Chapter 6: The Ring-bearer

For he is very wise, and weighs all things to a nicety in the scales of his malice. But the only measure that he knows is desire, desire for power; and so he judges all hearts. 

Gandalf, The Council of Elrond, FotR

Imladris
October 21, 3018

A stirring from the bed roused Elrond from his half-sleep and he moved quickly to Frodo’s bedside.  Shadow hung heavy over the hobbit. His breathing had grown shallow, his skin was a ghostly shade of grey, and his arm and shoulder were icy to the touch. Elrond sat on the edge of the bed and laid his hands on the frail form, pouring his healing strength into Frodo.  A moment later he felt the gentle presence of his daughter as she joined him, her hands imparting comfort to Frodo even as she added her strength to that which Elrond could provide.  Several minutes passed before Elrond felt Frodo had been pulled far enough back from the edge of the wraith-world for him to withdraw.  He felt the One Ring as he removed his hand from Frodo’s chest, and he exerted Vilya’s considerable power against it. The One was subdued, and Elrond intended to keep it that way.

He raised his eyes to look out the balcony and over the waterfall that poured out of the mountains to the east.  Anor was rising, visible only as a faint glow beyond the peaks. He had always enjoyed watching the sun rise, the shadows and dances of light as the bright glow burst through clefts in the rock and finally rose to tower above them unique each day. He sighed, then turned his gaze back to Frodo.  Hope remained that this hobbit, who had survived already for a fortnight with a shard of the morgul blade within him, would gain enough strength that they could attempt to remove it.  Yet he was weakened, pushed to the very edge of life in this world, and without the elves to hold his spirit here, Mordor would claim him. A battle raged inside him, with the shard seeking to pierce and claim his heart while Elrond sought to hold it at bay.  Elrond had determined that the unknown player in the battle was the Ring. While it wanted to return to its master and thus aided the shard to that end, Elrond’s sharp rejection and the conflict induced by being near Vilya caused it to cling to Frodo, lending him its strength, however unintentional.

Arwen pressed a cup of tea into his hand, and he sipped the warm liquid gratefully.  He was tired, having expended much of his energy tending to Frodo, and he would soon need to rest.  Mithrandir would arrive soon, and with the aid of the healers, he would provide relief for Elrond for a few hours.

“Drink, Frodo,” said Arwen softly as she wet his lips with drops of water, stroking his cheek until he opened his mouth slightly.  She had moved to sit next to him, his head in her lap, as she patiently dripped fluid into his mouth.

Her face was pale and sorrow was visible in her eyes, Elrond noted. She too was tired, having spent the night at his side. She had helped in the healing rooms since she was old enough to understand what her father did there, sometimes fetching items the healers needed and other times sitting at a patient’s side, holding their hand or reading to them.  Her mere presence was enough to bring a smile to most faces, and as she grew her beauty had distracted many a patient as their wounds were tended.  She will make a great queen, came the unbidden thought.

The door opened, drawing Elrond’s thoughts from the past and future back into the present.  Mithrandir entered, followed by Bilbo, Aragorn and Glorfindel. He had asked Glorfindel to gather this small group to discuss the Ring-bearer.  His long night of study and care for Frodo had led him to some conclusions which needed to be spoken and agreed upon before any more time passed.  He looked at each person, his gaze resting longest on his daughter, wondering if she should hear these discussions. He decided she should.

“Aragorn brought me the hilt of the blade used to stab Frodo,” he began gravely. “On it were written things both seen and unseen, of Mordor and Sauron and the world of shadow.  A piece of the blade intentionally broke off and stayed in the wound, and has been working its way to Frodo’s heart.  Should it pierce his heart, he will become a wraith, like the Nine only under their control.

“The One has only one true desire: to be reunited with its maker and be wielded by him.  It wants to return to Sauron, and the easiest way for that to happen is for Frodo to cross into the wraith world and become one of Sauron’s servants. That fate is eternal agony, much as it is for the Nine.”

Elrond paused as Bilbo’s face blanched and he shuddered.  Gandalf laid a comforting arm on the old hobbit’s shoulders, and Bilbo nodded for Elrond to continue.

“The One, in its malice, has aided the shard.  Frodo was nearly lost to us at the Fords, and only his call upon Elbereth likely saved him, for the One and the Nine are repelled by the hope of Varda, star-kindler.  Our enemy desperately needed to keep Frodo from Imladris, but was unable to do so. But, we hold Frodo here even now by only the weakest of threads.” Elrond paused for a moment. “The One, if not able to be reunited with its maker, would seek instead someone capable of wielding it.  It called to me as I treated Frodo; it has called to you, Mithrandir, in the Shire, and to Aragorn and Glorfindel on the road.  It has received only rejection.  I have noticed throughout this long night that rejection subdues the One.”

“What good does that do?” asked Bilbo haltingly.

“I believe,” Elrond replied, “that the shard is made by the same malice or craft that created the One Ring, a malice that knows only a desire for power. A heart that seeks power would be easily found by the shard. Frodo’s heart, like yours, Bilbo, does not seek power. This is why Frodo has managed to resist for so long: the shard has had only the weakest beacon to guide it.  The ring aided the shard, for it is power and it already had some power over Frodo, until Frodo reached Imladris.  The One subdued no longer aids the shard, and in fact, may now be hindering it.”

“How so?” asked Aragorn, his curiosity aroused.

“We have all rejected the One, and thus it is left where it has long rested: in the hands of one who is, by Sauron’s scales, powerless.  But better in the hands of the powerless than lost or forgotten.  The ring needs Frodo,” he explained.

“What if,” asked Bilbo, his eyes wide, “the shard claims Frodo?”

Elrond regarded the old hobbit steadily. “We must not let that happen. If we cannot heal him, we must do the unthinkable and prevent the Enemy from claiming him.”

The weight of Elrond’s words hung heavily upon all in the room, and he could see Bilbo working out the meaning of them in his mind, his lips moving slowly as he spoke silently to himself.

“So you mean to kill him,” said Bilbo finally.

“Better to die by our hand than to endure endless suffering,” replied Elrond quietly. “However, I do not foresee this circumstance being necessary.  With the One subdued, I hope to protect Frodo’s heart, then isolate and remove the shard.  He must regain some strength first. For his protection, one of us must remain with him at all times.” His eyes rested on Mithrandir as he spoke, and the wizard acknowledged him silently.  The additional conflict that Vilya and Narya provided against the One only they could wield.

