A hand gently stroked his cheek occasionally smoothing his hair back from his face. Intermittently, a beautiful voice, weighed with desperate concern, caressed his ears with whispered songs of love. At times the gentle touch progressed to his bare shoulder and down his arm to grasp one of his own bandaged hands.

He had been aware of her presence, her touches, her beloved voice for some time, but he did not want her to know. He did not want to be awake. Stoically, he endured the pain from his injuries for they were his penance for his failures and balm for his guilt -- but the pain of her knowing was beyond his endurance.

“My lady,” a voice softly called.

He recognized it as belonging to the master healer. He knew all of their voices without ever having once opened his eyes.

“Y…yes,” she replied clearing her throat as she replaced his hand on the blanket. “Yes, thank you. Tea would be most welcome just now.”

Galadriel sounded tired, so very weary for one who abounded in strength and fortitude. In his mind, Celeborn could picture her every move as he heard the rustle of her clothing as she brought the tea to her sweet lips and took a sip.  He longed to reach out to her, to simply open his eyes, but he could not endure her questions just now or her pity.

He had attracted her with his strength and his knowledge of all things of the forest. She had once compared him to one of Orome’s Maiar with his beauty and sylvan grace, his powerful voice, and the might of his arms. He had not felt like a Maia those last few days. He had not even felt like an Elf lord! But what could he have done differently? He had been through it over and over again in his mind. It was enough for him to have to live with the memories of how he had failed.

What would she think of him now?

Almost as if in answer to his thought, he heard her set her cup on a table and felt her take his hand again.

"Celeborn, my beloved fool," She whispered with more than a hint of anger in her voice. "You are a Sinda!  By the Valar, how could a tree ever allow you to fall from it, even if it were struck by lightning?  It would have given thought to your safety before its own, so much do the trees of this land love you, Lord of the Galadhrim.  And to allow our grandsons, Elrond, and Glorfindel to also be hurt..." She sniffled back her tears as her voice grew softer. "I love you so much. I need you. Please wake from your slumber. Please dearest one....wake up."

His lady, this ambitious Noldorin princess, mighty bearer of a ring of power, perhaps the greatest Elf woman who ever lived -- was weeping for him.

Pity and love for her moved his heart to finally respond. Gently he squeezed her hand, or tried to but his fingers would not obey.  So he had broken them then. A sigh escaped his lips, but it came out as more of a ragged gasp for the pain that suddenly racked his chest. Just how many ribs had he broken? He tried to turn toward her, but that was the biggest mistake of all. Even if it were not for the pain, he simply did not have the strength to move. When was the last time he had moved? He tried to remember…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Elrohir rested against the tree beside his twin, both firmly manacled by wrist and ankle. Movement was easier now as he shifted to talk to his brother.

“Thank you, Elladan. Now let me check your wounds.”

Obligingly, Elladan turned, affording a good view of his back.

“You finally are beginning to heal,” Elrohir commented, gently probing his back and then turning him to see his chest. “The gashes are not quite as deep they were last night. Your arrow wounds are healing, too.”

 Elladan sighed. “Not that it will do me much good. But, thank you.” The chains jingled as he slowly moved away.

“Daeradar,” Elrohir asked. “If they mean to kill us, why do they delay? By all accounts, Dunlanders are quick to slay those who trespass upon their lands. Why have they kept us alive this long?”

“They mean to make us suffer for our transgressions against them,” Celeborn responded.

“I have heard of many odd tales about their methods of worship from the Dunedain,” Elladan commented. “However, I had not known of any practices involving deer. It is strange. What could they possibly hope to gain from it?”

“Haleth’s folk from whom these are descended had no such practices that we heard of in Doriath, but that was ages ago. You two have spent far more time among mortals recently than have I. Why do you ask me?”

“Because Lorien is nearer to Dunland than is Imladris, and Adar is asleep,” Elrohir offered.

“I fear for him,” Elladan said quietly, nodding toward Elrond. “The arrow passed most of the way through his shoulder. The wound is not healing as it should and oozes still.”

“You bound it as best you could with scraps of our clothing. He is strong, one of the strongest I have ever known,” Glorfindel assured from Elrond’s other side. “Let him rest and he should be fine.”

“Fine for what?” Elrohir asked bitterly.

“Silence!” Celeborn hissed softly. “Their leader approaches.”

The hairy foul-smelling man strode forward accompanied by several large men. “By the murder you committed, you have interfered with the rituals of our worship. The sacred feast begins at sundown. And at sunrise, you will die for your crimes.”

Celeborn offered himself up, explaining that he had been the one to fire the arrow. Rather than earning leniency for the others, it simply made his beating worse.

The leader ordered two men to spread Celeborn’s hands and then stomped on them several times with the ominous promise of, “Now you need not ever worry about making such a mistake with your bow again.”

The following beating of the prisoners with the antlers and sticks did not last as long as the previous whipping, but that was small comfort for it was much worse. Elrond was fortunate enough to remain unconscious through most of it -- at least Celeborn did not hear him scream until it was nearly over.

XXXXXX

It was dark when the men returned again. Several bonfires lit the center of the village. Celeborn lay curled around his pain, barely able to lift his head. His skin was thick with crusted blood and mud. He could not move enough to see how the others fared but guessed from their occasional moans they could not be much better off. A man approached and lifted Celeborn’s head, giving him some water to drink. After allowing a few swallows, the man emptied the rest of the cup over Celeborn’s body. The process was repeated for each of the others.

After the last drops of water trickled away, the leader announced to the gathered crowd. “Tonight we celebrate the ritual of fire. But in the morning, in place of our rites with the sacred herd, we will make a sacrifice of the murderers for their sacrilege to the land.”

Raucous chanting began, accompanied by the steady beat of pitched drums. Several women painted in colors befitting the season emerged from the huts and began dancing around the fire. Celeborn turned his head away in disgust and despair. This could not be happening. It simply could not!

He was an Elf, a child of the forest, a son of this land -- far more so than these brief, base, deranged creatures ever would be! Yet they had accused him and his kin of heresy against the land? They were the ones who had scourged elves with weapons born from the forest itself. They were the ones who had stripped and shamed the bodies of elves. Just who had committed the greater blaspheme here: the Firstborn of Eru Iluvatar for slaying a deer for food or these barbaric mortals for their cruelty and their misguided loyalties to a bunch of animals? 

Worst of all, no one in Lorien even knew where they were or what had become of them. And come morning, it would no longer matter.