A/N: This is something that I cooked up while trying to write the next chapter for my ongoing story, Smooth as Glass. There are mentions of violence and death in this, and it may get better or worse as the story progresses, granted I receive enough response to continue. Please let me know what you think!

She knew not how long she had lain there, waiting for death to steal her away from her pain. Occasionally, some small hope of rescue would cross her tired mind. But as time passed, she grew more and more dispirited. Who would come for her, she who had forgotten her inner song? Naught but a discordant jumble of notes rang in her heart now.

He would come. She tried to hold on to the thought; one hand rose from the wet ground and grouped the air, as though it were a tangible thing. He would find her.

Perhaps he would hurt her too, like they had. Thoughts of them made her cringe. A whimper escaped her swollen lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to block out the memories.

He hadn’t hurt her. Only they had.

Confused, her mind tried to recall him. Instead, only they came to mind. With their dark, twisted faces and cruel hands…

She screamed into the night.

The agonized note went on and on, rising and falling but never ceasing. It frightened her, and she closed her eyes, wishing that it would stop. What if it brought them back? Still it continued.

Finally the terrible cry ended, and she cautiously opened her eyes. She felt no better for it; now her throat burned, adding to her injuries. Perhaps they had heard it. Would they return? She could not live through that again.

The wound in her shoulder flared up, sending jolts of searing hot pain down her arm, as though to remind her that it controlled her world now. Without thought to her other aches, she rolled onto her side, desperately putting pressure onto the throbbing gash. They had made this mark with one of their blades.

Poison. She shuddered, curling her legs up to her chest. The dagger had been poisoned. Poison in her blood. Blood. Funny, she could see the blood pooling beneath her. Mixing with the soil and becoming dark. They had dark blood.

He could heal her. Where was he?

Home. Memories of warmth and beauty. Growth and living all around her. The stars silently telling stories and casting down light as they had since the awakening of the Elves. His arms holding her close and safe. She belonged there. She’d been there.

Lulled by this brief peace, she let her eyes close. She was so tired. Before more dark memories could claim her again, she fell into Sleep’s welcoming arms.

A brilliant flash of lightning lit up everything, highlighting the pitiful naked creature huddled only a few meters away from the slain bodies of her companions. Thunder rumbled like the growl of an animal, shaking the ground with its intensity. She slept on.

Then, with startling swiftness, the sky let loose a torrent of rain. It fell in stinging sheets, startling her awake with painful abruptness. An animal-like sound of bewilderment and hurt came from her throat. Rolling from her curled position onto her knees, she crossed her arms across her stomach. She felt weak, dirty, and so thirsty. Letting her head fall back, she opened her mouth and greedily swallowed as much rain as she could.

The cold water soothed her throat and gave her a little strength. The raindrops stung the angry red knife mark on her shoulder but washed away the dry blood crusted around it and other minor wounds, which had already begun to heal. She blinked her eyes, peering into the darkness surrounding her.

There was nothing. The darkness was complete, and she could make out very little. Her body had begun to shake with exhaustion, and in her weak state the cold was causing her distress. She shivered, and knew that the feel of cold was a foreign one. Hopelessness overwhelmed her.

“Naneth, lath-nîn a beria!” she wished. A youthful face of exquisite beauty framed by long golden hair appeared in her mind’s eye, and she was comforted. At that moment, as she shook with exhaustion, the lightning flashed, and for a brief moment the world was lit with silver brilliance. She saw, to her left, a cleft in the solid face of a rock wall. It stirred some intuition, and she trusted that she would find shelter there. Summoning whatever strength she could from the calm center that the golden woman’s image represented, she moved in that direction.

She stumbled on hidden obstacles, finding her bearings only when the lightning shone with its brief glory. When she found the wall, she waited for the light, afraid to journey away from the cleft rather than towards it. Her whole body was shaking. The poisoned wound in her shoulder throbbed. An animalistic instinct warned her that she needed shelter, and quickly.