“I would have gone to the Shire myself to get that ring. I would take it wherever you wish,” said Bilbo slowly, and tears filled his eyes. “I do not think I could kill my nephew.”

“We would not ask such a thing of you,” replied Elrond, compassion filling him for this hobbit he had come to love.  He would not tell Bilbo that he did not know if he could do this thing either.  Hands that had only healed for thousands of years were loath to cause any harm, much less death.  But could he let Frodo be claimed by Shadow? Forces greater than them were at work, as Mithrandir had reminded him only yesterday, and he prayed those forces would not allow them to be faced with such a decision.

Elrond met the eyes of each person silently, Aragorn nodding his understanding, while Mithrandir and Glorfindel communicated silently with him.  While Mithrandir indicated his agreement, Glorfindel said, ‘Your hands will not do this thing, should it be necessary.’ Elrond closed his eyes for a moment, humbled that his friend and protector would be willing to protect him even from this.  He looked last at Arwen.  She still sat on the bed with Frodo in her arms, stroking his hair while tears ran down her face. She sensed his gaze and lifted her eyes to meet his.  She nodded her understanding.

Aragorn walked to the bed and stood next to Arwen, resting his hand on Frodo for a moment. Then, taking Arwen’s face in his hands, he wiped the tears from her face and kissed her tenderly.  Elrond watched the display of affection and love between his daughter and foster-son with a mixture of pain and joy. That their love was true he did not doubt and he rejoiced that each had found the one they wished to bind to, but though he had tried to be happy for them, he could not convince his own heart that it did not hurt.  Only recently had they begun to show any affection for each other before him, and he had sworn he would do nothing to cause them pain.

There was a knock at the door, and Mithrandir opened it to admit Sam.  The hobbit opened his mouth to speak, then looked around the room, his gaze finally landing on Arwen. Speechless, he watched with hands twitching as she performed the duties he felt were his.

“Good morning, Samwise,” said Elrond.

Sam nodded shyly as he moved closer to Arwen, finally daring to touch Frodo’s hand.  “How is Mr. Frodo?” he asked, looking at Elrond.

“He fights still, and we fight with him,” answered Elrond truthfully.  He moved a comfortable chair next to the bed and motioned Bilbo toward it.  The old hobbit sank into the comfortable cushions, arranging himself so he could hold Frodo’s hand. 

His communication for Mithrandir was not for hobbit ears, though, and he made it silently, telling the wizard of the long night’s fight against shadow and darkness.  Wield Narya against the One. The immediate discord you experience will lessen, and It will choose dormancy. Send for me if he slips beyond what you can easily manage, he instructed. Glorfindel will stop in periodically.

Aragorn and Glorfindel slipped silently from the room as Mithrandir nodded his understanding, and Elrond waited silently as Arwen allowed Sam to take her place. Once he was settled, she kissed his head, stunning him into further silence. “You are a faithful friend, Samwise Gamgee,” she said.

Elrond held his arm out to Arwen, and they left Frodo to the care of his friends.  Elrond stopped at the door to Arwen’s chamber. “Rest, my daughter,” he said as he embraced her.

He entered the serenity of his own chambers, removing his robes and then stretching out on his bed.  The fight to keep Frodo in this world had drained him, and he needed the sleep that settled on him almost immediately.

* * *

“Elrond, wake up.”

Elrond was sure he had just closed his eyes when Glorfindel’s voice invaded his thought.   He sat up and looked out the window, but the sun indicated several hours had passed.   He combed his hair back with his fingers and rubbed his temples, then looked expectantly at Glorfindel.

“Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain have arrived,” he said grimly.  “They will not tell their tale to anyone but you, but they carry a message for Bilbo as well.  Erestor told them you could not be disturbed right now and sent them to rest. He has asked them to speak to you before seeking out Bilbo.  I would have let you sleep, but Mithrandir asked for you as well.”

Elrond rose immediately to his feet at that word, quickly making himself presentable before returning to the room where Frodo lay. A row of worried hobbit faces met his.

“Elrond,” greeted Gandalf, relief in his voice.

Elrond smiled at the hobbits reassuringly as he moved to the bed.  He rested his hand on Frodo’s forehead, then turned to Gandalf.  “I believe that Bilbo has chosen his favorite Shire foods for the midday meal. Gandalf, will you escort everyone to the dining room?” As he spoke, Elrond strengthened Frodo, who rapidly improved, his face becoming less pale and his breathing more regular.

Bilbo rose slowly to his feet, then patted Frodo’s hand.  “Come,” he ordered the younger hobbits kindly. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Bilbo interrupted, “Do not argue, Sam. Master Elrond will see to him.”

“I am hungry,” added Pippin half-heartedly. He nudged at Merry, who only nodded as he looked at Elrond with worry in his eyes.

“Elrond’s cooks will be glad to remedy that problem,” said Gandalf as he shepherded the hobbits toward the door. 

Sam left only reluctantly, Gandalf’s hand on his shoulder pushing him gently out the door.  When the room had emptied, Elrond sat on the edge of the bed and laid his hands upon Frodo, touching upon the hobbit’s spirit and calling him back from the edge of the wraith-world.   Frodo was slow to respond, and at first made no attempt to answer the call.  Only when Elrond drew so near as to touch his own fëa to that of the hobbit did Frodo react, finally turning and allowing Elrond to pull him back.

Elrond turned his attention next to the closed wound on Frodo’s shoulder. Now that he knew what lay hidden within, he sought for it, pressing his fingers along a line from the shoulder wound to the heart.  He could sense the presence of the same shadow he had felt in the hilt of the knife in Frodo, but it dissipated under his skin and Elrond was unable to localize it to one spot.  He laid his hand upon the goal of the shard, Frodo’s heart, and pushed at the evil that encroached upon it, pressing it back. To his satisfaction, he felt the evil recede slightly, and he turned the full force of Vilya’s power upon it.

His next awareness was of Glorfindel’s voice. “Elrond, enough for now.” He opened his eyes, gradually drawing his mind back to the present.  “Frodo is much improved,” reported Glorfindel, smiling when Elrond finally focused his eyes on him.

