Chapter Four: Happy Tears

0o0o0

A touch, as soft as a petal, caressed Gilraen’s brow. Arathorn? His hands had been calloused, but perhaps here with Námo his hands would be soft. Or perhaps this touch came from Námo himself.

A murmur, as gentle as a breeze, nuzzled her ear. Arathorn again? His voice had been booming, but perhaps here with Námo he had learned to whisper.

A scent, as sweet as a flower, tickled her nose. Arathorn? Surely not! Even in the Halls of Mandos, her beloved would certainly smell of steel not flowers!

If her semi-conscious state had allowed it, the woman would have giggled at the image of Arathorn bathing in rose-scented water. Instead, her only reaction was a delicate curve of the corner of her mouth, one that was imperceptible save to those who knew her well. And the tiny hand caressing her brow belonged to the one who knew her face best of all.

“Lord Elrond! She smiled! I saw. I promise!” Estel announced to Elrond, who gazed out the window lost in thought. The boy had been allowed into his mother’s chambers only minutes earlier, Elrond having concluded that it might ease Estel’s anxiety to see the steady rise and fall of his mother’s chest. Although the boy failed to understand the situation, he knew his mother was in some sort of trouble. He found the circumstances confusing; why was everyone so anxious to have his mother wake? She had always told him that he was less cranky when he had a good sleep. Perhaps if his mother slept long enough, she would wake happier, ready to love him once more.

“I believe you, Estel,” Elrond said, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Elladan and Elrohir rushed into the room, having heard Estel’s words. Elrohir promptly led Estel from Gilraen’s chambers, allowing Elrond to reassess the woman’s condition.

Elrond was silent as he checked the young woman’s vital signs. When he finished, he turned to Elladan and said with distinctive composure, “It seems that we were able to purge enough of the draught from her body before it did all its damage. I believe she will recover fully.” Silently, he wondered how long it would be before the grieving widow tried to take her life once more.

What if I do not find her as quickly next time?  

Let us hope there will not be a next time, whispered Celebrían’s voice in his head.

What if all hope of joy has fled her, as well?  

Give her time.  

What if—

Shhh, Beloved. Hush  

0o0o0

Elrond had sat by Gilraen all of the morning and most of the afternoon before being relieved by Elrohir for the evening watch. Now, night was falling, and a new guard was needed. Elrond asked for Elladan’s presence in his study to make his request known. As predicted, his son was less than pleased.

 “She cannot be left alone, Elladan.”

“And I heartily agree, Father, but why must I be the one to sit with her? What of Elrohir? He seems to have more patience with her than I. Too much patience, perhaps.”

“Elrohir sat with her all evening. Besides, it might do you some good.”

“Do me some good?! In what way?”

Elrond’s eyes strayed to the pendant around his son’s neck. “That remains to be seen, Elladan, but perhaps you will find that what is gone is not lost, only hidden.”

Elladan sighed. He hated when his father spoke in riddles, and he had noticed that his twin had taken up the same annoying habit. It was like living in a house full of Istari!

Perhaps the Valar would bless him by keeping Gilraen asleep throughout his watch, if they were still in the business of blessing at all.  

0o0o0

“Elrohir?” Gilraen slurred, rolling over to face the figure sitting at her bedside. Elrohir had been with her for the brief time she was awake during the evening; she naturally assumed the one she now saw was he. Few could distinguish the two, particularly when still bleary-eyed from sleep.

“No, it is Elladan. Would you—that is, should I,” what? “erm—fetch my father, perhaps?” Please say “yes.”  

“No, I only wanted some water. Would you—” Gilraen yawned. “Would you mind?”

“Ah—no.”

He poured, feeling Gilraen’s eyes studying him as she stretched her limbs.

“What is that pendant you wear?” The young woman propped herself up on her elbows. “I hope you do not mind my asking, but often have I noticed you toying with it, particularly when you are upset.”

“Do I? I was not aware of that.” Elladan discerned irritation in his voice.

Gilraen nodded, taking the glass of water from Elladan’s hands and drinking deeply.

