Go Not From Me!
By Dwimordene 
dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com


Summary : Elrond and Celebrían get little attention, so I'm giving them some. 
Set just after Celebrían's disastrous journey, Elrond ponders life without his 
wife; his kids get a cameo.



Outside, the stars shone clear as they always did, shedding pale light upon the 
pine-clad slopes. Crickets sang softly in the flower beds, and a light breeze 
dragged ragged bits of cloud across the sky. Yet Elrond, standing before the 
window, stared sightlessly out its glass panes, heedless for once of the beauty 
of the world. Six days it has been, he thought wearily, and closed his eyes. Six 
days! In that time, he had not slept, had barely eaten, and if there were still 
a world beyond the threshold of his door, he knew it not. Elrohir and Elladan by 
turns saw to the governance of his house, and in that task they had all the aid 
that Erestor could give, while Arwen quietly assumed her mother's duties. For 
his part, Elrond was profoundly grateful for the steadiness that his children 
evinced, for it was more than he had in him to offer at the moment.

Of their own volition, his eyes strayed to the doorway beyond which lay his 
sleeping quarters, and to the shrouded bed upon which his wife, Celebrían, lay. 
He would have been at her side even now, but that in his exhaustion he had not 
the strength to look again upon the tortured creature she had become. Not yet. 
At least she dreamt not tonight, and that might be a good sign. It was, at any 
rate, a blessing and a relief, for when the feverish hallucinations took her, he 
suffered them at her side, fighting his own horrorified revulsion in order to 
pierce the darkness that lay upon her mind and send her into a deeper sleep. The 
twins had done their best on that terrible journey home to soothe her, but 
Celebrían could scarcely recognize them in her madness. Elrohir, indeed, bore 
still the marks of her nails upon one cheek, having leaned too close as he had 
tried vainly to restrain her convulsions. Only her husband's voice and touch had 
the power to calm her, and Elrond was at the limits of his not inconsiderable 
endurance. If she does not soon wake, if the poison remains within her, then I 
know not how we shall continue! he thought, feeling himself on the very edge of 
despair. For it was in his heart now that Celebrían would die, and the thought 
could scarce be borne without threatening to overwhelm him.

From the moment that Elladan and Elrohir, bearing their mother with them, had 
crossed the Bruinen Elrond had been aware of them. Celebrían's tortured dreaming 
had touched his thoughts across the distance, and her husband had abandoned his 
chores to ride at the gallop to meet her and their sons. "We tried father," 
Elrohir had said immediately, his voice breaking under the strain of the last 
several days. "The orcs were too many at first, and they… they took her. Two 
days we searched, but by then…."

"We tried to help her," Elladan had broken in when his brother had fallen 
silent, succumbing to tears at last. "Alas that we could not!" Neither of them 
had come unscathed from that battle, and the small household escort they had led 
had been grievously reduced. But Elrond had had eyes only for his wife, lying 
pale and bloodied upon a bier. Some of the marks would never heal, yet that was 
the least of his concerns. What poison the orcs had used, he knew not with 
certainty, yet he had seen warriors–Man and Elf alike, and too many of them 
friends–with like symptoms, and he feared the worst: that if Celebrían did not 
die, she would live in a shadow-world, alive but not truly aware, a pale and 
tormented echo of herself. Could I bear it, if I healed her body only enough to 
save a ghost? Elrond wondered.

Silently, he drifted to the doorway of the sickroom again and stood there, arms 
braced against the doorframe, as he gazed in at his wife. The fire was built 
high, and Celebrian's hair–a white-gold that harkened to her lineage through 
Galadriel of the House of Finarfin–gleamed as gossamer strands of spider-silk, 
dazzling to behold, and yet it served only to further leech her of color. 
Chalk-white was her skin, save where cuts and bruises marred them, and her face 
was drawn even in sleep, eyes sunken above hollowed cheeks. Elrond felt a 
terrible rage building within him at the sight of such desecration, and his 
hands balled into tightly clenched fists as he fought to calm himself. For even 
as Celebrían's dreams troubled his spirit, so his anger would reach her and 
perhaps rouse her to fear. And if she should die…. The severing of ties woven 
and strengthened over thousands of years would tear his mind, leaving a vast and 
irreparable wound that he would have no choice but to live with… or perish of 
grief.

