Imladris, TA 1004
A warm wind ruffled Glorfindel's formal robes as he stood on the front steps of the Last Homely House, awaiting the official arrival of the Lady of Imladris. Those gathered around him, all dressed in their ceremonial best, fidgeted impatiently or shifted from foot to foot, for the day was warm and pleasant and the heavy velvet robes most had donned for the occasion itched mercilessly under the hot noon sun. Glorfindel smiled at the thought that Erestor had suggested he wear silk for that very reason. As usual, his lover's counsel had been sound.
His eyes seeking out Erestor's figure, Glorfindel crossed his arms behind his back and decided he was quite happy to while away the long wait by feasting his eyes on the most beautiful Elf in the valley. He didn't often get the chance to watch his lover from a distance, engaged in the performance of his official duties. Knowing he might not get the chance again for a long while, he resolved to take full advantage.
Erestor stood at Elrond's right hand, poised and proud, his face betraying no sign of emotion, strands of his coal-black hair fluttering around his shoulders. As always, he was the epitome of grace and understatement. It never ceased to amaze Glorfindel how his lover could make a simple black robe look so regal. Then again, there were many things about Erestor that Glorfindel found amazing.
Ever attentive, Erestor leaned over and whispered something in Elrond's ear, his demeanor all coolness and composure. Elrond closed his eyes, listening intently, then nodded in thought.
Glorfindel did not have the faintest idea what manner of observation his lover had just made to their Lord, but he did not doubt for a moment that it was something profound and insightful. He was well aware Erestor was unparalleled in his capacity as advisor. Even after knowing the serious Elf for many centuries, he still found himself in awe of Erestor's intelligence and perceptiveness. It made him proud of the dark-haired beauty's talents. It made him marvel at the subtle power veiled beneath that cool gaze. It made him feel... aroused.
Slightly irked by his lack of composure, he glanced around him to ascertain whether any of the Elves assembled on the stone steps were looking in his direction. Fortunately, they were all far too preoccupied with gazing into the distance and trying to catch the first glimpse of Celebrían and her Lórien escort. Exhaling with relief, Glorfindel discreetly rearranged his robes.
Glancing back at his lover, he greedily took in Erestor's still profile, the darkness of his hair, all his quiet loveliness. He felt a familiar sensation of vertigo begin somewhere beneath his rib cage and then spread its pleasant tendrils up his body, making his scalp tingle with its creeping thrill. Right on its heels followed a wave of such sweet tenderness that moisture gathered in his eyes, turning the sun's rays filtering through the trees into glimmering streaks of multicoloured light.
He had an urge to fall down on his knees and worship his lover's pale body; with his words, his hands, his mouth -- giving expression to the adoration with which his heart overflowed. He ached for the welcoming ceremony and dinner festivities to be over, so that he and the lovely dark-eyed Elf could retire to their chambers and take their fill of each other's flesh. Glorfindel well knew the one on his knees that evening was most likely to be Erestor, as that was the position the quiet advisor usually preferred -- the master of control willingly unburdening himself of all authority in the freedom the darkness afforded. Still, as much as it thrilled Glorfindel to have all that beauty kneeling at his feet and to feel the hot caresses of the very mouth that had uttered such sage counsel, he could not help wanting to bow down before Erestor and honour him.
The shrill sound of trumpets brought Glorfindel out of his trance. He straightened up, took in a calming breath and focused his attention on the Lórien convoy, which had just then come into view. The Elves around him were chattering with excitement, hurriedly smoothing their robes and craning their necks to get a better look. Many of them were young and had likely not witnessed such pomp and commotion before, as Imladris did not host illustrious guests often. Glorfindel smiled indulgently. He could hardly remember being that impressionable himself, though he knew there had been a time when he had reacted just as they, moved to awe by the sight of such splendor. Now the only sight that made his heart pound was that of a lean figure dressed entirely in black, motionless at Elrond's side.