The illumination came soon enough, and she felt great relief. Only a few yards distant was the cleft. She had seen, in that instant of light, her salvation.

The floor was cushioned with naught to give comfort; indeed, the hard rock floor was covered with nothing but stones and dirt. None of this mattered to her, as she collapsed heavily as far to the back of the grotto as she could squeeze. Hidden there, exhausted and weak, she slept once more, partially protected from the bitter wind that would soon carry not rain but snow to trap her within the mountain pass.

[Naneth, lath-nîn a beria – Mother, hear me and answer]

She tossed restlessly throughout the night, often bolting upward with a cry of fear on her lips. Nightmares plagued her dreams. She saw them, swarming around from all sides, screaming a terrible war cry. There were dead faces, familiar faces twisted into grimaces of pain.

It was the brightness that finally woke her. She was drifting, not quite asleep and not yet awake, all her thoughts focused on a tiny pebble digging into her hip. As she tried to ignore the aggravating little pain and fall back into the dream world, the last of the night's snow clouds parted to reveal the sun. Finally able to shine where she pleased, Anar beamed joyously down on the freshly white earth.

The snow reflected the light, and filled up the shallow crevice. The light hurt. With a moan she flung up an arm to protect her eyes. Her shoulder burned at the abrupt motion, and she gasped for breath. Letting her arm down and holding it diagonally across her chest, she squinted against the brightness. The pain in her shoulder continued, and she waited it out, a few tears leaking from her eyes. When it subsided, she gathered her strength, and, pushing mostly with her feet, she managed to maneuver into a sitting position, leaning heavily on the rocky wall behind her.

Her mind was clearer this day. Disorientation still lingered in her mind, but she had a much clearer idea of who she was. More importantly, she was beginning to understand the danger she was in.

The ground was blanketed in whiteness. It was not too deep, but the wind had blown it into drifts. The grass could be seen in some places, while in others the snow looked a foot deep. She would have trouble navigating over the snow, especially with the tenderness of her shoulder and the lack of protecting clothes. She shuddered, wishing she could wash away the dirty feeling they had left.

They had scarred her. Her mind, once again in control, tried to shy away from thoughts of them, and she let it. There was no need to think of them. Maybe they had never happened.

She looked at her legs. The injuries there - the pain was one of the few clear memories that she had - had begun to heal. Her shoulder had hardly begun to mend, though it was not bleeding freely. Most of her wounds were only tender pink scars tracing their way across thighs and calves, and angry bruises, darkest on her hips and up her torso. Ugly marks. Mournfully she stretched out her good hand to touch them, and remembered... 'The lady is threatened! The lady!' a dark haired Elf, bloodstained sword raised high, shouted with distress. She reined her horse around, cursing him for drawing attention to himself and to her. His intentions, however noble, were like to get them killed.

The enemy did not prove her wrong. The Orcs caught his anxiety and were drawn to the young Elf. He was cornered, cut off from the rest of the party. He fought bravely, burying his weapon into the chest of one creature, decapitating the next. Black, sticky blood splattered across his face.

"Annael, get out of there!" she yelled. He looked to her with frightened eyes and nodded. A moment later, as she watched, a black arrow buried itself in his throat.

The momentum of the arrow tumbled him sideways off of his horse, and she screamed his name. An Orc jumped in front of them as her horse sprung forward, and she reflexively pulled back on the reins. The mare reared up, and the evil creature fell beneath the animal's hooves.

When they reached the spot where the Elf had fallen she leapt hurriedly from the saddle. She was shaking.

"Annael! Annael!" She shook his shoulder gently. There was no response. An arrow flew over her head, and she desperately lifted him up and began to drag him away from the chaotic battle. When she could go no further, she knelt and laid his head in her lap. The blood from Annael's wound quickly soaked into her practical trousers and over tunic. Tenderly she cradled his head in her hands and looked into his face.

Blank grey eyes stared back at her; the fire in them was gone. Tears clouded her sight, and she gently rocked him back and forth. As she mourned, the company fell back to better guard her.