"Father?" Arwen's voice, low and sympathetic, sounded behind him suddenly. 
"Father, will you not rest now, while she sleeps peacefully at least? I will 
stay at her side, but go now to bed! For her sake, I beg you!"

"I will rest, dear one, in a little while," Elrond replied without turning.

"You have said that for the past three days!" Arwen protested, coming to his 
side and laying a hand upon each shoulder as she cocked her head to peer up at 
his downcast face. "Would you leave her to the mercy of her dreams because you 
are too weary to help see her through them?"

"You know I would not, Aralindë," said her father, and Arwen blinked at the use 
of that childhood name, for Elrond had never given any sign that he knew of it 
ere now. "But I cannot rest just yet. She may wake, or she may… not," he ended, 
unable to finish the disjunction. Arwen understood, of course, and he felt her 
hands grip hard ere she released him.

"Then go to her. I will wait for you here," his daughter replied, and this time 
there was no gainsaying her decision. Elrond managed a slight smile for her 
stubbornness and, girding himself, obediently went inside, drawing the heavy 
curtains behind him. Gliding silently over the carpetted floor, he approached 
the bed and stood silently over the supine figure. So still she lay that even 
elvish eyes could scarce discern the rise and fall of her breast as she 
breathed, and Elrond was reminded irresistably of the Houses of the Dead, in the 
cities of Minas Tirith and Osgiliath ere its fall. Except that for Celebrían, 
there was no peace in this ghastly, twilit repose. With a sigh, the Lord of 
Rivendell folded himself into the chair pulled close to the bedside and he took 
one of his wife's hands in his. Her skin, hot to the touch, seemed paper dry, 
and Elrond fancied that by touch alone he could count all the bones in that 
slender hand. Celebrían, my beloved, I know that we are bound still by our love, 
and that thou canst hear me yet, though in the nether realms where thou 
wanderest, my cries come but faintly! I know not now what to say to thee, save 
'Come home.' Come home, Miren*, for thy silence is more painful to me than any 
nightmare! Wilt thou not wake?

How long he sat thus, clasping her hand and entreating in silence, he knew not. 
But for the low crackle of the fire in the hearth, naught marked the passing 
hours of darkness, yet Elrond felt the weight of them keenly in his wife's 
absence. Two millenia had they dwelt together, and he had little heeded the 
passing of centuries, having an Elvish disdain for the short measures of Men. 
Now though…. Now do I know indeed the weariness of Elros at the end, after the 
passing of his beloved Nirië! It struck him forcibly how very far removed seemed 
his brother's life, separated as it was now by the Doom of Men and lives lived 
according to different bounds. He had never quite understood his brother's 
choice, for the strangeness of the final fate of Men had repelled him. But 
perhaps now I glimpse dimly what a blessing is Eru's gift to them! For without 
Celebrían, shall even Eressëa be any refuge for me? Middle-earth, for all its 
swift waning, was yet beloved of him, for upon its soil Celebrían had walked. 
Beneath the golden eaves of Lórien they had first met, when the Third Age was 
still young, and Sauron newly defeated. Later, they had married upon the banks 
of the river Nimrodel, and Imladris' vales had seen the birth of their children. 
There was no part of Rivendell not hallowed by her presence: he recalled a 
certain way that Celebrían tossed her head when the light slanted over the 
western ridges, and the laughter in her grey-green eyes as she turned to him in 
the evening. The slopes and sheer walls that rose up had carried her voice far 
as she sang strange songs out of the depths of time beneath the pine forests. 
And vivid in his mind were the many nights he had wakened to her touch, to the 
brush of her lips against his skin and the feather light caress of her 
thoughts…. If only I had Celebrían at my side, I would endure the fading of 
Middle-earth if that were her wish! But if the Halls of Mandos lie between us, 
then what worth has even fairest Valinor for me if I must be ever alone 'til the 
End?