Casting one last quick look in his lover's direction, Glorfindel suddenly felt his heart stop in his chest. Erestor's shoulders were hunched and his muscles tensed as if he wanted to curl in on himself and disappear. His already pale complexion had turned an unhealthy shade of white. His eyes, usually so discreet in their glances, were fixed on the approaching entourage quite openly, and seemed to be filling with panic. Something was very, very wrong.
Melpomaen's heart sank ever deeper with each step that brought Celebrían and her escort closer to the Last Homely House. He had already felt it drop through the bottom of his stomach when he first caught sight of his lover's wife and yet, though he could hardly
believe it possible, lower and lower it plunged, its wild shudders beating time with the sound of her horse's hooves. Desperately anchoring his eyes on the ground before him, he had a bizarre vision of his poor heart tumbling down to his feet, to be crushed by the Lady's steady approach. Unable to bring himself to look up, he did not raise his eyes until the sound of horses' hooves was replaced by that of neighing, only a few feet away, and he heard Elrond's beloved voice speak formal words of welcome.
He dared to look then, and immediately wished he had not.
He had heard talk of her great beauty, and had braced himself for the sight of her golden hair, her fair face, her bright eyes. He had even been ready for the aura of authority and self-assurance she projected -- he knew she was used to commanding and being obeyed.
What took him completely by surprise and nearly knocked him to his knees in its unexpectedness was the air of entitlement, ownership even, that radiated from her. It was obvious that she belonged here. Though she chose to make Lórien her home, Imladris *was* her rightful place and Elrond *was* her husband. Valar-sanctioned, until the end of Arda.
In that moment Melpomaen had the painful epiphany that, beside her, he amounted to nothing. For all the love his heart held for Elrond, for all their closeness, Melpomaen's place his lover's life was precarious at best. He was an intruder. She was the great Lady of this realm come back to stake her claim.
Taking Elrond's proffered hand, Celebrían dismounted and was greeted by a formal kiss on the cheek. The spouses exchanged a few quiet words, Elrond's face schooled in the mask of pleased tranquility he usually wore in the presence of official visitors. His hand cradling his wife's elbow, the Lord of the valley gestured toward the well-wishers gathered on the front steps and led Celebrían toward them.
He guided her along the long row of Elves lined up on the steps, like a commander inspecting his troops. One by one, he introduced the members of his household to Celebrían, giving each one's name and position in the valley's hierarchy. Watching the Elves bow before their Lady, Melpomaen could do naught but wait, dreading his turn, yet knowing it must come.
Finally the rustle of silk drew closer and Melpomaen heard his lover's voice say: "This is Melpomaen; a junior advisor and scribe who works under Master Erestor." Knowing he could put the inevitable off no longer, he bowed low and respectfully, then straightened up and looked into Celebrían's face.
Her eyes were cool, her gaze serene and impassive, yet, when she looked at him, Melpomaen felt himself the object of such intense scrutiny that he nearly squirmed. She did not smile, did not say a word; she merely watched, but Melpomaen nearly burned under her icy stare. Instead of moving on, she lingered and proceeded to examine him from head to foot, almost as if trying to decipher some great puzzle.
Barely stifling the urge to run and hide, Melpomaen gradually felt his suspicions turn into certainty. "She knows," he thought, looking down at the ground. "She's known all along. That is why she has come." The inevitability and hopelessness of it all hit him full-force, nearly choking him. He had loved and been loved by Elrond for nearly three years now. He should have known his happiness could not last. It had been a prize too readily won. Now it would be taken away.
As Celebrían's steps gradually retreated and the next Elf in line was presented to her, Melpomaen nearly slumped onto the stone surface under his feet. His muscles, held rigid and still by pure force of will on his part, now began to shake. Despite the bright sun shining down on him, he felt quite cold. "Courage," he thought. "This will be over soon."
He raised his eyes and looked around, in an attempt to focus his mind on more neutral matters. And that was when he noticed something that had hitherto escaped his attention.
The Lórien convoy was somewhat larger than he had expected, elaborate though he knew it would be. "That is no single escort!" he realized with amazement, for indeed the Elves gathered to the left of Celebrían's warriors were not dressed in the uniform of the Galadhrim. They seemed to be a separate group, and at their head stood an Elf whose beauty, manner of dress and noble bearing signaled to all that he was a Lord and leader in his own right.