"Lady, be gone from here!" a soft elvish voice entreated. Lindir had his back to her, but she recognized his voice. She knew all of them, the dead and the living. "Ride far from this madness."

She would have. If the path had been open she would have ran faster than the Northern wind to escape the screams of the dying. But that way was closed. From all around, the Orcs were closing in. Lindir, for that was the name of the Elf who stood by her, sighed with resignation.

"I am sorry, Celebrían. I will fight to the end, but it is our end that approaches. Do not be afraid," he told her, and bowed his head, putting the point of his sword to the ground. She could hear him murmuring the verses of an ancient prayer.

She was afraid. More tears shimmered on her lashes and slipped down her cheeks. Such mindless evil terrified her. Bending her head, she hid her face in Annael's hair and waited.

It was over quickly. The Orcs came down upon the handful of soldiers and destroyed them. They tore Annael's body from her, and she fought them as hard as she could, but it was far too late.

As they dragged her away, she saw what had become of her followers. The Orcs were everywhere, desecrating the bodies and celebrating their victory. Only one other was left. He raised a hand with desperation, reaching for her. Fearing for her and defying death if only to save her. He was helpless.

They were both helpless.

She had given no thought to her companions. Her husband's people had fought so valiantly, giving up their immortal lives to save hers. And she'd forgotten their bravery in face of her own anguish.

Her keening sobs continued as wave upon wave of unbearable sorrow washed over her. She wept for the dead, shaking and pressing one hand to her aching shoulder. "All of them dead..." she whispered.

'A hand raised with desperation...Only one other left...Reaching for her... "Do not be afraid..."'

There had been one who had not fallen. Last that she had seen Lindir had been very much alive if not well. A deep well-spring of hope bubbled up inside her heart, and she clung to it ferociously. If he still lived, she would find him.

The new resolve gave her a rush of strength. She rejoiced at the idea of companionship, of hope in this bleak coldness, though the thought of venturing forth into the open put terror in her heart. She swallowed, finding her mouth suddenly dry.

Mouth set with determination, she took a deep breath and braced her feet against the floor, preparing to push against the wall and onto her feet. She tried to ignore the way her head spun and her stomach roiled.

Rise, she told herself. Go to him.

She counted in her mind. Min… tâd… neled!

Nothing happened. Her eyes, squeezed tightly shut, opened slightly. Each breath came fast and shallow, and looking at her hands, she saw that they were shaking. Why couldn’t she move?

I am afraid, she admitted to herself. A lowly coward. The pain of defeat was physical.

“I am not afraid.” She spoke the denial out loud, and the hoarseness of her voice startled her. One hand rose to touch her throat. A memory of dark hands closing around her neck rose swiftly in her mind.

If I go out there, they will see me, she thought wildly. Tears sprung into her eyes.

I could not live through them again!

“They are gone. I am not afraid. I am not afraid,” she told herself, repeating this mantra in her mind. “I dreamed of them. They cannot hurt me.”

Her stomach heaved. These conflicting thoughts were making her panic. Bile rose in her throat. Celebrían leaned her head down between her upraised knees, trying to catch her breath. She stared avidly at her hands, locked together under her legs. There was dried blood on her knuckles.

Slowly the sickness passed, and she exhaled heavily. Muscles that had been tightly wound relaxed, and her heartbeat slowed. Moving sluggishly, trying to keep the panic in check, she drew one hand across her mouth, trying to banish the chalky taste there.

“What is wrong with me? Am I such a weakling?” she asked herself. A dark, gloating voice of memory answered.

‘Where is the fight in you, She-Elf?’

“I have strength yet. I am not through fighting.”

‘Crawl! Beg for mercy.’

“I do not beg.”

‘I could kill you here.’

“I am not dead.”

The voices that had haunted her dreams had come back in full force. Her demons were determined to take advantage of this sudden weakness. But somewhere, deep inside her, at the center of her soul, the will to fight back and survive still burned.

