training the young well,’ he said.  ‘You take puppies and turn them into skilled dogs – and that saves you the bother of barking yourself.’  He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back.  ‘As long as they decide nothing with which I disagree, I am happy to let them do the work.’

‘Well, as long as we are airing clichés,’ Elrohir said dulcetly, ‘I am reminded of the one about old dogs and new tricks.’

Elladan winced.  ‘I think it is a good thing we are just about to ride out from Imladris,’ he said.  ‘I cannot imagine Glorfindel letting that insult pass.  Perhaps, if we give him a victory to celebrate, he might let you off, but I doubt it.’

‘Go and organise yourselves,’ Elrond commanded.  ‘You know what we will do now.’

The room seemed quiet once his children had left and the sound of the crackling wood in the fireplace was disconcertingly loud.

‘If this fails…’ Elrond said suddenly.

‘You do not need to say anything, my friend,’ Glorfindel responded instantly.  ‘Nothing has changed.  I will not let you fall into Sauron’s grasp.’

‘I have left letters.’  Elrond smiled wryly.  ‘Not that there will be any left to read them, I daresay, but I felt I had to state the truth for all to see.’

‘Do not lose hope yet, Elrond.’  Glorfindel looked at him with sympathy.  ‘I have seen slimmer hopes come to success.’

‘I shall endeavour to keep that in mind.’

***

There were not even three dozen of them, Arwen thought, trying to swallow back the despair that threatened to swamp her.  Not even three dozen to join a force of she knew not how many thousands to face the swarming hordes of Mordor.

And yet – she looked at their storm-grey eyes and dark hair, young faces confronting their first muster, older ones who had survived years of patrolling the northlands, all wearing their grey cloaks pinned with star brooches – they were proud to bear arms in this fight; proud to represent the heirs of Númenor, of Elros, in this desperate battle; proud to ride forth to stand at their Chieftain’s shoulder; proud to offer up their lives for the sake of those whom they would protect. 

She sought out Halbarad – only being bound to his sickbed would stop him from heading to Aragorn’s side – and saw him beside one who was little more than a boy on what must be his introduction to life among the Rangers.

‘Halbarad!’

He looked up at her.  She had always thought him to be more than a little doubtful about her – wanting his Chieftain, no doubt, to settle down with a nice practical girl of the Dúnedain and produce a dozen children to secure the line – but he approached her courteously.

‘My lady?’ he asked.

She brought out the banner, rolled and wrapped in ebony velvet.  ‘Take this,’ she said.  ‘He will need it.’

It did not occur to Halbarad to question who ‘he’ was.  He knew.  He raised an enquiring eyebrow and she shrugged. 

‘What else have I been permitted to do for him?’ she asked somewhat bitterly.  ‘He will need his standard in the fight that it to come.’

‘I will see he receives it, Lady Arwen,’ the tall Ranger told her.  ‘It will bring him hope.’

‘Then it will serve its purpose.’

As she turned, Halbarad stopped her.  ‘My lady,’ he said, then stopped, clearly uncertain whether it was wise for him to speak.  Their eyes, shining grey and thundercloud dark, met and he shrugged.  ‘If it is meant to be, it will, my lady.  And I have yet to see the Dúnadan fail through any weakness of his own.’

She looked at him long enough to make him shift uncomfortably.  ‘Thank you,’ she said.  ‘I wish you all good speed and good fortune on your journey.’

He nodded.  ‘The sooner it starts, the sooner we will arrive.’

Elladan grabbed her from behind and clasped her into his arms.  ‘Until we meet again, little sister,’ he said.

‘Look after Elrohir,’ she demanded, turning to face him and using the form of words she had employed since she was a child.  ‘He is my favourite brother.’

‘Of course,’ he smiled.

Elrohir prised her away from his twin to hug her.  ‘Do not let Adar worry about us,’ he insisted.  ‘We will be fine.’

‘Look after Elladan,’ she told him shakily, holding him tightly.  ‘He is my favourite brother.’

‘And we will both make sure that our little brother stays in one piece,’ Elladan assured her.

The Grey Company mounted up and took the leading reins of the spare horses, now laden with all that they would consent to carry.

A child wailed, but the remainder of the onlookers watched in silence as the small army of the Northern Dunedain left on the desperate quest to bring what help they could to their Chieftain.

When even elven hearing could no longer pick out the sound of hooves, people began to move off about their daily business, but Arwen continued to stand looking towards the south.