As the last of the introductions on the steps of the Last Homely House was made, Melpomaen saw Elrond turn and walk over to welcome the mysterious Elf, his greeting familiar. "They know each other," Melpomaen thought with surprise, then quickly chastised himself for the absurdity of his observation. His older lover had, after all, millennia of experience; had fought for the good of Middle-earth probably long before Melpomaen's parents were even born. It was no remarkable thing that Elrond and the stranger would be friends of old.
Or were they? Melpomaen found himself reconsidering his last thought as he watched the two Lords interact. He knew his lover well enough by now to be able to judge his measure of affection and trust for those in his presence. Elrond's demeanor around the noble visitor may have been informal, but trust was noticeably absent from his face. Although pleased, the expression Elrond wore was guarded and not free of reservations.
"I shall have to ask him about it tonight, when we are alone." Melpomaen's thoughts followed a well-trod path, only to be brought up short by the brutal recollection of reality. He would not be able to ask his lover any private thing tonight or any other night, for long weeks to come. They would not be alone. Celebrían was now in their midst, and their lives had begun to undergo a frightening and painful metamorphosis. Melpomaen felt as if he were sinking into a familiar nightmare, only, this time, Elrond's arms were not there to hold him fast.
Out of the corner of his eye, Glorfindel saw Melpomaen blanch and steel his resolve under Celebrían's careful inspection. A few paces away, Elrond looked somewhat less than comfortable. Glorfindel felt a pang of sympathy for Elrond and his young lover -- the situation they found themselves in was not to be envied, and would likely deteriorate further before Celebrían's visit had run its course.
He would normally have given more attention to his friends' plight, but just now his concern was focused elsewhere. Erestor's stiff shoulders had not moved an inch since the courtyard had filled with visitors, and Glorfindel could see it was not merely proper etiquette that kept his body so still. The advisor's eyes, instead of following the welcoming formalities with interest, were inspecting the stones beneath his feet, only occasionally glancing sideways at the source of his distress, as if to verify it was still there.
The next time Erestor hazarded a guarded look in the direction of his supposed bane, Glorfindel followed his eyes and found himself staring at a group of Elves gathered to the left of Celebrían's convoy. He recognized them, of course, as he had had dealings with them in the past, and he was only mildly surprised to find they had joined with Celebrían's escort and accompanied it to Imladris.
"Gildor Inglorion and his Wandering Company must have encountered the Lórien warriors on the way," he thought, still perplexed as to why the sight of golden-haired Gildor and his small troop of followers would cause Erestor to react so alarmingly.
Then he saw Gildor catch Erestor's eye and send him a knowing, slightly mocking smile. Gildor's eyebrow was raised, as if he were asking Erestor a question. This gesture, although not overtly improper or threatening in any way, nevertheless had the power to immediately rivet Erestor's gaze back on the dust under his boots.
Glorfindel, already dismayed at the alien sight of his proud lover falling prey to intimidation so easily, noticed with further dread that Erestor's face had now gone completely ashen and his nails were digging into his palms.
"What manner of sorcery is this?" he thought with anger. Erestor was anything but craven, so why would a mere look from Gildor Inglorion have him cowering in fear like a child?
Suddenly awareness dawned on Glorfindel, simple and clear, yet terrible in its simplicity. There was only one who had ever had such oppressive control over Erestor's heart and mind; only one who had caused the proud advisor to cry from shame. Glorfindel had once sworn he would cut this Elf's throat if he ever came across his path, but he had never believed such a thing would actually happen. It had seemed to him that Erestor's past was just that: the past -- a memory that would never cast fresh shadows over their shared future. And yet here was this very memory made flesh -- in the form of Gildor Inglorion's haughty smirk -- and there stood Erestor shaken to his very core.
Glorfindel cast a furious look in Gildor's direction. "If you cause one more tear to fall from Erestor's eyes you will rue the day your mother and father begot you; I swear it," he thought, suddenly feeling fiercely protective of the competent diplomat who usually required no one to come to his defense.