He looked at the hobbit, who appeared now as if he were only sleeping.  His cheeks had the slightest pink tinge to them, and he yawned and moved slightly, making himself more comfortable. Relief filled him. He traced the invisible line he had drawn from the wound to the heart, pleased he had pushed the shard back a considerable distance.  He still could not localize it, but hope filled him that he would soon be able to.

“You must eat,” Glorfindel informed him.

“I will wait for dinner,” replied Elrond absently. A few hours of rest seemed more beneficial to him.

“It is time for dinner,” answered Glorfindel.  “Aragorn and Arwen will sit with Frodo this evening.”

Elrond stood slowly, awareness of his efforts and how long he had been at them now dawning as he found himself again weary.  He suddenly realized that Aragorn and Arwen were in the room, and he smiled when the saw new hope that Frodo would survive reflected in their faces.  They embraced him wordlessly, then stepped aside as Glorfindel guided him out of the room.

Dinner had been sent to his study, and Erestor was setting it out for him a table. He poured a cup of Elrond’s favorite wine and set that next to the plate, then lit the lamps near the desk for additional light.  Papers were neatly laid out on the table, and Elrond knew they were sure to be in perfect order, with all information available summarized for him.  He smiled gratefully at Erestor.

“Galdor has arrived from the Havens,” said Erestor as Elrond sat down. “Círdan sent you only a brief note, appointing Galdor as his representative for the decisions that need to be made.”

Elrond smiled.  Círdan knew of the major events in Middle-earth before they happened, proof again that forces greater than elves, men, dwarves and hobbits were at work.

“The dwarves have agreed to withhold their message from Bilbo for now,” continued Erestor. “I have made them aware that Bilbo’s close kin is ill and he is unavailable.  Glóin has indicated it is a warning from Dáin Ironfoot, that a messenger from Mordor had come seeking news of the hobbit and his ring.”

Elrond ate as he listened to Erestor succinctly summarize all the events happening in Imladris and the news they had received from beyond their borders.  With Black Riders to their west and news of Sauron’s messengers to their east, it felt as if shadow were surrounding them, closing an ever tighter noose around his hidden valley.

“Thank you, Erestor,” he said when his advisor had finished.  “Please let Glorfindel know to wake me if I have not appeared by midnight.”

Erestor nodded, and Elrond rose and walked down the hall that connected to his sitting room and private chambers. He entered his room, intent on seeking rest, and noted the reflection of Ithil’s light in the mirror above his dressing table.  He sighed, knowing that his weariness was reflected in his thoughts – thoughts of fear that he would be unable to heal Frodo fully, for the hobbit had walked too long in the world of the wraiths and become too entwined with the One Ring, for it too had aided his healing.  Helplessness, for he knew that the time for action was near, and he would need to step back and allow others to lead the way; others who were dear to his heart.

He walked to the bed, noting the rumpled coverlet, and for a moment he forgot that he had been the one to disturb the bedclothes earlier that day.  He saw silver hair spilling across the deep blue material and knew he had wandered on to the path of dreams, for there she sometimes appeared, and always she was his bright Celebrían, his comfort and support no matter how dark the days.  But as he sat down beside her, he realized her eyes were closed.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Elrond stood in the shadows of the chamber he had shared with Celebrían for centuries, watching as she rested in Ithil’s light.  Her eyes were closed, something he was now used to, but as the weeks and months had gone by it had become a sign to him of the state of her fëa. Her body was healed, yet it seemed as if her light, which used to radiate from her eyes, now was slowly dissipating from her skin instead.  She seemed to be growing steadily more translucent, her elven glow once golden and healthy now fading to a clear light.

He moved soundlessly to the bed, seating himself on its edge, and picking up her hand in his own.  She immediately wrapped her fingers around his hand, tugging unconsciously, even in sleep trying to pull him close to her.  Without releasing her hand, he turned and leaned back against the headboard, then gathered her in his arms and held her close.

She sighed softly and relaxed against him, and Elrond felt as if a vise gripped his heart and began to squeeze mercilessly. His touch still brought her comfort, she still longed for his presence, but he knew they were not enough.  The effort she put forth in trying to live was only draining her further.  She took no joy in her life anymore, yet he knew she wished to, for the sake of those she loved.  But Elrond knew the truth in his heart: if he did not let her go, grief would separate them and she would go instead to Mandos’s Halls.

He felt the tears begin to slide down his cheeks as he stroked her hair. The vise grip on his heart gradually released as he slowly came to accept the decision his mind told him he must make. While his heart cried out that he did not know how he could go on without her, his disciplined and rational mind reminded him that he would go on because he had to.  She will heal in the west, his mind whispered.  When you join her there, she will be your bright Celebrían again, your silver queen.

His heart remained anguished though. Concerned she would sense his distress, he tenderly settled her back on to the bed, noting her frown as she accepted the edge of a blanket to hold in lieu of his hand.   He slid from the bed, moving to the open terrace and out into the gardens. Celebrían’s gardens, he reminded himself.  He choked on an anguished sob, and then fled to the furthermost corner of the garden. An ancient beech tree welcomed him, and he sank against it in despair. “I should go with her; she should not face this alone,” he cried out softly.

He wrapped his arms about himself as he drew in great heaving breaths, as if that motion would somehow stop the pain. Instead he felt as if he were spiraling out of control. In his mind’s eye he could see Celebrían diminishing in the distance. He reached out to her, but to no avail. She did not reach back to him, but merely looked upon him with sadness.

“Elrond.”

Elrond started at the sound his name, his head jerking back with such force that he struck it hard against the beech tree. He actually saw stars and could not help the surprised cry that escaped him, but his vision cleared a moment later. Celeborn and Galadriel knelt before him, concern written clearly on their faces.

“She is no worse,” he said immediately, hoping to assuage their fears about Celebrían.

Galadriel sat at his side, facing him, one slender hand reaching to touch the back of his head.   The throbbing pain left him immediately. She slid her hand down his arm, taking his hand firmly in her own.  Celeborn had seated himself next to them, one hand resting lightly on Elrond’s arm. While he had thought he wished only to be alone with his tormented thoughts, he found himself suddenly grateful for their presence.  Their touch strengthened and comforted him. But she is their daughter, they have their own pain, he chided himself guiltily.

Galadriel ignored his thoughts. “What has brought you to such distress this night, Elrond?” she asked instead.

