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Finding Celebrian  by Dragon

Glorfindel flung his cloak around his shoulders and used one hand to lift his heavy mass of wet hair so that the golden strands fell down on the dark wool of his cloak rather than soaking a warm wet patch through the back of his tunic. It was a bitterly cold morning in Imladris, cold enough for even elves to seek out warmth - especially when they had just stepped from a steaming bath into the frosty air.

It was early in the morning as yet, and still dark enough to cause him to light the candles on his dresser. Most of the Last Homely House lay in sleepy silence, but he could hear small noises from the next door room, indicating that Erestor too was awake and moving.

Others would be up too, of course. The silent and unnoticed elves that kept Imladris running from day to day: the elves that lit the fires in the halls every morning and kept the flames in the Hall of Fire burning, the maidens who would be milking the cows and gathering eggs, and the stable boys feeding the horses. There would be people in the kitchens too, baking the fresh bread they would enjoy for breakfast and pouring the milk into jugs. Perhaps he could persuade Erestor to take a detour via the kitchens. Nobody could work well on an empty stomach.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and began lacing up his boots, practised fingers dancing easily between the leather cords. They had been getting up like this every morning since. . . since Celebrian had returned. The days had blurred into some sort of busy continuum of fitting in the running of Imladris and attempting to support the troubled family, whilst also fitting in enough public appearances to convince their people that all was going smoothly.

They did not appear very convinced so far. There was a lot of muttering going on, and Elrond's continued absence from table had been noticed. The spirit of the elves of the valley was waning, and he seemed to be able to do nothing to stop it.

~*~

Elladan stood alone on the practice fields, some distance before a target. The ground was covered by a silvery sheen of frost that was only broken by his light footsteps. The moon was still visible as a pale ball in the sky, and the few clouds were tinged with the pink of dawn.

His breath came out as misty puffs, and the sweat from his exertions trickled down his face in cold droplets. He had been out here a while now, in a seemingly endless cycle of grabbing an arrow, fitting it to his bow, drawing back the bowstring and releasing it with a sharp swish. Occasionally he would halt to retrieve his arrows or tighten his bowstring, but his whole concentration was on aim. The neck, the heart, the head. He would pick a target and set loose, and then when his arrows were spent, stride over and yank them from the target's straw body much as one would pluck a chicken or a goose.

Beneath the leather of his glove the skin was rubbing off his palm, and he doubted that there was much left on his fingers except blisters, but still he continued. He did not seem able to stop. He might need the practice later. There was no knowing when your skills might be held up to judgement. After a while the pain had stopped bothering him anyway.

The sound of voices making their way down the path though the woods disturbed him, and the next arrow missed the target's head by inches, whistling slightly as it flew to a resting place somewhere in the trees at the edge of the training fields. Cursing, Elladan kicked angrily at a dead leaf on the ground, swung his bow over his shoulder and went to hunt for his arrow.

It was colder and shadier under the trees, and the ground was covered with frosted leaves in shades of red, brown and orange. Crisp with ice, they crunched under his boots as he walked. His grey eyes scanned the ground and bushes for the grey-blue tail feathers of his arrow, and for a while his concentration was on little else.

Eventually he found it, lodged among the branches of an especially prickly holly. He slotted the arrow back into the quiver, noticing the bright red berries that were already forming among the dark green leaves. Midwinter was approaching, but it would not be a joyful one - not this year.

On a whim he picked a cluster and tucked them into a pouch on his belt. He had fond memories of gathering berries and winter leaves for the Midwinter decorations as a very young child, and it had always brought his mother joy to see the first of the berries or snowdrops that they would bring home.

Scowling at the memory he began crunching his way back to the training fields, kicking aside the frozen leaves with uncharacteristic disrespect. The sound of voices brought him back to the present, and he stopped suddenly near the edge of the forest, hidden behind some trees.

Some archers of the Imladris Guard had arrived for their morning training session, and were currently setting up the targets to their specifications. Glad that he had thought to collect his arrows before venturing into the woods, Elladan turned and prepared to make his way back to the house. He had no desire to meet anyone else at this time.

The sound of his name caused him to halt again, and lean warily against the tree, listening to what was being said.

