Fallen Rain 

She was broken, the warm silver gleam of her tarnished.  She was a flute, keys twisted, the notes discordant, the melody silenced. She was a doll, made to be used or abused, taken up and put down, moved or left still.  She was a glass vessel, fine and finished, now cracked so that the essence of her had run out. She had no will, no fire, no love left.   She was a plant ripped up and abandoned to wilt in the sun.

It hurt to look at her.

Around her, life, shattered by her injury, picked itself up and resumed, though twisted to a different form. It left her behind, frozen in the moment, unable to endure. The easing of physical pain brought no relief, only freeing her mind to recall in heart-stopping detail every second of her ordeal.

They were relieved to see her go.

They knew it, even as they wept at their parting. In the absence of the shell she had become, they might be able to find her again: their mother. They failed.

They took the brittle sheet of memory and encased it round with rage. It gave them focus. This was their purpose.  Healers no longer, no longer students of lore, their joyousness subsumed in tenacious ferocity, they lived to rid their world of orcs.  And in the long waiting of many nights, when the silver moon blessed tresses of cloud to the semblance of her hair, they saw her face, bled of all colour, empty and cold, pleading for oblivion.

Yet time brought healing of a sort.  Their fury subsided from searing flame to burning peat; slow, concealed, unstoppable.  They relearned laughter, and friends, and family. Yet their father never ceased to watch them, in constant fear lest their recklessness led them to court death in battle.

***

In the absence of the clash of swords, Elrohir’s ears rang.  He shook his head as he looked round at the scene of devastation.  The stink of warm blood and worse fouled the air of the gully.

‘Did any get away?’ the man asked, in the knowledge that the sons of Elrond would have heard any who ran.

‘We would not still be here had that been so,’ Elladan answered him with a touch of disdain.

‘I thought not,’ the Ranger said with satisfaction.  ‘Are any hurt?’ He raised his voice enough to be heard by the remainder of the small party.

‘Ragor took a nasty slice to the shoulder, Heneal. Other than that, no.  Just minor gashes.’

‘I’ll take a look at them anyway,’ Elrohir told him, retrieving the bag that contained his healer’s pack.  ‘There’s no sense in letting them get infected. Ragor first.’

Heneal looked at Elladan grimly. ‘It seems it was a good thing that we were here,’ he said.

‘We were hunting,’ the elf replied with a feral grin. ‘I’m sorry we chased our prey into your party, but we didn’t mind sharing.  There are plenty more.’

The Ranger growled in frustration. ‘Don’t be a fool, Elladan.  You take too many risks and you know it.  You can’t expect to take on two dozen orcs between you and come out of it without a scratch.  If you don’t start showing a bit of sense, soon one or other of you won’t be going home.’

‘We are elves, Ranger,’ Elladan curled his lip at the reprimand. ‘We have been butchering orcs since before your grandfathers were born. We know what we are doing.’

‘You can still be killed, you fool,’ the other said, his voice dangerous. ‘That first orc I cut down had an arrow ready to go in your back, and you were far too busy to know it was coming.  If you don’t care about being killed, think of your brother. What would it do to him to have to carry your corpse back to your father?’ He stared fiercely at Elladan, his jaw clenched, before turning to walk over to his injured friend.

The older twin stared at him coldly, but his belly tensed at the words. This was not the first time that similar shafts had been aimed at him, but it was the first time in recent years that such words had come while blood was still drying on his sword and his brother was stitching the wounds of the injured.

How would he be able to bear it if Elrohir were to be killed during one of their little expeditions of private vengeance?  Worse, what if he were to sustain irreparable injury?  Could he bear it if his brother’s face were to take on the empty horror of his mother’s?  A sick certainty filled him: enough sleepless nights had passed haunted by the past.

‘Do you still need to do this, brother?’ he asked, as Elrohir came up to raid his healing bag.

‘They are hurt, El,’ he replied absently. ‘They weren’t expecting an attack to land on them like that.  It’s a good thing Rangers are so suspicious or there would be more than wounded.’

‘Not that!  I meant. . .’ His voice trailed away.

‘Oh.’ His brother grinned.  ‘This is not really the moment for introspection, Elladan. But yes, I still need to make sure that the passes and valleys around Imladris are safe and that means hunting orcs.’