Confronted so directly, Elrond did not have time to strengthen his self control and could not stop the tears that formed and slipped from his eyes.  He drew in another deep breath, closing his eyes as he prepared for what he had to say. When he opened them again, he met their gazes solidly. “I believe that Celebrían’s only hope in healing lies in the West.  She needs to sail soon, or I fear she will slip from this life and into the care of Námo.”

“I also believe this to be true,” replied Galadriel gravely. Next to her, Celeborn was at first silent, his head bowed, but when he finally looked up, he appeared resigned.

“I know not the West or what healing it may provide, but I have no hope to offer my daughter. In my heart, I believe I know what you say to be true,” Celeborn said slowly. He looked Elrond straight in the eye, then. “I do not want my child to suffer any longer. Her light has gone out; joy resides within her no longer.”

Elrond blinked back tears as he heard a father’s anguish. He pulled his hand free from Galadriel and unconsciously twisted Vilya upon his finger. “I do not know if I can let her go without me,” he said finally. “She should not have to face this alone.”

Galadriel grabbed his hand again, squeezing the ring on his finger, at the same time she bared her feelings before him.  He could see into her heart, the pain and anguish and guilt and despair, because for all her power, she had not been able to protect her only child, nor heal her. “When you put this upon your hand,” she said hoarsely, “you committed yourself to either finishing the task set before us in Middle-earth, or dying upon her soil trying. Our work is not complete, Elrond Peredhel, and your time has not yet come to leave these shores.”

Elrond’s anger flared, but he calmed and instead sighed. “I know this.”

“She will not be alone,” added Galadriel softly. “My parents will care for her.”

Elrond thought back to the few times he had spoken with Finarfin, High King of the Noldor in Aman, during the War of Wrath. He recalled the elf’s bright countenance and gentle ways, his soft yet stern voice, and how he his presence had filled whatever space he occupied.  He had liked the elf.  The king had spoken to him as a blood relative, uncle to Turgon, Elrond’s great-grandfather. He knew Eärendil and Elwing, and had told Elrond he would bring word of him and Elros to their parents.  If he had taken that much care with a relative as distant as Elrond, then he could only imagine the care that Finarfin would show his own granddaughter.

“That eases my heart,” said Celeborn suddenly. He looked at Galadriel, a bemused look on his face. “I liked your father.”

A brief look of longing crossed Galadriel’s face, one that Elrond had seldom seen, and he could not help but wonder how often the sea-longing called her, and homesickness troubled her.  She smiled at them. “Finarfin’s gentleness and love will only be surpassed, perhaps, by that of Eärwen, my mother.”

“I will write to Círdan and ask for a place for Celebrían upon the next ship,” said Elrond after a moment’s silence.  “I will not discuss this with her, or our children, until we have received word from the Havens and a date is set.”

Galadriel and Celeborn both nodded, deferring to him. Elrond knew Galadriel would contact the great eagles as well, and word would reach Valinor, though he had never asked the specifics of how this occurred. He did not think she would tell him.

“Will you ask your children to sail?” asked Celeborn.

Elrond looked upon the ancient elf lord thoughtfully.  Did he wish his grandchildren safely away, or was he anticipating an even greater loss of those he held most dear? “I will, of course, offer them their choice, but my heart tells me that none of them will go,” he finally answered.

Celeborn appeared neither glad nor sad at this prediction, and Elrond knew that the question he had voiced weighed upon all of their minds.  He wanted all of his family safe and he wanted all of them with him. “This is what we must do,” said Elrond, speaking more to reassure himself than seek a response. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and rubbed his temples, his fingers snaking around to feel the large bump on the back of his head.

“This is what we must do,” repeated Galadriel, as Celeborn nodded. Celeborn rose gracefully, then extended a hand to Galadriel, pulling her to her feet.  Elrond leaned against the tree, closing his eyes for a moment and taking another deep breath.  When he opened his eyes he found the two watching him sadly.  He considered waving them away, to leave him for a few moments, but when they each extended a hand to him, he took them.  They pulled him to his feet, then embraced him for a moment.

They walked together back to the entrance of Elrond and Celebrían’s chamber, where Celeborn and Galadriel left him.  He entered the room, noting immediately that Celebrían had not rested peacefully in his absence.  The bed clothing was tangled about her, a blanket clenched tightly in her fists.  Her face was contorted in pain and fear, and he knew that memory had assailed her again.   He strode quickly to the bed, sitting beside her and pulling her into his arms.

“Celebrían, I am here,” he soothed. He smoothed her hair away from her face, running his hand down her arm and over her hip.  To his overwhelming relief, she did not shy away from his touch, but clung to him. Rocking her gently in his arms, he waited for her to calm, and eventually open her eyes.  He smiled at her tenderly, touching her cheek, masking his pain at seeing her dull and lifeless gaze.

“Please do not leave me,” she begged pitifully.

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I will be here, Celebrían, I promise.”

He held her close until she calmed, then used their bond and his touch to send her into a dreamless sleep. He pushed the nightmares from her, barely able to tolerate even for that short time the horrors that she was reliving. Settling her next to him and ensuring they were touching, he then made himself comfortable and pulled a writing tablet from a bedside table. He carefully worded his missive to Círdan. He would send it by messenger to the Havens at first light.

* * *

“Naneth?” asked Arwen softly, not wishing to startle her mother. When Celebrían lifted her eyes to meet Arwen’s, she continued, “May I choose a gown for you to wear today?”

Celebrían pulled the ties of her dressing gown closer around her thin form, fingering them as if wondering if she must part from the garment. Instead of answering immediately, she turned to look out on the balcony overlooking the garden. It seemed to Arwen that she was lost in thought or entranced by the scent of the roses drifting up to her.  She still loved their smell, and roses were brought daily to her room.

“This blue is one of your favorites,” Arwen finally continued.  She carried it to where her mother stood, and was grateful when Celebrían turned back to her with a slight smile and began to dress. Arwen helped her with the buttons, then brushed her mother’s hair.   Her mother no longer flinched from being touched, and her body appeared healed, but Arwen was increasingly concerned with how thin she had become.  Not only was she thin, at times Arwen felt she could see right through her. She is literally fading away, she thought suddenly.

“Daernaneth is in the garden room. She asked if you would join her,” said Arwen, taking her mother by the arm and escorting her to the door.   They walked down the hall together, and Arwen was glad to leave her in Galadriel’s care, for she needed to speak to her father.  She felt a soft touch on her arm, and turned.