Gildor's eyes were still fixed on Erestor, as if daring him to look up. The intensity of his gaze was such that Erestor could not help but meet it once again; unwilling, yet drawn as if by a magnet. Gildor smiled broadly then, the disdain that almost dripped from his
smile making his fair face take on a cruel aspect and sending a chill through Glorfindel's sun-warmed flesh.
"Elbereth help me," Glorfindel thought with desperation. "The Valar
stay my hand and let his visit be brief, or I may do things I shall
later regret."
As the sun's heat gradually lost its fervour, the courtyard slowly emptied of visitors. All the important dignitaries had been escorted to their rooms to rest after the long journey, and even the less high-ranking of Celebrían's and Gildor's people had been shown to their quarters, where they could enjoy the comforts of the Last Homely House. Those in Elrond's employ who had assigned responsibilities were busy carrying out their tasks, while those whose less eminent positions gave them no special duties to perform found there was naught left to gawk at, and so went about their regular business.
After the furor of the mid-morning, the courtyard looked strangely empty, filled now with nothing more than grooms seeing to the travelers' weary horses, whose hooves filled the air with fine dust.
A keen observer who looked closer, however, would have seen two figures engaged in private conversation, leaning up against a wall in an out-of-the-way corner. Both were blond and had a warrior's build, though one was slightly taller than the other. The tall one was dressed in the colours of Imladris' own guard, while his companion wore the distinctive grey uniform of the Galadhrim. Their heads were bent together in the manner of old friends and their voices were quiet enough to signal to anyone watching that the topic of their discussion was of a distinctly private nature.
"Which one was he?" the Galadhel asked.
"The young one, dressed in blue. The one who looked so frightened."
"Yes, now I remember. I can't fault him for looking frightened. I, too, would tremble before the daughter of the Lady of the Wood."
"His lover's wife," the Imladris guard added with bitterness.
"His lover's wife..." the Galadhel laughed, more out of bewilderment than amusement.
"Why do you laugh?"
"His boldness is to be admired; to share the bed of Elrond Half-elven..."
The Imladris guard flicked the hair out of his eyes in a gesture of annoyance. "Enough! Now will you help me or not?"
"Patience my dear Caegaran, please. Of course I'll help you." The Galadhel paused and lowered his voice. "What do you need me to do?"
"Only that for which you are well known, Haldir." Caegaran smirked. "Seduce him."
"Seduce the youthful advisor?" Haldir's laughter rang through the courtyard.
"Shh, quiet! Someone will hear."
Haldir checked his exuberance, once again lowering his voice. "But that is no challenge, Caegaran. He is barely more than a child! I would have him in my bed within a week, if not sooner, and where is the sport in that? It is hardly worth my time."
"You are overconfident, Haldir."
"What do you mean?"
Caegaran raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I am not certain you will manage to seduce him at all. He and Elrond have been exclusive for many seasons now. The young one has never been with another, nor do I think he wishes to be, for he is utterly faithful and devoted to his lover."
"Ah." Haldir's eyes widened with understanding. "I think I see now why you need me. After he has been used by another -- especially one of my reputation -- Elrond may not find him as appealing."
Caegaran's face lit up with a menacing glow. "Elrond will cast him out of his bed like a common harlot."
Haldir regarded his friend's face carefully. "I have never known you to be so devious, Caegaran."
"I have never before been so grieved and offended."
Haldir extended his hand and clasped his companion's forearm. "You may rely on me, meldir. Both on my talents and my discretion."
"Thank you."
"And I do not think the task itself will be so very unpleasant. The young one is quite comely, if a bit thin..."
Caegaran snorted with scorn, turning away from his friend's face. Haldir laughed once again and, grasping Caegaran's shoulder, leaned in close.
"You never told me his name," he whispered.
"It's Melpomaen."