‘We need to change, Elrohir.’ He crouched and began to clean his weapons. ‘I do not wish to die in some meaningless skirmish at the back end of nowhere.’

His brother looked at him narrowly.  Easier natured, and partaking more deeply of his father’s healing skills, Elrohir had willingly followed his brother in their quest for retribution, but he had grown weary of the endless slaughter and had felt it to be past time for Elladan to move on from his understandable blind need to hurt the creatures who had hurt his mother.

‘Then we will change, my brother.  We ‘elflings’ will apply our fine minds to the matter,’ he said, paraphrasing the line his father had used so frequently.  He rested his hand consolingly on his twin’s shoulder. ‘We do not forget,’ he said, ‘but we will adapt.’

***

Elrond watched his sons from the wide window of his study as the hangings drifted inwards in the gentle stirring of the summer breeze.

They were laughing with a group of other young elves as they came back from a long night celebrating the summer solstice.  They were all dishevelled, with leaves in their hair and their robes limp with the early morning dew.  Some of them were in pairs, twined with the freedom allowable on such a morning, not yet returned to the reserved dignity of public behaviour.

The Lord of Imladris sighed, remembering happier days, when it had been his duty to celebrate this night in the woods, his wife by his side; days when he, too, might have been returning to his obligations damp, grass-stained and breathless with the joy of life.

‘It is good to see them laughing,’ Glorfindel commented.

‘And yet they are alone,’ observed Elrond. 

‘But together.’ His friend glanced at him.  ‘It is always difficult for twins, Elrond, you know that.  Neither wishes to desert the other.  Elrohir will wait for Elladan to be ready – and Elladan will not seek love for fear of distressing Elrohir.’

Better versed in the needs of twins, Elrond shook his head.  ‘When the moment for decision comes, my friend, their bond will not stop them.’  He sighed, thinking briefly of his long-dead brother, before returning to the present problem.  ‘I think they fear, Glorfindel.  They have found love to be a dangerous emotion, bringing pain and loss. I worry that the wall they have built around their hearts is too strong and they will never be able to let anyone in.’

‘They have time, my friend.  They will recover,’ Glorfindel reassured him confidently, even as he acknowledged to himself that he shared Elrond’s concerns.

***

Elrohir preferred to avoid spending too much time in the Golden Wood.  He could see why Arwen liked to be there – she was, after all, rather isolated in Imladris, and she could not escape the memories of the past by riding out as they did – but he found it unsettling.  Perhaps it was the silver fall of his grandfather’s hair, or the starlit blue of his grandmother’s eyes, but he found that their presence tore at the fragile sense of balance he had achieved. And Elladan usually refused to come at all.  When pressed into offering escort to his sister, or asked to carry information to his grandparents, he would spend most of his time with the marchwardens, scouring the edges of the wood for signs of intrusion and avoiding those who had his interests close to their hearts.

‘You must let it go,’ a soft voice told Elrohir as he watched the moon reflected in the still pool.

‘I do not hold the memory,’ he replied wearily, not bothering to pretend incomprehension.  ‘It holds me.’

‘Because you let it.’

‘Believe me, if I could forget those months and have her back in my mind as she was all the days of my life until then, I would do it.’

His grandmother sighed. ‘I fear for you, Elrohir.  You were not meant for this cold life. Do not let your brother do all your thinking for you.’

His jaw hardened and there was a warning edge to his voice. ‘The decisions are mine to make, my lady.  While I go with him, I can keep him safe. In time he will be ready to move on.’

Her eyes settled on him. Few could resist the power of her gaze, but this was not a matter for concession and he held her.  Slowly she nodded.  ‘She will be well, my grandson,’ she told him. ‘When you meet her in Valinor, she will be healed.’

‘I wish I could believe that,’ he replied, the vision of his mother’s hollow despair strong in his mind.

***

She, too, was wounded, this daughter of the Dunedain.  Her face alabaster, her long hair dark, her eyes pewter-grey, she held herself like a queen.  Only when they tried to remove the weary child from her arms did she show signs of life, clasping him to her fiercely until he began to cry.

Elladan watched.  He had known her husband throughout his life, knew his history, his place in the world. He had seen him die.  He had brought her here, offering sanctuary, but in her face he could see his mother’s pain.

Was it like this for her across the sea?  Her life ripped away; taken from her home to be abandoned to the care of strangers?