“Thank you, Arwen,” said Celebrían as she embraced her. “I love you, my daughter.”

Arwen’s eyes filled with tears, and she hugged her mother back, careful with what felt like an increasingly frail body. “I love you, Naneth.”

Arwen left her mother in Galadriel’s company, glad that Galadriel could get Celebrían to do things and respond to her when it seemed no one else could. She almost ran down the hall to her father’s study, knocking once and entering without waiting for permission.

She found Elrond sitting with his advisors, all of them turning to face her when she burst into the room. She felt color rise in her cheeks at her impropriety, and nearly backed out of the room, but stopped and drew up straight, fixing her eyes on her father.  He had already risen and stepped forward to her.

“Arwen, what is wrong?” he asked softly, taking her hands in his own.

“Adar, please, I must speak to you.  Will you be long?” she implored.

Elrond turned and beckoned Erestor to him, murmuring to him for a few moments, and then he took her by the arm and walked with her to a private area near the library.  He sat down on a comfortable settee, and she sat with a sigh next to him.

“Adar, I think Naneth is disappearing before our eyes.  She is . . .,”Arwen paused, “she is so thin, I can almost see through her.”

Elrond pulled her into his arms, and she drew comfort and strength from his embrace, as she had from her earliest memory.  She could not remember in her centuries of life anything that he could not fix. “I know,” he said finally. “I have the same concerns, Arwen.” He pulled back, looking her deep in the eyes, and then finally seemed to come to some decision. “I had meant to speak with you and your brothers in the next day or so, but I think you need to hear this now. I have not spoken to your naneth, though I will today.

“I believe, and your grandparents agree, that Celebrían will not heal here in Middle-earth. I fear that she will slip from us entirely in due time.  I have contacted Círdan and asked for a place for your naneth on the next ship. The messenger returned this morning with Círdan’s affirmation and proposed date.”

Arwen drew in her breath sharply, a cry escaping her and tears that had been threatening her all morning finally bursting forth as if in a flood. “No, Adar!” she cried. “No, there must be some way, some healing we have not tried!”

Elrond pulled her close again, letting her weep, and Arwen realized with a sudden certainty that he was right. She had just come to him with that very same concern that Celebrían was fading before their eyes.  She drew in a deep breath and sat upright again. “You are right, Adar,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.  “I know you are right. I cannot bear to see her like this, and yet I cannot imagine not having Naneth with us.”

Elrond tipped her chin up. “You know that a choice remains before you; that when I sail you must also.  I cannot go now, as much as I want to be with Celebrían, but you need not wait for me, my daughter. You can sail with your naneth.”

Arwen felt as if her heart stopped beating and time itself stood still. The shock of knowing her mother must sail still weighed upon her, and now she must make the same decision? To go with Celebrían to an unknown land, or stay with her father and brothers and their home . . . “I . . I do not know what to say, Adar,” she finally managed.

“Do not say anything now,” replied Elrond firmly. “You have time to consider this. I have not spoken to your naneth yet, nor your brothers.  Go to your daeradar; he will keep you company while I finish here.”

“Daeradar,” repeated Arwen with relief.  She had needed to hear what her father told her, but she did not wish to be alone now that she knew.  She sat a moment longer in disbelief, noting that her father left for a moment and then came back.  He held out his hands to her, and she stood, accepting his embrace again. He held her for a long moment, and Arwen drank in the comfort he provided.  Her mind wandered, thinking of being apart from her adar, or her naneth, and suddenly she felt as if darkness was closing in on Imladris.  She could feel shadow encroaching, her father fighting it with all his power and might, and she felt desperately afraid for him, and ashamed that he was fighting it alone.

“Come,” he said, and they walked back to the door of his study.  Conversation among the advisors stopped as they walked through, and then Elrond was opening the door and escorting her into the hallway.  Arwen clung to his arm, not wishing to let him go face shadow alone, though she knew the thought was irrational.

“Arwen,” came a cherished voice.

“Daeradar!” she cried, and Elrond released her to her grandfather’s arms.  She noted the knowing glance exchanged between the two and remembered that her grandparents already knew.

* * *

Elrond stood with his head bowed for a few moments before rejoining his advisors.  He gathered his thoughts and strode into the room, taking his place next to Erestor, who quickly filled him in on what had been discussed.  As Elrond looked around the table, he noted the pity in the eyes of all present, and forced himself to a calm he did not feel. He knew they were waiting for him to speak.

“This meeting is adjourned,” said Erestor after the silence had dragged on for several minutes.  “I will be in contact with those who have outstanding items to report.”

The room cleared, and soon only Erestor, Glorfindel and Elrond remained.  Elrond finally pulled the letter from Círdan from his robe, and laid it on the table before his friends. They read it together, and Elrond was deeply moved by the sorrow that appeared on their faces.  Glorfindel stood, wrapping his strong arms about Elrond, and he felt the tears that ran down the warrior’s face and onto his hands.  Erestor covered his hand with his own, silent, but Elrond knew his grief was no less deep.  “I am sorry, Elrond,” said Glorfindel hoarsely.  “But if there is any hope, it is there.”

Elrond drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. “I have told Arwen sooner than I had planned, but her distress this morning was over her fears that her mother is slipping away before her eyes.  She is with her grandfather. I will speak to Celebrían next, and then my sons this evening.”

“Celebrían does not know about this?” asked Erestor, surprised.

“No,” answered Elrond shortly. “She cannot decide if she should dress in the morning, much less make an important decision about her future.  Celeborn and Galadriel made this decision with me. Celebrían will do what we will, for she has little will of her own right now.”

Elrond knew his voice sounded harsh, his words commanding. Before the attack on Celebrían, she would have taken umbrage at his word and tone, for she was not easily commanded.  Now she clung to him at night, and only survived her days.

“Take the twins away from the house to tell them,” suggested Glorfindel, his hands now massaging the stiff muscles of Elrond’s shoulders. 

“You think they will react poorly?” asked Elrond.

“Elladan will,” answered Glorfindel.  “His moods swing from anger and rage to near despair. Elrohir will help him to accept it, but he will need time.”