Elrond opened his eyes then, and saw that the fire had burned low indeed, and 
that the twilight had grown deep. It was the darkest hour of the night, and as 
he gazed wearily down upon Celebrían, he knew he could last no longer without 
rest. And so, quietly, with such stealth as only an Elf could manage so as not 
to disturb her, he laid him down beside her, still holding her hand with one of 
his. With his other arm he cradled her head, nestling close. And though she was 
oblivious to his presence, there was something comforting in the mere fact that 
he could hold her thus, as he had so many times before. Elrond's eyes drifted 
shut, and elvish memory unfolded like a rose, opening layers of time and 
remembrance, mixing the living night with fair thoughts, all bound with the love 
that he bore for her, and which he hoped might yet be returned.

***

They came again: vague forms in the darkness that swirled about him, and soft, 
cruel laughter trailed after them, echoing in the gloom. One of the shadows 
suddenly rushed him, and as Elrond recoiled, it passed through him like a ghost, 
piercing him like a shard of ice. Other ghostly shapes followed their fellow, 
and Elrond cried out, collapsing to his knees as the pain mounted and he sought 
once more the means to resist these shades. Celebrían! For she was here, in all 
of this horror, he could feel it, but where? Her fear pulsed in his mind, 
threatening to overwhelm his reason, and he felt her hatred of this darkness, 
her longing to be free of it. Yet however she writhed, there was no escaping the 
prison of her own terrible memories, and the poison kept her from waking.

Elrond reached for her in spirit, stretching to the limits of the tethers that 
bound body and soul in this boundary between worlds. He could touch her thus, if 
only barely–enough, perhaps, to calm her even if not to draw her with him out of 
this dreamscape. Celebrían's suffering wounded him even as he found her once 
more, but he cared not. Better this than nothing at all, and in the midst of her 
terror, he felt her rage as well: the anger of one born to freedom and who seeks 
it ever, though her efforts mired her deeper into the night. Hear me, beloved, 
and do not fight me! he implored. No shade am I, nor enemy, but thy husband! 
Trust me, please Miren! But Celebrían withdrew once more, retreating a little 
further from life, and Elrond knew a moment of despair. She will flee too far, 
and there will be nothing holding her to the form that I know! Has anyone in 
this world the power to soothe a nightmare that will not end?

Of a sudden, a stray bit of memory drifted to him, perhaps stirred by his 
earlier use of Arwen's childhood name and his own reminiscence: of Celebrían, 
singing a lullaby to the twins when they had woken in tears from their joint 
dreams. The melody was no sooner in his mind than it entered into this dream, 
seeming to arise from nothingness, emmanating from nowhere and everywhere. There 
arose a sense of hesitation, and then spark that was Celebrían paused in its 
flight. Elrond waited, afraid that if he approached her now, she would retreat 
again, but a cautious hope filled him nonetheless. For a tendril of thought, 
just the barest whisper of intention snaked its way through the chaos, seeking… 
seeking…. Elrond held his breath as it encountered him, feeling the startled, 
almost fearful query, and he responded lovingly: Here am I, my love! Then he 
waited, hardly daring to hope. For a time, Celebrían remained poised on the edge 
of flight. But then, with a timidity entirely unlike her, she touched on his 
thoughts again, and this time there was a wondering, tearful hope that matched 
his own. Elrond? The thought emerged from the darkness, weary, aching, but still 
his wife's well-loved essence. I am here, Celebrían! I am here!

***

Elrond woke suddenly to find himself clinging to his wife with painful fervor 
even in sleep. "Father!" Arwen stood by the bedside, and grave fear stared out 
of her eyes as she caught his arm. "Father, are you well?"

"Celebrían!" Elrond muttered dazedly, shaking his head sharply as he sat up, 
gathering his wife in his arms. "Arwen, go! Find your brothers!"

"Of course, but–" she began to protest.