Notes:
Galadhel - singular form of Galadhrim
meldir - friend (male)
For reasons why Erestor seems to be so frightened of Gildor see the last chapter of Sweetness and Gall. :)
Imladris, TA 1004
The welcome banquet was even more uncomfortable than Elrond had feared. Conversation at the head of the table was strained and sparse, the air heavy with unmentionable subjects. Even the exquisite meats, pies and pastries, prepared with care by Imladris' best cooks, did little to lift the spirits of his uneasy dinner companions. Elrond watched as more than one unsettled guest took refuge in cup after cup of potent red wine. Though he dearly wished he could do the same, his obligations as Lord, host and husband prevented him from following their example.
He had initially hoped Gildor Inglorion's unexpected appearance would enliven the meal or at least take its focus away from the tension between him and Celebrían. Though he himself was not especially fond of Gildor -- for reasons which were both personal and deeply rooted in the past -- he had thought the leader of the Wandering Company would find common ground with others at the table. News from faraway places was welcome, after all, and Gildor and his retinue had seen a great deal in the course of their travels.
Unfortunately, as the evening wore on it became painfully clear that Gildor's presence, instead of easing the nervous mood, inexplicably served to heighten it. His usually imperturbable advisor, Erestor, kept his eyes focused on the food gracing his plate –- and yet ate very little, if at all. For his part, Glorfindel seemed intent on compensating for his lover's strange lack of appetite, for he consumed copious quantities of wild game and fowl, all the while casting menacing looks at the Elf seated across from him at the table -- at the very same Gildor who Elrond had wished would make the night easier to bear.
Elrond hardly dared to glance toward the foot of the table where, seated among advisors of lower office and lesser import, Melpomaen bravely suffered through the many-course dinner. Though his plate was nigh untouched, his wine goblet was quite empty and had probably been frequently refilled. Careful not to gaze too long at his unhappy lover, Elrond nevertheless detected an unnatural flush on Melpomaen's cheeks and perceived the deep red colour of his wine-stained lips.
"Valar... Please let this torturous night come to an end," Elrond sighed to himself, and felt Celebrían's cool fingers touch his hand.
"Is the stuffed quail not to your liking, my Lord?"
Elrond turned to look at his long-estranged wife, still unused to her presence beside him after so many years spent apart. She was smiling and her eyes shone not with guile but with amusement. It appeared she found the uncomfortable mood at table a matter for laughter rather than vexation.
Elrond felt relief pervade his body and smiled back at her. "It *is* somewhat dry and has an unfortunate tendency to stick to the palate," he replied.
"Nothing that a good draught of wine would not remedy."
"Aye, but it would hardly befit the Lord of the Last Homely House to overindulge in front of his guests."
"Once the guests have retired for the night, however..." Celebrían's voice held a note of mischief and her eyebrow was raised playfully.
Elrond could not help but laugh. He was suddenly reminded of just how much he had once enjoyed his wife's company, back in the early days of their marriage, when he still had the hope they might one day come to love each other. But his laughter died down as the pleasant memory was supplanted by a sense of loss. In the end, they had never been more than companions, tied together by a complicit separateness. Beside him sat his wife, but she was a stranger.
Celebrían's smile waned somewhat, and her features looked strained. She leaned in closer, her eyes focusing on Elrond's own.
"I believe we are both in dire need of whatever forgetfulness and relief a strong bottle might offer," she said. "Do not think me blind to the upheaval my arrival has wrought."
"I have never thought you blind, my Lady, though I must admit I had forgotten just how candid you could be." Elrond smiled.
"You know diplomacy was never my strength. I do not believe in speaking in riddles."
"Speak plainly then. We are husband and wife, after all; there should be no secrets between us."
No sooner had the words left Elrond's mouth than he realized how falsely they rang. But they could not be taken back, and all he could do was cringe inwardly and watch Celebrían's lips curl up in a smirk as her eyebrow rose up in question.
"No secrets?"
Elrond felt his face grow hot and cast his eyes down to the starched linen tablecloth. His fingers twisted the napkin in his lap.
"Celebrían, I--"
"I have not come here to cause you distress, Elrond, nor to cast blame." Her words were quiet, but effective. Reaching out for his hand, she gave it one gentle squeeze, then let go. "There is much that we do not know about one another, and that is not surprising, considering the nature of our situation."