‘You are weak. Ugly. Tame.’

“I am noble, fair and as free as the great eagles.”

She panted, vision blurring and sharpening. Tilting her head back, she stared vaguely at the ceiling of the tiny cavern. How strange that it had seemed high before…

With a start, Celebrían realized that she was standing. Unawares, she had managed to push herself to her feet. She was weak and shaking, but she stood. Both of her shoulders were resting heavily against rough rock wall, aggravating her wound.

Listening to the sound of her unsteady breathing, she realized how still and quiet it was. The northern wind had died—the trees were silent. She could still hear the discordant sound of her song, though it had faded to an elusive feeling at the edge of her perception, like a fleeting shadow at the corner of her vision.

Outside, in the light of day, the air was crisp and clean. The bitter smell of death had been washed away with the rain and covered by the snow. The trees were still and submissive beneath the snow that blanketed their branches. An eagle wheeled overhead, circling round and round, and coming low with each pass. The peace would have been soothing once, but now her heart was troubled and she feared what the quiet might mean.

She looked around, taking a careful step onto the snow. Her brows drew together in distress. All sense of direction had been lost the night before. She did not know where the battle had occurred or how far she had stumbled the previous night. They had been moving towards the setting sun when they were attacked. Which way had she turned, towards the steeper mountains to the south, or down the ravine in the east?

The sun was directly overhead, glowing with pale cheerless light. Overcome with defeat once more, she stared up at the sky, watching a wisp of white cloud scuttle across the sky. Quietly she began to hum a tune. It was a melancholy song, filled with the yearning and the loss of a millennium lived. Such a song had rarely been heard beneath the skies of Arda-Marred. The words came easily, a perfectly matched blend of Quenya and Sindarin. As she sang she was comforted. In the verses she prayed and cursed, lived and died. The haunting melody echoed in her heart, replacing the fragments of her inner song.

She lowered her head and was immediately transfixed by the sight before her. A light, brilliantly bright, was hovering above the ground. It shimmered and moved with an ethereal grace. She almost faltered in her song but held onto the tune. Before her eyes, the light transformed into a woman, robed in white and more beautiful than any Celebrían had ever laid eyes. Her eyes held the well for all light, and Celebrían was humbled.

The woman did not speak. She smiled, and raised one hand. Her form remained solid for a few more moments, before it faded back into the light and blinked out. Soon, Celebrían became aware that someone else was singing, in a voice that was rich and deep. The harmony of his voice and hers took her back to the warmth of a great Hall. The Hall of Fire.

It was him! She caught her breath, abruptly ending her song. His voice faded into nothing, but her heart was filled with joy. By some blessing, their prayers had blended into one. She could find Lindir.

Ennor and Valandor – Middle-earth and Valinor

A/N: I am quite confused by this sudden rush of Celebrían fics. While I was surfing ff.net, I came across an alarming number of Cel stories. I felt almost as though I was writing about Legolas (not to say, of course, that there aren’t any good Legolas fics – see Karri, user id 40500, as an example)! It makes me feel rather unoriginal, as you can all probably appreciate. I am unsure whether or not I should finish this. What say you the reviewers?

Energized by the appearance of Fanuilos, Celebrían took the most directly west course that she could, abandoning the relative safety of her refuge. The echoes of her song rang in her mind, sweetly it seemed. She saw in her mind the beautiful image of the white lady, in her mind wandering the white sandy shores of the sea.

Her legs were weak but steady, and the snow did not break beneath her feet. The air was crisp and clean; it felt good in her lungs. She felt dizzy sometimes, and darkness swirled in front of her eyes, but she did not dare to stop for rest. There was a pull now, a sense of urgency leading ever into the west. She feared that it was not only Lindir who drew her there.

The brook was wide and clear, with only a thin layer of ice crystallized on the surface. She knelt carefully and easily broke through the ice, and plunged her hands eagerly into the freezing waters. Cupping her hands, she drank, and drank. It was so pure and delicious, and her throat ached so, she thought she could drink forever. But instead, she splashed her face and shivered.