"Aye, his mother was close to perishing. It is no wonder that his spirit has broken." A voice said in a low, conspiratorial tone.

"It was not his spirit that I referred to!" Someone yelled cheerfully. "His sanity, more likely. It is his mortal blood for sure."

There was a vague sound of disagreement and someone eventually spoke up, "He is grieving. Perhaps it is natural for those of his bloodline."

There was a hint of doubtfulness in the assertion, and the argument did not stand up for long.

"He fights against invisible enemies, and trains night and day. I have heard it said that he speaks to his weapons, and sees us all through a sheen of blood."

"Aye," said someone secretively, "In the kitchens it is said that when you see him from the side, his eyes appear quite black."

There was a murmuring from the other soldiers, and the voice that had supported him earlier ventured hesitantly, "It is not natural, certainly. In practice, I have heard that he did not stop after his partner surrendered. Nimras had to be stitched from his wrist to his elbow."

There was a collection of horrified gasps, while Elladan rolled his eyes and mouthed something about arrogant fools who neglected their gloves and wrist guards.

"I pity Lord Elrond," said another, looking around for support. "One son a hermit, the other a mad-man."

"Aye, and he too having little desire to lead us. He has been absent for weeks."

"If he and his lady pass over the sea, who then shall we look to." Someone suggested provocatively. "A blood-thirsty vengeance seeker, blinded by his own insanity? Or a spiritless broken soul?"

"Perhaps. . ." One of the leaders began hesitantly.

Not liking the way the conversation was turning, Elladan clenched his hands into fists. He had heard the rumours about his brother's hermit-like existence before now, whispers that his spirit had broken, tales of others who had become secluded through grief. But the stories about him were new.

And rather amusing actually.

Elladan stepped out of the shadows of the trees, and seeing the shocked expressions of the soldiers before him, proceeded to laugh loudly and merrily.

~*~

Glorfindel slowed and let Erestor cross in front of him to fetch some papers from the library. The chief counsellor began rummaging through some documents left on the desks after yesterday's midnight meeting and Glorfindel continued down the corridor to Elrond's study, chewing thoughtfully on some warm bread.

He could feel someone else's presence as soon as he opened the door, but it was not until he had warily lit the lamp by the door that he could see the shadow sitting at the desk clearly.

"Peredhil?" Glorfindel's voice rose in surprise and he crossed the room to stand at his friend's side. Elrond was sitting silently with his head in his hands, staring at some upside-down papers without really seeing them. Glorfindel carefully placed his hand on the half-elf's back and spoke more loudly. "Elrond?"

The Lord of Imladris started and looked up at Glorfindel with an expression reminiscent of a child caught where he should not be.

"You do not need to be here. We are managing well. Go to Celebrian." Glorfindel felt justified in the untruth if it helped ease his friend's mind. Elrond made no attempt to move, and the blond elf felt the panic rise inside him. "Cel? She is not unwell?"

"No," Elrond shook his head slightly, "She is better again today."

Glorfindel let out a great sigh of relief.

"I just needed to sit. To think." Elrond sounded so uncertain that the blond elf wanted to throw his arms around him. "May I stay here?"

"Aye, of course you may." Glorfindel squeezed his friend's shoulder tightly, and tried to make a joke of it. "It is your study after all. You could throw me out if you wished to!"

~*~

"Elrohir!" Elladan marched smartly into his brother's room without knocking and dumped his bow and quiver of arrows on the chair. "It is time to rise!"

There had been a time when he would have filled his hands with icy water and poured it on his brother's cheek to see him wake in sudden shock, but it did not seem suitable at this moment. Elrohir's face was not rosy and warm, but pale and shadowed and Elladan did not doubt that if he touched it his skin would feel cold and waxy.

Elrohir opened his eyes, and gave his brother a look of exhaustion.

"Come, the sun is up." Elladan tilted his head towards the window where the early morning rays were struggling to make their way through the fabric Elrohir had drawn across the glass. "The bell will soon chime for breakfast."

"Ammė?" Elrohir seemed to surface to enquire anxiously after his mother.

"She is well." Elladan said calmly. "Breakfast?"

