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.