He sensed a shift in the smouldering ember within him: no longer burning to avenge, but to protect, to put his anger and his skill and his will between such innocents and those who would do them harm. 

They could not allow her to be lost, nor yet allow her son to grow up without his mother.  They would shield her as kin, care for her child as their own, hold them safe within these sheltered walls.

They were gentle with her and, for a time, she was not unhappy.  They gave her a life, here, where she was alien and lost, and tasks to keep her busy, found and offered as if her doing of them was important.  While her son was small enough to need her, it was enough.  His arms held off the dark of loneliness and his love lit a candle in her heart. Elrond gave him the care and discipline of a father and his sons spoilt him like favourite uncles. He was treasured.

As he grew, from infant to child, from child to boy, he needed her less. The candle burned down, and began to flicker.

Elrond was much occupied. He offered what care he could, but she was a small part of his concerns.  In the busy halls of the hidden valley, it was no-one’s role to be her friend. 

‘How is your mother, Estel?’ Elladan asked, during one of their returns to Imladris, as they made their way to the deep pool beyond the waterfall, so that they could spend the hot summer’s afternoon immersed in the cool water.

The boy hunched his thin shoulders, as if he would prefer not to think about the question. ‘She says she is well.’

The twins exchanged glances.  ‘And what do you think?’

Children of his kind, they knew, grew far faster than elflings, but the look in Estel’s eyes was far too old for one of his years.  ‘She looks like Neldor did, when ada sent him to the Havens.’  He stood still and they turned to him.  ‘But Men don’t go to the Havens, do they?  They die.’    They looked back at him, stricken. His voice was almost inaudible as he added, ‘I don’t want my mother to die.’

Elrohir spoke gently.  ‘We won’t let her die, Estel.  Not if we can do anything to prevent it.’

‘But you can’t always stop it, can you?’ he said logically. ‘Ada said that when the last party of Rangers were carried in, and two of them still died.’

Elladan felt helpless in the face of his words.

‘Your mother isn’t hurt in her body, Estel,’ Elrohir continued.  ‘She’s sad inside, and lonely.  We must do things that make her happy, and that should not be too difficult to achieve.’

Later, Elrond rested his head on his hand as his sons berated him for his lack of care for their foster brother’s mother.  They were saying nothing that he was not saying to himself. How could he have let Gilraen sink so deeply into depression without having noticed that she was unwell?  How could she have been so lacking in attention that no-one – no-one among the scores dwelling in the valley – had brought her frailty to his awareness.

Of course, he knew the answers to both questions.  Most of the inhabitants of the valley cared very little for the trials of one woman alone among them. They were not unkind, but they lived in another time span and they were indifferent.  And he tended to avoid Gilraen, because the look in her eyes reminded him too much of Celebrian.

‘I will do all I can, but it might be necessary to send her back to live among her kin,’ he said wearily.  ‘She needs the company of her own kind if she is to learn to live again in the present.’

The twins were silenced.  Even as they saw he was right, they knew the grief Estel would feel at the separation.

‘He is still a child,’ Elladan whispered.  ‘How can you tear a child away from his mother?’

His words hung between them for some minutes, unanswered.

‘Is it better for him to know she lives and heals, or for him to watch her die?’ Elrond asked softly.  ‘A question I have lived with for so many years.  I still don’t know the answer.’

***

They had survived the Paths of the Dead, lived through Pelennor, returned unscathed from the Black Gates. Now they were prepared to endure the marriage of their much-loved foster brother to their precious sister and this was likely to be the hardest task of all.

They watched their father, dressed formally in blue and silver, his head crowned with a circlet of mithril, his eyes bleak as mid-winter, his face pale and set.  Not since their mother had stepped on to the ship that was to take her to the west had they seen him look like that, as if the light had faded from his life, leaving only cold duty.

‘I have willingly made my choice, ada,’ Arwen said tearfully.  ‘Can you not bring yourself to be happy for me?’

‘Estel will make you happy, my little one,’ her father replied, the gentleness of his voice in contrast to his looks.  ‘I love him as a son, but I still wish this day had never come. I cannot help the grief it causes me that we will be divided.’

He held her, breathing the fragrance of her hair, stroking the soft roundness of her cheek, sensing the suppleness of her body and wept deep inside to know that she would grow old and die and that he would not be there for her.