Elrond massaged his temples. He felt as if his head had ached since the day his sons had brought his wife’s battered and broken body home to him.  No matter how many times he had spoken to Elladan, tried to assuage his son of his guilt, inevitably the feelings returned. Elrohir had felt guilt as well, but was more contemplative and better able to temper his emotions. He managed his twin admirably, but Elrond knew even that burden weighed on his son’s heart. “I have failed them all.”

He heard gasps of disbelief, and only then realized he had spoken aloud. He waved his hand at Erestor, who cut off his words before he started. Glorfindel could not be dissuaded, however. “Do not let this despair destroy you, Elrond,” he said sternly.  When Elrond did not look up, he felt a strong hand forcing his head to turn and meet Glorfindel’s eyes.  “Look at me, Elrond,” he commanded.

Elrond bristled at the rough handling, but when he met Glorfindel’s eyes, he was taken back by the intensity of his gaze.  “We cannot fully know how heavily this despair weighs upon your heart, but you are strong, Elrond, and that has not changed. You will do what is right by Celebrían, and your children, and your people.  And you will let us help you.”

Elrond nearly broke down at that moment, wishing he could allow someone else to make the decisions, someone else to decide what was right.  He gripped Glorfindel’s arm tightly. “I will let you help me. Already, you have both greatly helped me,” he realized. He looked at Erestor, thinking of how smoothly Imladris had run while his attention was elsewhere.  And he did not even know the status of the security of the borders or whether the passes were safe; Glorfindel had worked with Celeborn and the Rangers to see to their safety.

“Spend your time with your family, Elrond, and do not worry about Imladris,” said Erestor kindly.

Elrond could only nod.

* * *

Elrond entered the garden room, which was sunny and bright, and had long been Celebrían’s favorite room in their home.  She and her mother were both working their embroidery, and Elrond saw that she had made progress.  Galadriel had been the one to suggest putting a simple task in Celebrían’s hands, something that would occupy her, but not require decisions beyond choosing a new thread color.  Having her hands occupied had helped Celebrían tremendously, given her some control in her life.

He leaned over and kissed Celebrían when she looked up to greet him, and warmth spread through him when he saw peace and serenity in her eyes. “The waterfall comes alive under your touch,” he said, admiring her needlework of Imladris. She smiled at him, looking nearly like the Celebrían of old.  “Will you walk in the garden with me?”

“I will,” answered Celebrían, and she rose gracefully and took his arm.

They walked in silence through Celebrían’s rose garden, moving slowly along the paths that meandered between flowerbeds and around the stream that wound through the garden.  Elrond finally crossed the small bridge and led Celebrían to their favorite sitting area, nearly hidden by trees.  Celebrían leaned against his arm and sighed, as she drank in the sight and scents of the treasured spot.  They had made many decisions together here.

They sat, Elrond taking Celebrían’s hands in his own. She remained silent, but her eyes were on him, as Elrond struggled to find the right words.  How would he say this without making her feel as if they were sending her away? That she had no hope here and none of her family could help? That they had decided her future for her?  He did not know the state of her mind at any given moment, to predict how she might react.

“Elrond,” she finally began, “you have something important you wish to say to me. I know my children are well, for I have seen all of them this morning, so this is not about them.  Please say what you need to say.”

Elrond was surprised at the clarity in her voice and thoughts, and a sudden misgiving assailed him. Yet he knew the moment was fleeting, and that such moments had dissuaded him too often.  Yet saying the words would begin something that he feared. “I am afraid,” he finally admitted.

“I have often been afraid lately,” conceded Celebrían when he paused. “When I can feel anything, that is.”

Her voice nearly broke, and Elrond rubbed her hands gently, comforting her.  “Celebrían, I love you more than anything in Middle-earth,” he began, his voice breaking as well.  Their eyes were locked together, and he could feel tears begin to slide down his cheeks. “But I cannot heal your spirit. You are becoming so thin that we fear you will one day just disappear before our eyes.” He paused, choking back a sob. “Celebrían, I cannot bear to lose you.”

Tears were running down Celebrían’s cheeks as well, but she made no noise, no sobs, and she did not speak when he paused. “Your parents and I have talked long about what else we might do to help you. But we lose hope. I think you need to sail West, Celebrían. If there is healing to be found, it is there.”

Celebrían had gone cold and rigid, staring at him, tears still sliding down her face.

“I cannot bear to be apart from you, but I would rather you were finding healing in elvenhome than in the Halls of Waiting,” he pleaded.

“You will not be sailing with me,” she said woodenly, a statement, not a question.

“I wish I were sailing with you, but I cannot leave until Sauron is defeated,” he replied softly, and the excuse sounded as inadequate to him now as it had when Galadriel had laid it upon him.

“And if Sauron is not defeated, then you will not come at all,” she intoned.

Elrond closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and then he felt Celebrían squeeze his hands. “Then I would be waiting for you, either for a ship or for your release from Mandos’s Halls,” she reasoned, her voice distant.

“One way or another, I will come to you,” he promised.

She relaxed slightly, and he took that as the beginning of acceptance. “Your grandparents will be there to meet you,” he said softly. “If Eärwen is anything like Finarfin, you will love them both. And finally they will meet their only daughter’s child.”

“And our children?” she asked solemnly.

“I will encourage them to sail with you,” he began.

“No,” she interrupted, her voice now small. “It must be their choice.”

She swayed slightly, and Elrond slid closer to her, pulling her into his arms.  She did not resist, but seemed to melt against him, and he began to rock gently. He did not know how long they sat like that, in silence, when Celebrían spoke again. “When?”

“In the spring,” he answered gently.

Her tears began to fall again then, followed by sobs, and Elrond felt as if his heart would break. Until now, Celebrían had shed many tears, but not truly cried, for the orcs had taken pleasure in her cries and she had stifled them in their horrid den, and ever since then as well.  Deep sobs wracked her frail frame, and Elrond held her as his own tears watered her hair, and he could not help but wonder if a new kind of healing had finally begun.

* * *

Elrond was worn and weary when he finally left Celebrían in her parents’ care.  She was exhausted, her voice hoarse from crying, and Elrond did not know if some peace would be found for her in sleep, or if orcs would return to mock her cries.  Galadriel had put her to bed and then sat beside her, one hand resting on Celebrían’s, ready to chase away any dreams that threatened her daughter.  Celeborn sat with Arwen in the sitting area, she lying with her head on a pillow in his lap, her eyes still red from the many tears she had shed.