"Go! Now!" Elrond snapped, fierce and unable to voice either hope or fear yet, 
and Arwen, perceiving his almost desperate anticipation, fairly fled the room in 
search of the twins. "Celebrían!" he murmured into her ear, his voice the barest 
whisper. If she comes not now, then she never will again! That he knew, and he 
bent all his thought on his wife's faint presence, entreating, begging her to 
hold fast to him, to trust him as she once had. All the formidable power of one 
of the last Elf-lords of Middle-earth focused on the pale, wasted figure he held 
in his arms, and Elrond felt her own labored heart-beats and too-shallow 
breathing as his own. Fever raced in his blood as well, and he felt himself 
struck dumb, unable to speak, unable to weep, unable even to see beyond the pale 
gold of her hair. Stay with me! In the midnight of his despair, which was 
equally hope too heavy to be borne, he began to sing softly, wordlessly, in a 
last effort to entice her to return. It was the same lullaby that had entered 
into the dream, beautiful in its simplicity, soothing, a bulwark against the 
darkness.

The power of the Eldar race runs deep, and at need it does not fail; not since 
Fingon sought Maedhros on the peaks of Thangorodrim, or Luthíen cast down 
Morgoth himself from his dark throne has any song voiced upon Middle-earth had 
such power in it, and since the passing of the Third Age none has ever heard its 
like. But to Elrond, its author, what he wrought seemed so very little, for he 
felt Celebrían's stillness as that of death, and he fell silent at last. Within 
those walls not a sound issued forth, save his own anguished breathing. But even 
as he sat, head bowed, already mourning the loss of his wife, he felt suddenly a 
tremor run through Celebrían's body. With a soft gasp, her eyes fluttered open, 
and her fingers clutched weakly at Elrond's hand as he held hers.

"Celebrían?" Elrond breathed, hardly daring to hope as he tightened his own 
grip, and shifted slightly so he could look into her face, into the exhausted 
grey-green eyes that reminded him so of shade beneath the pines. Eyes that held 
all the world for him, and that he had never thought to see opened again.

"Elrond?" she managed, voice quavering, and she lifted a trembling hand to his 
face. "Is it… is it thou indeed? I was alone…alone for so long!"

"I am here, Miren! I am here and shall always remain with thee!" Elrond said 
swiftly, closing his eyes against the terrible, elated relief that coursed 
through him like water through a flood channel.

"I thought it would never end…." Celebrían whispered hoarsely, tears leaking 
from those gorgeous eyes against her will.

"Do not think on it, beloved!" Elrond murmured comfortingly. "Only rest now, and 
stay with me!"

"Rest." Celebrían exhaled the word, giving it a prayerful sound. "Yes," she 
murmured softly, "I shall rest. But stay…." Her voice faltered, and there was an 
infinite grief in it when she continued, "I know not yet, my husband. I am so 
weary.…"

"Then sleep," Elrond replied, stilling the fear that leapt up in him at her 
words. "Sleep, and know that I am with thee." He lay back, cradling her in his 
arms, and Celebrían buried her face against his chest, at ease at last in her 
husband's arms. Alive! Alive! Even if she departs, I will see her again ere the 
End! Elrond thought, drawing a deep breath. Such a separation would be hard, but 
not unbearable–not after he had looked his darkest dread in the face and 
survived it. My beautiful Celebrían, he thought tenderly, gazing down drowsily 
at her. Bide with me even a little while more, and I shall be well-content!

***

When Arwen returned with Elrohir and Elladan in tow, she drew back the curtain 
and then held up a hand for her brothers to stop. Halt they did, peering over 
her shoulder, and Arwen felt a radiant smile spread slowly across her face as 
she beheld her father and mother peacefully asleep in each other's arms.

"Elbereth be thanked!" Elrohir breathed softly, and she felt his hand upon her 
shoulder. Elladan gave a soft sigh of relief as well, and Arwen let fall the 
curtain back into place.

"Come," she murmured softly, "Let us leave them 'til the morning!" She slid an 
arm through each of her brothers', drawing them along with her. Mother has 
returned, and even if she seeks the Havens, we shall meet again, when at last we 
forsake Middle-earth! So Arwen thought, and smiled as Elrohir hugged her tight, 
while Elladan laid a gentle hand upon the back of her neck. Thus entwined, they 
made their way out, content to leave 'til the morrow the hard choices–whether 
foreseen or unexpected–that must follow.

 

 

* "Miren"= my treasure.


 The End