‘This is not new,’ Glorfindel said softly in her ear.  ‘You have stood here before, many times, to bid your brothers safe journey.’

A deep sigh eased slowly from her.  ‘Many times,’ she agreed, and the desolation in her voice made him shiver.  ‘But this will be the last.’

***

The attacks, when they came, were uncoordinated – as if the commander intended to take charge of the war west of the Misty Mountains had his attention taken up elsewhere.  The orcs fought savagely – well, they always did, Glorfindel allowed.  They were bred to kill and they took delight in the business of slaughter.  But they were not, on the whole, intelligent opponents – and his patrols were well-trained and better organised.  Even those who had not taken up weapons in years could take orders – and understood the need to protect their fellows.  They took casualties, of course they did, but far fewer than Imladris’s commander had feared.  And the concerted attack – the sheer numbers – that could have broken them never arrived.

Elrond had been under pressure of a different sort.  Holding Imladris safe in his hand as the Ring had crept its way through Mordor had sucked from him more energy than he could spare – and he had not, of course, gone easy on himself when it came to working on saving the injured elves and men who had been transported back to the care of the healers. 

It had been an impossible situation, Glorfindel acknowledged privately.  Perhaps, had the twins been there, he could have let them take charge of the defence while he himself concentrated on Elrond – but they had not, and he had found himself compelled to take Erestor and, ultimately, Arwen into his confidence.

‘If Sauron regains the Ring,’ he said bleakly, ‘there will be little time to act.’

What had amazed him most was that Arwen had nodded with cool acceptance.  He tended to overlook, he allowed, that she was a daughter of a very tough house, instead preferring to regard her as a precious flower to be shielded from adverse winds. 

‘As with the Ringbearer and the shard of Morgul blade,’ she said. 

‘In a way.’  Erestor was frowning, he observed.  He had not approved of the idea of revealing this possibility to the Evenstar, but he was not constantly with Elrond in the healing rooms while Arwen was.  ‘But different.  At one moment all will be as it is now – but within the space of a breath…’  Glorfindel’s voice trailed away.

‘And who will be guarding Daernaneth?’ Arwen asked.  ‘For, as with you, Daeradar will be fighting at the borders of the lands he protects.’

‘He will not leave it to chance,’ Glorfindel said firmly.  ‘Be sure of it.’

Arwen met his gaze steadily and nodded.  ‘I will see that Adar is not taken,’ she said.

And now it had all proved to be unnecessary.  Even as they confronted another group of frenzied orcs desperate to throw themselves on elven arrows, the lowering sky had cleared and a startling freshness had stirred in the land.  The orcs had faltered and fallen back as if whatever had driven them had released its grip on them – and, as Anor had broken through the cloud, the enemy had turned and run.

He had desperately wanted to turn himself and race back to Elrond’s side – for all that their only hope had been that the Ring would go into the mountain, it could not help but put a strain on one who was already stretched almost beyond endurance – but he could not.  Sending patrols after the escaping orcs and tightening the guard on the borders was too important – he, of all people, should be aware that it was possible to fall in the moment of success.

And all he knew here and now was that victory had been achieved.  What remained to be seen was its cost.

***

She could have done with more information.  Arwen studied her adar.  He seemed more solid – more present than he had been.   Pale, certainly; unconscious, definitely; but a wraith – no.  She fingered the sharp blade she had taken to carrying.  Glorfindel had said she would know the moment if it came – and all she could do was trust her instincts. 

A pale spring sunlight gleamed tearfully through the wide window and settled on the limp lord of Imladris. 

Arwen smiled as the ray lit glinting fires in his dark hair and traced the angles of his cheek.

‘Adar?’ she said, kneeling beside him and pushing his hair back from his face.  ‘It is over, Adar.  Whatever we might have lost along the way, in this one thing the Ringbearer has achieved our goal.’

She chafed his cold hand between hers, noting in some surprise that the gold ring he wore in token of his bond with her naneth was joined by a mithril band on his middle finger: a band that showed a radiant stone of purest blue.  She had known of its existence, felt it on occasion, glimpsed it but rarely – but she had never before seen it displayed so clearly.  Somehow, seeing it was reassuring.  This was not a token of power subjugated by the Dark Lord – but a ring, no more and no less.

Elrond stirred.  He felt – different.  He forced his eyes open, wanting to know – but his study floor appeared just as it always had.  Except that he did not generally view it so closely.