Elrond had paused at the door before leaving them, guilt weighing heavily upon him as he considered he had destroyed the worlds of his wife and daughter today.  Now he needed to go talk to his sons, and he did not think he had the will or the strength to do so.  He had sent word for them to meet him at the waterfall, near the rocks where many an inhabitant of Imladris had sat in serious or romantic discussion with another.  He shed his robes and climbed to the area in a simple tunic and trousers.

Elladan and Elrohir were already present; Elrohir sitting on the rock while Elladan paced beside it. They had been out most of the day, but had heard of their sister’s tears when they returned to the house, and Elrond knew that grief hung heavy in the air of Imladris.  Elladan stopped pacing when he saw his father, and walked quickly to meet him.

“Is Naneth worse?” he demanded, his harsh voice belied by the shaking of his hands.

Elrond shook his head as he took Elladan’s hands in his own, holding on when Elladan would have yanked them free.  He maneuvered his son to sit next to his twin. “No, your naneth is not worse, Elladan, but I do have something I must tell you about her.”

Elrohir watched him intently; silent, but Elrond could feel Elladan’s restlessness. “Your naneth is not improving, and I lose hope that she will. I fear she is slowly slipping away from us, despite all that we have tried.” He took a deep breath, noting that the twins seemed to be holding their own. “Your naneth needs to sail West, for if there is healing to be found, it is there.”

Elrohir shut his eyes, pursing his lips together and clenching his fists as he fought to remain in control of himself.  Elladan did not even seem to try.  He jumped to his feet. “I cannot believe you are giving up, Adar!  You, of all people!  You never give up! There must be something else to try!” he burst out, again pacing. He stopped before Elrond, but when Elrond did not speak, Elladan dropped to his knees before him.  “Answer me, Adar!  What else can we do?”

Elrond felt his control slipping, a mixture of anger and sorrow warring within him, for Elladan’s words cut deeply, but beneath it Elrond could see a small child, fearful of waking and not being able to find his nana. He reached out and covered the hand that clenched at his leg, but Elladan shook him off.  Elrond felt his own tears start again, and fleetingly wondered how many tears he could shed in one day. Elladan saw his tears too, and they pushed him over the edge.

“No!” he cried.  He jumped to his feet, backing away.  “No!”  Then he turned and ran into the darkness.

Elrohir wept silently. Elrond moved to sit beside him, and pulled his unresisting son into his arms.  Elrohir clung to him for a moment, and then Elrond realized that his son was trying to comfort him.  “Adar, I am sorry.  I know you have done all you can, and Daernaneth and Daeradar too,” said Elrohir. “I cannot bear to think of life without Naneth, but I can see that she is slipping from us.”

Elrond knew Elrohir’s words were meant to temper Elladan’s, but he appreciated them just the same.  Elrohir’s eyes were dull, though, and he was trying to hide his own grief. Elrond felt a throbbing ache grow behind his eyes again, for he could not take away Elrohir’s pain, nor Elladan’s.

Elrohir seemed to hear something then, turning and looking off into the forest. Pulling away from Elrond, he slowly rose to his feet. He looked in the direction Elladan had gone again, and sighed deeply.  “I must go to Elladan,” he said softly, his head bowed.  Turning, he slowly disappeared into the darkness.

Elrond watched his son melt into the dusk, and then the full weight of the day’s events settled on him.  He felt as if he carried a burden beyond his means, and it was pressing him into the ground with such force that he could not even take a deep breath.  He gave in, sinking to the ground beside the rock. The cool surface of the stone felt good against his cheek, and he felt almost guilty for feeling that pleasant sensation when he knew that Elladan was raging in the woods, Elrohir was trying to comfort him while suppressing his own grief, Arwen was drawing her comfort from her grandfather, and his beloved wife was clinging to her mother… all over a decision Elrond had made without consulting either wife or children.   He felt helpless, unable to aid any of them. Indeed, he felt as if he were the last one any of them wished to see at the moment, as he had failed them all.

He twisted Vilya on his finger, feeling the thrumming energy it radiated into him and about him.  Its rhythms were his own now, the two chords creating harmony together.  Yet, even this power had not saved Celebrían.   A desire to remove the band and throw it into the waterfall came over him, and he rashly grabbed the ring and pulled it from his finger.  Flinging it hard against the rock, he watched it bounce and roll into the darkness.

Emptiness filled him, and if he had thought he felt worn and distressed by the day’s events already, he discovered he could feel worse.  Imladris closed in around him, his farsightedness about his valley and its inhabitants narrowing to darkness.   In despair, he curled up against the rock and closed his eyes.

He had no idea how much time had passed, recalling neither the flight of Eärendil that night, nor the setting of Anor and the rise of Ithil.   He did not hear if his sons passed by on their way to the house.  What he did know was when he was no longer alone.  He had not heard Glorfindel’s approach, nor did he know how long his friend stood and merely watched him. Not until he felt a shoulder brush his own and an arm reach around his shoulders did he know of his presence.

“Elrond, what have you done?” asked Glorfindel suddenly, sensing something wrong in Elrond the moment he touched him.

Elrond raised his head and stared at Glorfindel.  What had he done?  “What have I done?” he repeated dumbly. “Failed my wife and told her she must leave our home and I cannot go with her? Distressed and grieved my children?  You ask what I have done?”

Glorfindel moved suddenly in front of him, taking up his hands in his own and then running them quickly over Elrond’s person.  “Where is Vilya, Elrond?” he asked as the air seemed to grow chill and damp around them.

When Elrond did not immediately answer, Glorfindel began to search the area about the rock. He looked into the pool of water, but the water was too dark and the stars too dim for him to see the bottom.   “What did you do with it, Elrond?” he asked, his voice gentler as he knelt down beside him.

Elrond waved his hand into the area beyond the rock toward the path that led to the top of the waterfall.  “It is there somewhere,” he answered dully. “It has not gone anywhere.”  He could feel Vilya’s presence, could feel its desire to return to him.  The ludicrousness of being angry at the ring suddenly dawned on him, and he laughed bitterly.