It was easier to rise this time. Her muscles were eager for the work, and the familiar motions eased her stiffness. She blew warmth into her chilled hands and glanced around. Over rippling brook/past boulder cracked…

She had no memory of seeing such a landmark, though they had crossed the river upon their horses last eve. Her keen eyes searched up and down stream, then across the wide, shallow brook on the opposite bank. She groaned aloud when she saw it.

A great slab of stone, worn smooth by wind and water, as wide as she was tall and split cleanly down the middle, was nestled in the snow on the opposite bank. There was no doubting that it was the marker she sought, across the water that she would have to cross, without even the protection of boots or breeches.

The shock of the water roused her from her stupor, and she screamed. They laughed, and tugged harder on her hair, pulling her forward violently. Her foot caught a stone, and she was flung forward, cutting her knees on the streambed. She screamed again, and again. A hand lashed her face, and she knew that they enjoyed her screams.

Celebrían covered her face, calming herself quickly with deep breaths. These memories would be with her for a very long time, she knew, perhaps as long as she remained in Middle-earth. She would not be mastered by them.

Her first step into the chill waters was jolting. She began to shiver, and wrapped her arms around herself for whatever meager warmth that would afford her. Each step caused a violent shiver to rack her body, but she kept on. After the misery of the rain and the dark and the unknown, this seemed a petty concern.

Across the river, she collapsed on the bank and sat upon the snow, vigorously rubbing her feet to restore circulation. They stung as the blood began moving, like pins and needles poking her skin. It only got worse when Celebrían hoisted herself back to her feet by grabbing the frosted branch of an elm hanging over her head. She set her teeth and ignored the pain.

Beyond the stone landmark, she could feel the ground begin to sharply decline. As she struggled to stay on her feet, she noticed how the mountains were closer together here, creating a funnel of sorts. The valley would continue to grow closer until it bottlenecked at the difficult opening. Traveling groups had to go through in pairs, and it was ever a tribulation for wandering traders to maneuver their wagons and horses into the Pass.

The ground leavened for a stretch, and Celebrían’s heart gave a leap. Lindir was near; close enough that she could sense his presence. Her pace quickened. She opened her mouth to call for him.

“Lindir! Pedan-nîn! Where are you?”

She practically held her breath, awaiting his answer. The wind came up, whistling through the valley and stirring her hair. It aroused in her a desire to feel the salty caress of the ocean wind.

“Hiril-nîn…” Her keen hearing caught the whisper as the wind carried it away. Stumbling the last few feet, she leaned heavily on a fallen tree trunk, and looked down into the tired, bloody, grinning face of Lindir.

“I knew that you lived, hiril-nîn,” he murmured happily, and reached up to catch her hand.

Cuiviénen – A bay near the Wild Wood, where the Elves first awakened

Pedan-nîn – Sin. speak to me

Hiril-nîn – Sin. My lady

A/N: Wow. How long has it been since I’ve posted, huh? Sorry about the delay. I’ve been in some sort of weird slump, not unlike in the fall. I have been involved in drama. Rambling. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this! Also, the formatting may be a little off, I am experimenting. It is one of my summer projects to organize my account.

“You are alive,” Lindir said in wonder. His wonderful eyes, smoky gray and clear as glass, took in her face. “I prayed, my lady. Hoped, beyond anything…”

“Yes, I am alive. I heard your prayers. You led me here,” she smiled and squeezed his hand, ignoring the surge of pain that raced through her and burned into her wound.

“Was that you singing, my lady?” he asked, painfully raising himself up. She nodded, gently brushing her fingertips over the raised scar where his forehead had been laid open, bathing his face in blood. Well, that was one less worry at least.