Elrohir joined them, putting his arms around them both. ‘We will stay a while, ada,’ he said.  ‘We will not sail until we feel the time is right.’

‘Do not fear, ada,’ Elladan added softly. ‘We will be here for Arwen.’

**

Eldarion looked at his uncles desperately.  ‘I suppose I can understand why father. . .’ his voice trailed away and he dropped his head on his hand.  ‘No, I can’t.  Not really.  He was old, yes, but he wasn’t failing.’  He looked up at them and said fiercely, ‘It makes me feel as if I was pushing him – as if he thought that I was tired of waiting for the crown.’

‘Elessar never thought that,’ Elrohir told him gently.  ‘It is a gift given to your line to choose the time of your passing.   Estel made that decision, but he would never have intended to hurt you.’

Elladan said nothing, seeing the child that his foster brother had been and following him through all the trail of years that had brought them to the death bed of the aged king. So few years for an elf, yet the life span of a Dunedain king.

‘It’s not that – not now,’ the young king said bitterly. ‘I know father was feeling his years – he was over two hundred, which is a good age, even for our family.’  He took a deep breath, held it a moment and released it explosively.  ‘It’s naneth.’

The twins thought of their sister as they had watched her bid farewell to her husband. She had embraced mortality when she chose to marry, but she was born an elf and the years had made little change in her looks.  She had seemed, at a casual glance, no more than twenty five when she married, despite her almost three thousand years.  Now, an observer might put her at forty.  A small amount of silver was sprinkled in the dark hair at her temples and a few laughter lines framed her eyes.  She was as slender as she had ever been and her grace undiminished.  She had appeared younger than her children – until they looked at her eyes.  They were haunted, empty; dark holes in her frozen face.

‘She says that she will not stay.’ Eldarion’s words dropped into the silence. ‘She says that she wants to embrace the Gift of Men.’

His uncles looked at him with comprehension.  Their pain at their own mother’s wounding and her decision to seek healing in the West still hurt them after all these years.  How much worse it must be for their sister’s children.  Not only had their father chosen to welcome his fate, leaving them behind, but now they were to be doubly orphaned.

‘Can you tell me why she insists on doing this?’ The young king’s voice was hard, keeping control with a clear effort.

‘It is not a rejection of you and your sisters,’ Elladan insisted, feeling that this was at the core of his distress.  ‘She loves you.’

‘Then why is she determined to abandon us?’

Elrohir sighed. ‘She loves your father more.  She is an elf, whatever her choice may have been.  Elves give themselves body, mind and soul.  In Estel’s absence, she is broken.  She knows there is no healing for her here.  If it were possible to reunite with your father in the West, she would take ship.’

‘Lord Elrond chose to remain when your mother sailed,’ Eldarion said unforgivingly.

‘His duties would not permit him to leave.  He went as soon as he could.’

‘Naneth has us.  Would it destroy her to remain?’

Elladan ran his fingers through his long dark hair. ‘Look at her, Eldarion,’ he suggested.  ‘Look at her eyes and then tell me she is saying it to spite you.’

‘Would you have her endure long years of waiting as the world grows old around her?’ Elrohir asked gently. ‘Would you have her watch you and your sisters age and die?  Would you want her to grow old and frail and lost while your children and your children’s children blossom and fade?  If she does not allow this wound to prove mortal, she might outlive your line and see your city crumble.  What kind of fate would that be for the Evenstar?’

‘She would live that long?’ her son asked, his voice hushed at the horror of the picture painted by his uncle.

Elladan shrugged. ‘We don’t know.  She might. Very few elves have chosen a mortal life. Your grandfather’s brother, Elros, ruled Numenor for over four hundred years after making his choice.’ He paused.  ‘Only one thing is sure,’ he added wryly. ‘She would live too long for you to know her end.’

Tears seeped from the eyes of the King of Gondor. ‘I cannot ask that of her,’ he said sadly.  ‘I cannot bear to lose her, but I cannot make her stay.’

‘Then let it end here,’ Elrohir suggested. ‘Let her go. Let her be reunited with your father beyond the circles of the world. You, at least, will see her again, healed and full of joy.’

‘We will care for her,’ Elladan told his nephew, ‘as long as she needs us.’

They wept then, brothers and son, for the fate of Elessar and Arwen, for the sacrifice that was implicit in their great love and for their children’s loss.