The brightness that had momentarily been in Elrohir's eyes faded and he sank back into the bed.

"I shall eat here." The younger twin said in a toneless voice. "When I rise."

"Elrohir, come." Elladan's voice tinged on pleading as he walked over to take his brother's hand. "We should like to see you."

"I shall see Ammė later." Elrohir emotionless eyes met his brother's frustrated ones. "I see no need to eat fruit and honey with those who have no understanding of what I have seen."

Elladan clenched his jaw against his impending temper, and tried to speak calmly. It was not as if he had not tried his best to protect his brother, but he could not have carried the whole burden himself.

"The people of the valley look for a leader. Ada is indisposed. We owe them this." Elladan said passionately.

"I am not stopping you, brother." Elrohir said, a dangerous tone creeping into his artificial calm. "Go. Serve your people. I am sure that they will appreciate it."

"I do not wish to go alone." Elladan swallowed his pride, and pleaded to his brother. "I gain strength when you are at my side."

Elrohir looked at his brother coldly, and no longer caring how much his words would hurt his twin, spoke bitterly. "You have gained much from being the elder son, brother, and I have suffered for the same cause. Now it is time to pay."

Elladan looked at him in silence for a few seconds, only the narrowing of his eyes betraying his feelings. Then he grabbed his weapons from the chair and strode from the room, allowing the door to slam shut behind him.

~*~

Celebrian sat up against the pillows, attempting to brush her hair. It was rather harder than she had imagined, for her arms had become thin and weak during her ordeal, but the feeling of achievement alone was worth the effort. It was so good to be able to do something for herself again, even if her movements were slow and awkward at present.

It had surprised her how easily the dirt and blood had washed out of the curls. Her hair spread across the pillow in waves of shining silver-blonde, as fresh and new as winter sunlight on snow - showing no sign of what it had experienced or seen. Her bruises were also healing, and as her strength grew her skin regained its peachy glow. Even the terrible wound in her side was knitting together, and it no longer pained her as much.

She had always been a fighter. Never one to cry for a scratch or a scrape.

But inside, things still seemed to breaking. Maybe because she no longer had to block out the memories to survive, and could instead analyse them at length, trying to rationalise the behaviour.

She had considered the times of pain, suffering and despair, but it was not that that bothered her. More disturbing had been that night - just one nameless dark night out of many. She must have been there a while at that point, for she had drawn little attention, huddled in the corner as she was.

And the orcs - the enemy - had appeared normal, kind almost. They had gathered around a fire and roasted meat, and talked amongst themselves. At least she had assumed that they were talking, for she could not understand much of their speech. They had tended to their wounded with a gentleness that had surprised her, and had shared flasks of drink in a manner more similar to elves than animals. They had seemed to have guards and an organised roster for watch duty, and those that were at rest chanted rough tunes around the fire.

It was not the cruelty and torment that had broken her, but the knowledge that the creatures that were responsible could understand the pain they caused.

~*~

Elladan arranged his circlet on his head, and hurried towards the dining hall. The long flowing gown felt light and loose after the weeks spent in armour and riding clothes, and the silver circlet was comfortingly heavy on his braided hair.

Although both he and his brother owned circlets similar to that of his father, they seldom wore them, except for special festivals or feasts. They had been gifted with them on the feast of their majority, and since then they had mostly resided in ornately carved wooden boxes in their rooms. His was adorned with stars, and his brother's with leaves. He could still remember the expression on his brother's face as they had received different gifts.

He imagined that he had had a similar look himself.

As he entered the hall, many faces turned to look at him. Expecting no doubt to see him grieving, or bent over with sorrow. Or perhaps foaming at the mouth with his eyes darting around like a trapped and frightened animal. Resisting the desire to put on a show for his doubters' benefit, Elladan nodded his thanks to the elf at the door and greeted his people with a calm smile and a quiet "Good morning."

He could feel the expectant eyes following him as he walked among the tables to the dais. Passing by his usual seat, he smiled at Glorfindel and took his father's place in the great chair at the end of the table.

Ignoring the dubious looks and anxious whispers, Elladan picked up his knife and fork and spoke in a clear voice that rang confidently through the hall.

"Shall we begin?"




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