Her gaze drifted back to where she knew the battle was. Just beyond sight, over the rise, her companions and friends had spilt their lifeblood. The screams of the dead grew louder in her mind, rising above the dark melody of her new song. In restless dreams I walked alone, /Through lonely woods that wept and moan'd…

“Is it for this land, Lindir?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The death, the fighting. The pain. Is it for life, or for Middle-earth?” She slowly stood, and Lindir saw a trickle of blood run from her wound. He worked to get his good leg under him.

“Celebrían, are you unwell?”

“I’m so tired, Lindir. Tired of this place, of the evil here. I want to go home.” There was a depth of longing in her voice. She cradled her elbow in one hand and took a wavering step forward.

He only just managed to catch her when she fell. She cried in his arms, hiding her face against his shoulder. Shifting her in his arms, Lindir collapsed back onto the ground, hissing when her weight fell on his bad leg.

“It will be alright, Celebrían. We will be rescued and back in Imladris soon,” he soothed, forgetting propriety and pressing a paternal kiss to her temple.

“Nay, Lindir,” she sighed. “I wish to go…home. Across the sea.”

She fainted before he found his voice.

They danced. Everyone was smiling, laughing, moving. She twirled arms out and head thrown back. The smell of sandalwood was on the air. It was perfect. She felt an all-encompassing feeling of peace.

She could hear him, across the great distance that separated them.

“I love you, my beautiful wife.” His voice was sad and accepting, rich with the mystery of ages past. “I will join you when my work here is done, I promise.”

“I miss you. I need you here to hold me, Elrond,” she told him fervently, but the wind grabbed her words and stole them away.

“Liar,” he corrected gently. “You are turning six shades of green.”

The Elf ladled a helping of the thin soup into a bowl. He set the bowl down on a flat rock, braced his weight on his arms, and scooted away from the fire. Settling beside her, he moved the bowl beside him on the ground.

“I do not have much of an appetite,” she confessed. Lindir fussed over her, pulling the blanket up to cover her wounded shoulder, which had gone as cold as ice. The pain was sharp and intense, as though an icicle had been driven into her.

“You should try to eat something, to keep up your strength,” he said softly, spooning up the watery stew he had thrown together with dried meats and herbs.

The blankets, food, and cooking utensils, as well as the clothing and bandages, had been foraged from the battle site. It was a blessing from the Valar that the saddlebags on the fallen horses had not been pillaged.

“Are you warm enough?” Lindir worried, watching her swallow the brew. She nodded, not daring to speak. Her stomach was churning fiercely, and she was afraid that she was going to vomit.

“I’m fine, Lindir,” she told him finally, when the nausea had passed and she was able to swallow another spoonful. A shiver betrayed her words.

“Such dishonesty, my lady,” he admonished. It was obvious that she was plagued by pain. Her eyes were dark with some hidden knowledge. He feared for her.

“I will be alright, Lindir,” she assured him, settling back. Another swallow of stew went down with only mild protest. “How is your leg?”

“It is better now,” he answered, tightening one of the cloth strips that bound his splint.

He had fallen where she had found him in the early hours of the morning, when his knee gave out. His leg had been broken when he was knocked aside after the battle was lost. The healing power of his blood had started mending the unset bones, a fragile fix that had left his femur twisted. “I imagine I should be back on my feet within a few days, if we can fashion a better splint.”

She tried to focus on his words, but she couldn’t grasp their meaning. Her head was spinning…nay, the very forest was spinning and she was at the center. Black dots began to dance across her vision, and her hands shook so badly that the wooden bowl clattered out of her hands. She covered her face, trying to block out the images in her mind.

Twinkling bright stars shining down. The sand feels cool beneath her back, and the rhythm of the waves is soothing-

The pounding of the waves was not a part of her vision. Beneath them, the very ground was trembling. It was the sound of marching.

“They’re back,” Lindir breathed.

The pounding literally shook the ground. Her eyes widened, and she gasped for breath as the fear began to constrict her throat. Her wound throbbed, adding to her confusion. Lindir held her hands in one of his. He could feel the panic rising in her; she was beginning to lose control.