***

The buildings still smouldered when they rode in. The winter had been long and cold and the raids on outlying farms, where food might still be expected to be stored, had become more regular and more violent.

Elladan grimaced at the stench of burning.  There had been deaths here.  The smell told him that not all the bodies lay half-frozen on the stained snow.

‘Why do they do this to each other?’ he questioned in disgust, knowing from his centuries of combat that the only answer to that was ‘because they can’.  There would always be those who believed that their strength or greed entitled them to take what they wanted from those who were unable to defend themselves.

‘Over here,’ his brother called, and Elladan dismounted and picked his way through the abandoned debris littering the rutted yard.

From a small hen house that had escaped the flames, there came a thin wail. 

Elrohir lifted a small child from the refuge of dirty straw where she had been thrust in a desperate effort to preserve her from the ruin.  Too young to resist, but old enough to be afraid, the child kicked and flailed her arms, but to no avail.

‘Now, what do we do with you?’ he said kindly, stroking the child’s hair and holding her close.  ‘Would you like something to eat, little one?’

The child’s screams grew more piercing, as his warm arms held her to him.

‘I want my mama,’ she wept. ‘I want my mama back.’

‘Don’t we all,’ Elladan muttered. ‘That, I fear, is one thing that never changes.’

***

The ship lay in the harbour, waiting for them to join the other elves on deck. 

Elrohir stared at it and drew a deep breath.  His brother looked at him.

‘You have been ready to leave for a long time now,’ Elladan observed. ‘If it had not been for me, you would have sailed after Eldarion died.’

Elrohir shook his head.  ‘Not then,’ he said, ‘nor for many years afterwards. But I confess that I am more than willing to depart now.’  He looked at his twin anxiously. ‘I hope you have resolved your doubts.’

‘My brother,’ Elladan replied, his deep love for his twin clear in his voice. ‘You have allowed me to drag you into so many adventures that would not have been of your choosing.  Even if I had no desire to sail, I would do this for you.’ He hesitated. ‘I will admit that I am afraid of what we will find.’

‘Naneth?’

He nodded and his eyes darkened.  ‘I lost her for so long.  All I could see was what she had become.  It wasn’t until Estel died and we watched Arwen sink into despair that I began to come to terms with her leaving us.’

‘She will be well, brother.’  The younger twin assured him with conviction.  He grinned, ‘Grandmother told me that years ago, and I would never dare accuse her of being wrong.’

‘Well then,’ Elladan said, putting on a show of confidence. ‘Shall we embark?’

***

She was whole. The vibrant silver of her was like a mountain stream, fresh, rippling with jubilant song, bubbling with energy.  She was filled with warmth, nurtured in the living strength of the Blessed Realm.  And she was waiting, her husband by her side, the weariness from his long struggle rested at last, their reunion a balm to soothe his injured heart.  

The ship looked battered in the bright glory of a sunlit morning, as if it were the last echo of some faded dream. 

Searching from the deck of bleached wood, they saw her.  Dark hair warmed by the sun, they stood shoulder to shoulder, brothers by blood and loyalty and shared experience, and their world shifted.

‘She is well,’ Elladan breathed, closing his eyes briefly in relief.

‘She has found healing and we have her again,’ his brother sighed.

Their meeting was sweet after so much grief. She clasped them to her, her sons, and wrapped them round with love.

Elrond lifted an ironic eyebrow.  ‘Have you no word of greeting for me, my sons? Or am I not of importance to you?’

The younger twin laughed and turned to give his father a boisterous hug. ‘Take your turn, adar,’ he said. ‘We have been waiting a long time for this moment.’ His critical eye studied his father’s appearance. ‘You are looking better,’ he said approvingly.

‘I have found something that was lost to me,’ he replied, glancing at his wife. ‘How could I not be content?’

‘And now to have you both returned, when all hope had gone.’  His mother’s voice rang with the warm melody they had almost forgotten through the long hopeless years. ‘It is almost too much.’

Elladan pulled himself back and straightened defensively. ‘Adar,’ he said. ‘Arwen. . .’

Celebrian touched her finger to his lips.  ‘Not now, my son,’ she told him, her voice filled with love.  ‘I believe we will all be together again in the fullness of time, but now is a moment for us. Let us be happy to be together, we who have been torn apart for too long. Do not look on this as an end; it is a beginning, for you may seek the joy you deserve.’