When she had drunk her fill, she stared at him; Elladan realized she still expected an answer. He sighed, then explained: “This pendant was given me by my mother ’ere she sailed. Her mother had given it to her on her wedding day.” He paused, a melancholy smile gracing his face. “I never saw her without it until the day it passed to me.”

“You miss her.” In Gilraen’s voice was a mixture of weariness, fear, loneliness, and—unless Elladan was mistaken—a trace of anger. For a moment, the Peredhil felt as if Gilraen’s words had come from inside his head, taunting him with emotions he had carefully denied.

Elladan stared at his hands, unsure how to reply, for he was neither accustomed to nor comfortable with conversations of an emotional nature. No, that was more the territory of his brother, who felt and expressed his emotions as if they were the very air he breathed.

The thought occurred to him that if he waited long enough to give a response, Gilraen might simply drift off to sleep again. Hearing her deep, rhythmic breathing, he stole a glance at Arathorn’s widow. Pity, her eyes were still open.

“Yes, Gilraen, I miss her. But I fail to understand.”

“You cannot understand why you miss her?” Gilraen was incredulous.

“No,” Elladan shook his head impatiently, though his impatience was more with himself than with Gilraen. “What I meant was I fail to understand why she gave this to me, why she—” Elladan silenced himself.

“Why she went away,” Gilraen finished Elladan’s sentence, as if she had read his mind, his heart, his soul. “Yes, I know,” she sighed; there it was again, that blend of emotions that matched Elladan’s, though rawer and more intense.

“Did she not tell you her reasons?”

“For giving me her pendant or for sailing?”

Gilraen shrugged her shoulders. “Either.”

“As for her reason for sailing, Father had already explained that; he told us that Mother could no longer find joy in Middle-earth and that she hoped to find some measure of solace in Valinor.”

“You sound unconvinced.”

Elladan was amazed by just how perceptive Gilraen was for someone who only the previous morn had been on the verge of death. He had never noticed this trait of hers before, but come to think of it, he had rarely conversed with her about anything of a serious nature, even before Arathorn’s untimely death.

“I simply cannot understand how a mother could stop loving her children. She had always said that we were her joy, you see, so how could she no longer find joy? We were right there as we had always been.”

“She could no longer find joy for the same reason I cannot see Hope even though he is right here.” The words were out of Gilraen’s mouth before she had even been aware of them, and they startled her. Never before had she had called her son “Hope.”

Elladan looked long and hard at her, and for the first time since the young mother had come here, it occurred to him that maybe the woman he had once known was still in there, just as his father had said.

“And why can you not see Hope, Gilraen?”

“I suppose that I am entirely too afraid. What if—” Gilraen sobbed. “What if—” Her body shook, face buried in hands. Tiny hands, thought Elladan, not knowing what else to latch his mind onto, for he was entirely uncomfortable with, though not entirely surprised by, Gilraen’s sudden gush of emotion. He knew neither what to say nor what to do, so he let her sob, which was the best thing he could have done for her.

“Elladan, a handkerchief, please,” sniffled the weeping widow. “There is one there, on my bureau.”

Elladan fetched the cloth, and Gilraen whispered a weak, “Thank you.”

She dabbed at her eyes and her runny nose, snorting between sobs in a most unladylike fashion, which Elladan found oddly charming.

“I must look a mess,” she sniggered.

“No, Gilraen, you look fine.”

“Now, Elladan, there is no need to resort to lies,” she chided.

“No, honestly Gilraen, you look fine, considering—”

“Considering I almost died yesterday,” Gilraen finished.

Elladan blanched. What was he supposed to say? It was true, but it hardly seemed diplomatic to tell a lady she looked good for someone who was nearly a corpse.

“Elladan, it is true! Say it! Say, ‘Indeed, Gilraen, you are without a doubt the best-looking nearly-dead woman I have seen in quite some time,” she giggled.

Elladan laughed in spite of himself, which caused Gilraen to laugh harder. Before long, both had tears running down their faces.

“Happy tears,” said Gilraen once she had caught her breath. “That is what I used to tell Arathorn whenever he made me cry with joy. ‘No worries, Dearest; these are happy tears.’ It has been quite some time since I have shed tears of this particular variety.”

Yes, she was still in there, Elladan concluded, that woman he had once known.