Elrond could not help but feel saddened to hear this long-unacknowledged reality at last uttered so bluntly. He looked up at his wife, seeking to gauge her reaction to her own words, but her face was as cool and impassive as ever. He let his eyes wander back to the ivory linen crumpled on his knees.
Celebrían reached forward and, picking up a large flagon of wine, filled Elrond's cup to the brim. She lifted it from the table and placed it in his hand.
"Your guests will not mind," she said.
"I daresay they will not," Elrond said, accepting the cup and cradling it in both palms. "Many of them have been enjoying the heady charms of this wine for quite some time."
Celebrían laughed, her voice rising and then falling like a splash of clear water. Out of the corner of his eye, Elrond saw Melpomaen cast an uneasy glance in their direction, then quickly look away again and reach for his drink. His heart clenching, Elrond followed his lover's example and brought the wine up to his lips.
"Will you not have some?" he asked.
"Perhaps later. I had hoped we might... speak privately after the banquet."
"I think there are still a few bottles of the raspberry wine -- the one you once liked -- in one of the cellars. I could bring one to your chambers once the guests are abed."
"That is a most welcome invitation," Celebrían replied. "And one I shall be glad to accept. I have some messages for you from old friends, not to mention a stack of letters -- personal, not official. One from Arwen."
Elrond smiled. "Is she well?"
"She is better than well; she is quite happy and more beautiful than ever. But you will be able to read for yourself in an hour or two."
"I look forward to it."
"As do I. Only..."
"What is it?"
Celebrían shrugged her shoulders and, though her smile was impish, her eyes were sad.
"Two bottles might serve us better than one. There is much that we need to discuss."
The door closed behind Elrond, shut quietly and with care. Celebrían lingered a while with her fingers on the metal handle, listening to the sound of her husband's footsteps slowly receding down the hallway. His stride was measured and weary, as if his feet were loath to carry him to his chambers for his nightly rest. "Of course he is in no haste," she thought, smiling sadly. "He will have naught to keep him company this eve but his empty bed."
Moving to the fireplace, she absentmindedly picked up the empty wine bottles and glasses from the tiled floor, placing them on the small side table. The maids would clean them up in the morning; there was no need to trouble anyone this late. Half of the Last Homely House was likely already deep in reverie: the household staff exhausted after a long day spent catering to the guests, and the visitors finally relishing the comforts of a well-provisioned realm. It would be best to let those who knew no grief enjoy their peaceful slumber. Not all were that fortunate, she knew.
Carefully she blew out the candles lining the mantelpiece, leaving only the fire's dying embers to light the room with a soft glow. She struggled with the latch on the window for a moment, then opened it wide. It was so hot here, and the air inside the house so confining. Were she in Lórien, the moonlight would shine on her bed and the soft breath of the wind caress her cheeks as she slept.
"Less than a day, and already I miss home," she thought, unsurprised. She had expected it, had had no illusions about feeling at ease in the place she had once left by choice. And her expectations had thus far been confirmed. Really, it was uncanny how effortless it was to fall back into old feelings and habits, as if no time had passed at all. She and Elrond had spent a whole evening drinking wine to help loosen the tongue and calm their frazzled nerves, and yet neither had had the courage to broach the subject they both knew was uppermost in their minds. They had said much, but had shied away from speaking the crucial words that had the power to either hurt or heal. It was like groping in the dark and failing to grasp the hand of the one reaching out to you; like trying to make out the features of a face hidden behind a thick pane of glass. Things had changed very little indeed.
They had talked of their children, had exchanged news of mutual friends and acquaintances, had even laughed about old times -- those that brought back memories of pleasures shared rather than mutual recriminations. But neither dared mention their current situation or the reason for Celebrían's visit to the valley, though it was obvious from Elrond's guarded looks that he thought of little else and feared her motives.
He would do right by her, that much she knew. He always had. If it broke his heart and tore his joy to shreds, he would grant her any requests she, as his rightful spouse, was entitled to make. He had once bowed to her wishes with hope, trusting the promises they had made to each other would hold true. Now he would do it out of duty, and the young pair of eyes she had glimpsed at the end of the banquet table, nervously regarding her as the powerful rival she was, might overflow with tears.