‘Drink, Adar,’ his daughter commanded.

He turned his head and squinted as the light shone in his eyes.  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said.  ‘Well, nothing obvious.  The clouds parted and Anor shone through.  And the world felt – renewed.’

‘And you did not feel it necessary to use the knife,’ he remarked, pushing himself to his elbow and taking a mouthful of red wine.

Renewed,’ Arwen stressed.  ‘Not regained.  There was no feeling of evil triumphant, of glee, of vengeance long awaited.  And in here,’ she placed her hand on her heart, I felt Barad-dûr fall.’

‘Perhaps it is well that Glorfindel placed the blade in your hands, then, my child.’  He sipped again.  ‘I doubt that any other would have been aware of what is happening in Mordor.’

‘Glorfindel will be worrying,’ Arwen remarked.  ‘It might be as well to send a messenger to find him and let him know that you are well.’

‘Well.’  Elrond tasted the word thoughtfully as looked down at his hands.  ‘Yes.  He will be pleased to know that yet another crisis appears to have passed and that the One Ring is no more.  Poor Glorfindel.  If he had only known what a task he was accepting, I doubt he would have consented to return.’

Arwen helped her adar to his favourite chair and settled on the arm.  ‘He would not choose to be anywhere other than by your side, Adar.’

‘Oh, I am not sure of that.’  Elrond linked his fingers with hers and rested his head on the chair’s high back, closing his eyes to shut out the absence he was beginning to sense in himself.  ‘I think you might find that he would.’

‘Will you be all right if I leave you alone, Adar?’ Arwen asked doubtfully.  ‘I must see to a few things – I will come straight back to you.’

Elrond lifted their hands to his lips and kissed her fingers gently.  ‘You do what you must, child.  I will be fine.  The last thing I want is for you to be worrying about me.’

His daughter leaned over and kissed his brow.  ‘But I will do it anyway, Ada,’ she teased.

He smiled.  ‘If you will let me do the same.’

‘A bargain!  I will hold you to it.’

Elrond closed his eyes again as she left the room.  Improbable as it seemed, he had survived – and now he just had to learn to endure the loss of a power he had come to take for granted.  And learn to let go.  That was very important – for the age of the elves had ended and his daughter had chosen to bind her fate with men.  There was nothing he could do about it – and he would not if he could.

He studied the sapphire ring dispassionately.  Would it have made any difference had he refused it?   Or used it differently?  He would never know. 

***

The smell of charred wood hung over Lothlórien – and the atmosphere of dreaming perfection had vanished in the urgency of war. 

At least, Cúraniel thought, the fighting seemed to be over.  Pretty much, at any event.  Lord Celeborn had organised an effective defence and had now left the Wood in the care of a skeleton force while taking most of the warriors to drive the orcs back to Dol Guldur itself. 

She drew a deep breath of the slightly acrid air.  They would soon have time to turn their attention from the preservation of the living and mourn their dead.  She gathered a further supply of bandages and wrapped them in clean linen.  Those who were still under the care of the healers were the more seriously injured – any with minor wounds had been treated behind the lines and returned as soon as they could to throw their skills into turning the tide of the fight – and there were some among those here who might still find themselves greeting Lord Námo. 

It had shaken her, she had to admit, to see at close hand the damage that one living creature could do to another.   She had never had any desire to be a healer – but need had forced most of the available ellyth into doing what they could.  At times, it had been almost more than she could manage to keep her hands steady and hold back her tears.

When she got back, Galadriel was talking to an ellon who had lost half his right arm to an orc blade.  Her smile brought a flush of colour to his face and he seemed to become more animated as she encouraged him to talk to her.  It was a good thing, Cúraniel decided as she stacked the bandages in the chests.   Some of the more seriously injured had decided to give up once they realised what they had lost and they were now in danger of losing more to depression than incurable wounds.  Yet, in the Lady’s presence, they could see their scars as badges of honour, earned in defence of their home, and worthy of respect.

She placed her hand on his damaged arm, Cúraniel noted.  Easily and without embarrassment – and refraining from making any uncomfortable remarks about hurting him.  Treating him just as she would anyone else.  The elleth glanced round the improvised hospital – open to the air, save for a roof of canvas.  So many lives changed irrevocably: people who would never be the same as they had been.  Including, she rather thought, herself.

And including, too, the Lady.