He could hear Glorfindel scrounging around in the dark and a triumphant grunt when he at last found Vilya.  He returned to sit on the rock next to Elrond, and Elrond finally looked up when Glorfindel did not speak. His friend was turning the ring over and over in his hand, inspecting the stone and band. Elrond wondered for a moment if Glorfindel would wish to wear it, to feel Vilya attune to him, and to try to wield it.    “It is mostly undamaged,” Glorfindel finally murmured.  “A slight dent here that can be rubbed out.”  He looked at Elrond, as if seeing straight into his soul, and Elrond flinched.  He held the ring up before him. “You are ready to grab this from my hand, yet your anger is also directed at Vilya.  How do you feel parted from it, Elrond?  You are like a shadow of yourself right now, a mere shell.”

Anger grew within him, and Elrond nearly snatched the ring from Glorfindel’s hand.  But, although he raised his hand, he did not touch the ring. His hand hovered in the air, as if disembodied from him, and he was not sure if his own will held him back, or some other. It was Glorfindel who took Elrond’s hand in his own, and placed Vilya back upon his finger.

Vilya thrummed wildly at first, but gradually settled into their usual rhythm. The cold shadows that had surrounded him diminished and he felt his farsight and power over the valley return.  The heaviness that had been pressing him to the ground lightened as well, and he drew in a deep cleansing breath.  Glorfindel still held his hand, and he squeezed back gratefully.

“I do not think I will do that again,” he admitted, and Glorfindel smiled.

He looked at the stars, trying to determine how much of the night had passed, but finally had to ask, “How late is it?  Did my sons return to the house?”

“It is several hours yet until dawn,” replied Glorfindel, “and even the stars knew of your distress. Your sons have not returned, but they will by morning.”

Elrond could only nod.  They would not distress their mother by not appearing as they usually did.  A routine was too important, as they all knew.  “I need to return to Celebrían,” he said finally. “I told her I would not leave her alone.”  He knew Galadriel was with her, but that did not counter his promise.

Glorfindel rose gracefully and held out a hand to him.  Elrond felt himself pulled to his feet and stumbled, then moved stiffly as they began the descent back to the house. He felt as if every day of his long years was weighing upon him. Glorfindel slipped an arm around his shoulders, and Elrond felt himself strengthened and renewed at his touch.  He entered his chambers to find Galadriel rocking Celebrían in her arms, and Elrond knew the nightmares had returned.  Anger flared within him, and he wished there was some way to enter the dream and defeat the orcs, ending their torment of her forever.

Instead, he took Celebrían in his arms and held her close, wrapping both body and fëa around her.  She calmed immediately, and eventually released the grip with which she held him and relaxed in his arms.  He pushed her deep into dreamless sleep, though he knew it would take vigilance on his part to keep her there through the rest of the night.

When he spared a glance at Galadriel, he saw tears glistening in her eyes and her shoulders sagging, despair written in her ageless face. “I could not reach her,” she said softly.

Elrond stroked the silver head resting against his chest. He would be grieved beyond hope if Elladan or Elrohir or Arwen were in such a state and he could not help them. Yet he knew if not for the depth of the binding of their fëar, he would not be able to aid Celebrían as he did.  Galadriel rose, resting her hand on Celebrían, and Elrond covered it with his own.  There were no words he could say to ease a mother’s pain, yet he wished her to know how much Celebrían needed her parents right now, how much he and their children needed Galadriel and Celeborn here with them. Galadriel kissed his brow in response and then left them, but Elrond could not help but notice that her normal grace had departed.

“You will overcome this,” he murmured to Celebrían. Yet he feared sending her west without him, for what if no one could reach her?

* * *

Elrond was dozing in a comfortable chair on his balcony one afternoon a few weeks later when he heard the door open and heavy footsteps approach. He did not even rouse in response to the unfamiliar tread, for only someone approved by Erestor could have entered his chambers.  Only when he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder did he look up.

“Mithrandir,” he said tiredly.

“Do not get up,” instructed Mithrandir as he took a seat next to him.  The wizard studied him carefully for a few moments. “I have seen Celebrían.”

Elrond only nodded. This was the first time Mithrandir had been to Imladris since the attack on Celebrían. Elrond only knew that he had been in the south. “I was heading to the Shire when I heard from the Rangers. I am sorry, Elrond.”

Elrond pushed himself upright, accepting the cup of wine the wizard handed to him.  “Galadriel said that Celebrían sails next spring.”

Elrond nodded again, sipping at the wine that was one of his favorites. Erestor had picked it, he knew, as Erestor had taken care of most of the affairs of Imladris, as well as Elrond. Mithrandir continued to talk, gently leading with questions, until Elrond finally allowed his fears to surface and spoke of Celebrían’s nighttime descent into the horror of the orc’s den, and how only he could reach her.

To his surprise, he saw Mithrandir change before him, the lines of his face smoothing and his hair darkening, while his eyes grew gentle. He reached out and took Elrond’s hand in his own, and Elrond felt the touch of his spirit. At the gentle probing, he opened his heart and allowed the Maia in. ‘We are spirits, Elrond, clothing ourselves in body merely so the Eldar may see and speak with us.  In the Gardens of Lorien, where even the Valar go for rest and refreshment, Celebrían will find healing. Her spirit will be reached by those who exist as spirit.’

Elrond felt himself surrounded by warmth and love, as if he were himself a young child lying in his mother’s arms in the sunshine of the most peaceful garden.  Mithrandir’s touch on his spirit was tender and gentle, yet also strong and confident.  An overwhelming sense of peace settled upon him as he was assured that Celebrían would be cared for. ‘Celebrían is strong in spirit. She will be healed, Elrond,” promised Mithrandir, “not just taken care of.’

Elrond felt an enormous burden lifted from him. While he knew the path would be hard for Celebrían, as well as those left behind, Mithrandir had provided reassurance that their decision was right and good.  While nothing would remove the pain and guilt of not going with her, he was soothed by the wizard’s words. ‘You are in need of rest,’ said Mithrandir softly, gently invading Elrond’s thoughts.  Elrond allowed himself to be pushed into sleep.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

“Elrond, wake up.”

Glorfindel’s voice drew him from the deep rest of dreamless sleep, and he came to awareness feeling refreshed.  “It is midnight.”

“How does Frodo fare?” asked Elrond, though he already knew the answer.

“Slightly worse than he was when you last saw him, but much better than he had been,” replied Glorfindel.

Elrond smiled with satisfaction.  The shard had made a little progress, but had not recovered much of the distance that Elrond had taken from it.  He needed only to find it now, so that he could remove it.

* * * * *