She had been curious about the young one ever since rumours of him had first reached her ears, and had taken every opportunity this day to look her fill –- though she was unlikely to determine his reasons for becoming involved with her husband by sight alone. She was well aware that he could sense her eyes on him -- the tense set of his shoulders and watchful glances sent her way told her that he likely thought her a formidable foe -- but she did not avert her eyes or in any way try to ease his discomfort. He may have been young and possibly quite amiable, but she did not owe him a thing.
He probably thought she was angry, maybe even vengeful, but she was not -- at least not anymore. When the malicious gossip had first seeped into the Golden Wood Celebrían had seethed and cursed her husband's indiscretion. But the anger had subsided, soothed into a more manageable form by time and logical persuasion. Had she and Elrond not agreed to live apart, after all? How much self-denial and seclusion could reasonably be expected of an Elf-man in his prime? Would a heart left in the cold not naturally reach out for companionship?
Wearily undoing her braids, she sank down onto the lace-covered bed. She would probably be seeing a great deal of Melpomaen in the coming weeks, for the Last Homely House, though impressive, was deceptively small. Their paths would cross in the corridors or walkways, and she could already see him trying to shrink into himself, desperately wishing to blend into the walls to avoid her eyes. If she were to walk up to him and take him by the shoulders, no doubt he would shudder, waiting for her to unleash her wrath.
What Melpomaen did not know -- could not possibly know -- was that her indignation had been replaced by a sort of morbid curiosity: the fascination of someone who had for years gazed at one of the mysteries of life through an impenetrable screen. There was a burning question on her tongue, and yet how could she possibly ask it? How could she turn to her husband's lover and say, "What is it like? Do you love him? What do you see when you look at him?"
She knew what she saw, and imagined that most people saw the same. Elrond was beautiful, wise and kind. Most who looked upon him were amazed that an Elf who had witnessed so many sorrows could still glow with such vitality and passion. He was a patient and considerate spouse, and Celebrían knew that, in marrying for the good of her people rather than her own, she had fared much better than most in her position. Elrond was a good person; there was not a shred of doubt in her mind as to his worth. And yet she looked at him and felt... nothing.
Elbereth knew she had tried, as had he. He had been so careful with her from the very beginning, seeming to understand her fears and reservations. He did not touch her for almost two months after they were wed, for he could tell that she did not wish it. When they finally did lie together as husband and wife, his fingers were gentle, his elbows heedful to keep his weight off her, his hips restraining their urge to push. She looked at his strong, naked body and knew that there were some who would give nearly anything to be lying beneath him the way she was. There were those who trembled at the mere sound of his voice, let alone a more intimate caress. And yet she did not.
She would sometimes look at Elrond, over a shared breakfast or across a crowded hall, and wonder just why it was that she felt numb. They were friends, after all -- of a sort. She knew he took pleasure in her company, and she in turn appreciated his. And yet she could not help feeling that she was enveloped in a clear membrane which, for all its transparency, could not be punctured. After a while, it simply became easier to be alone, and Elrond gradually learned not to ask for explanations she was unable to provide. When she finally announced she would be moving back to Lórien he was not surprised, although his eyes did look at her with more sadness than he usually allowed himself to show.
Tonight those same eyes had observed her with apprehension, even a hint of fear -- an expression which had taken her aback at first, used as she was to thinking of Elrond as a master of his emotions. But it seemed that not all matters in the valley had remained untouched by the hand of time. Her long-estranged husband had at last placed his heart in the keeping of another: someone he cared about -- quite deeply, it seemed. She wondered whether his trust was well placed and, if so, whether she was big-hearted enough not to begrudge him his new happiness.
Celebrían leaned back on the soft pillows and drew the fresh cotton covers up to her chin. The night stretched out before her, infinite in its stillness, tempting in its anonymity. The bed was wide and empty, and she felt strangely comforted by the thought that none but she would rest in its embrace, tangling in the crisp sheets by dawn. Silence whispered in her ear, and she welcomed it as the dear friend it was.
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