Galadriel was pale, thinner than she had been and less luminous than translucent.  Whatever had happened on that day when the ground had shaken and the sky seemed to shatter above them had shaken her to the heart.  Cúraniel could well believe that the Lady had spread herself too thin in her fight to preserve enough for Celeborn to defend, and it looked as if she might have overdone it.  The elleth frowned.  She hoped that Galadriel was not hurt badly enough for her to fade – stories had been murmured for centuries that the Lady was one Exile who would not be permitted to return to the lands of her birth, yet surely the Valar would not condemn her spirit to drift houseless on the winds of Arda.  She pushed the thought away: the fires that had burned so many of the tranquil groves had barely been extinguished.  It would take time for all of them to recover from the pain, for the rivers to run clear and the saplings to sprout.

And victory was victory, was it not?  It did not come with limitations and a sting in its tail.  Did it?

***

Aragorn slept.  Sweat-stained and filthy, bedraggled and bloody – save for his healer’s hands – he slept the sleep of utter exhaustion, sprawled face downwards and fully clothed on an improvised cot.

‘I suppose,’ Elrohir remarked from the awning where they rested, as Ithil’s cool light brightened the silver hairs among the dark and picked out the White Tree on Estel’s discarded surcoat, ‘that it was too much to hope that our little king would have brought with him some spare clothing.’

‘I doubt, at the time we headed towards the Black Gate, he was expecting to be confronted with the problem of looking properly regal,’ Mithrandir said dryly.

‘You seem to have managed to keep the worst of warfare from your own robes,’ Elrohir commented.

The wizard smoothed his hand over his lap.  ‘Yes, well…’ he said, eyes twinkling.  ‘There have to be some advantages.’

‘If he would only take his clothes off,’ Elladan complained, ‘we could have them washed – or burn them, or something.’

‘I am sure he would rather return to Minas Tirith clothed,’ Mithrandir told him.  ‘You probably trained him in his earliest youth that he would be unwise to let you part him from his breeches.’

‘It was only once,’ Elrohir grinned.

‘Once is enough.’

The stars shone intermittently through the ragged cloud. 

‘I hope Faramir sends him some suitable clothing for our return to the city, though,’ Mithrandir muttered.  ‘Gondor tends to be a bit conventional about shows of status.  Or do I have to think of everything?’

The twins exchanged a wicked look of amusement.   ‘We must head north soon,’ Elladan said, changing the subject.  ‘We need to know what has happened in Lothlórien – and fetch Adar and Arwen.  Is there any doubt, you think, that Gondor will acclaim him king?’

‘None.’  Mithrandir filled his pipe and lit it with a spark, not bothering for once to pretend that he needed to take a spill from the fire.  ‘Faramir accepted him on sight – and he is the best of men: a true son of Númenor.  Imrahil, too.  And where the Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth lead, the rest of Gondor will follow – if they know what is good for them.’

‘By the time the army makes its way back to the Pelennor,’ Elrohir mused, ‘our services as healers should no longer be needed.  We will remain to see Aragorn crowned and then ride for Imladris.  I expect we will meet them about half-way.’

‘How long will you be gone, do you think?’

Elladan stretched and leaned back on his hands.  ‘In the region of two months, I should think.  The return trip will be deplorably slow – there are bound to be dozens in that party and half of them will not want to spend a full day in the saddle.’

‘And there will be baggage horses galore,’ Elrohir added.  ‘They will be lucky not to get bogged down over the mountains – the thaw will have left the pass under thick mud.  And then Daernaneth is bound to double the numbers.’

‘At least,’ Elladan agreed.  ‘She has been planning this over the last forty years.’

‘There are reasons,’ Elrohir shook his head, ‘why elven betrothals customarily last only a year – and female relatives are a major one.’

Mithrandir laughed.  ‘Aragorn does not know what he can expect,’ he said.

‘War is one thing,’ Elladan grinned, ‘but weddings?  They are far more dangerous!’

The sky began to lighten and the first birds began to sound the arrival of dawn. 

‘You are sure that Elrond will not withdraw his consent?’ the wizard asked.

Elrond’s sons looked at him with eyes that were dark pools of concentrated pain.  ‘This is Elrond, my friend,’ Elladan said in an amiable tone that still allowed for no debate.  ‘Giving is something at which he is unstinting.’

‘And our sister.’ Elrohir sounded almost absent.  ‘They will not cheat him now, whatever may come of it.  Of that you can be sure.’

 





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