“They have come back. Lindir, they will kill me. Please, don’t let them kill me,” Celebrían begged. She thrashed, trying to get up. Every instinct was screaming for her to run.

He held her as gently as he could. Lindir soothed her with soft, comforting words, but Celebrían didn’t seem aware. Her whole body was shaking, and he wondered again what torments she had endured in their hands.

“I cannot survive them again. Don’t let them find me, Lindir.”

“I won’t let them near you, lady. Do not fear. These Orcs care nothing for us… they simply seek passage across the mountains. Soon they will be gone.” He smoothed her hair back from her face with a tender hand.

“Elrond will find us, won’t he?” she asked pleadingly.

“Aye. I would wager that he is climbing this mountain as we speak, ready to move heaven and earth to have you back…”

And as Lindir spoke, Celebrían became aware of something: shouts, barely audible over the stamp of marching feet and the random, chilling cries of the Orc.

“Do you hear that?” she asked, raising her head and clutching his arm as tightly as she could, excitement chasing the fear from her eyes. “Lindir, I think someone is here.”

Lindir regretted his words. He had gotten her hopes up. She obviously believed that Elrond truly was out there. But he could not have reached them this quickly. There was no one there.

“My lady—”

“Shh! Listen.”

Obediently he strained to listen. He heard only the thunder of heavy feet. And then…

“Elves, Celebrían. Here, searching for us.” Lindir’s voice was thick with emotion—disbelief at the prospect of help when all hope had disappeared. Relief, that the lady would have treatment. Fear that they would be too late. For he could see that her spirit was fading. She tried to hide it. Perhaps she did not even see it herself. But this ordeal had taken something precious and twisted it, melted and reshaped it into something beaten and weak.

Without Elrond’s care, he feared that she would die.

Raising his head, he dared to watch the battle. A golden head shone among the Elven riders – Glorfindel. Gildor and his Exiles were with them as well.

“Lindir, it is my sons,” Celebrían’s melodious voice was choked with emotion. Tears began to slip from the corners of her eyes and disappear into her hair. “My sons, my precious sons.”

He saw them. They were mounted, man and animal moving so fluidly together that they were almost one. Their long dark hair was unbound and flew in a flurry about them. When they turned to face in his direction, Lindir saw fear and rage written plainly on their identical features.

Elladan drew his bow and fired in rapid succession. He did not seem to aim, but every arrow found its mark, crippling or killing. The Elves riding with them obeyed his commands without question or hesitation. Under the direction of Elladan and Elrohir, the Orcs were quickly cut off.

Elrohir slew the last of them, impaling the snarling creature through the heart. Silence fell over the valley. It was such a blessed relief from the raucous noise that Celebrían caught her breath.

Suddenly he stiffened, his hands clenching on the chair. His fingernails dug into the wooden arms. A great swell of foreign emotion coursed through him, as though his body was a conductor for another’s feelings. It was joy. She was happy. Exhausted and weak, but elated.

Elrond shook with sobs. His tears were an outlet, siphoning out some of the worry and fear that had been gathering in his soul and growing unbearable. There was still hope, after all.

“Lindir, what of our mother?” Elrohir helped his friend to stand. Lindir leaned heavily on him, putting an arm around Elrohir’s shoulder. Elladan caught up and offered his own support.

“My babies,” Celebrían whispered. Her voice was thready and weak, but it was a balm on their troubled hearts. Elladan ducked out from under Lindir’s arm and was at her side in a moment. Elrohir eased his friend to the ground and hurriedly joined his brother.

Elladan gently raised Celebrían off of the ground and into his lap. She smiled at them, vaguely wondering if she was dreaming. Her shoulder ached terribly. Ignoring the pain, she raised her wounded arm. Her fingers trailed across his cheek, brushing away the tears there.

“Don’t cry…”

Elrohir crouched beside her and gently peeled away the white linen shirt, exposing her wound. He caught his breath at the sight of it. ‘She needs father. Now,’ he told his twin silently.