Rating: PG
Pairings: Elrond/Celebrían; Elrond/Gil-galad.
Summary: The story aims to track a slash relationship through a het one, Celebrian's marriage to Elrond and her subsequent discovery of his previous relationship.
Warning: Mixture of Het and Slash; please, use your discretion, if you don't like one or the other enough to take issue with it, don't waste your time or mine reading it. Everyone else – are you sitting comfortably? Let me begin...
It was strange, Elrond reflected, as he gathered together the correspondances that had passed between the remaining Elven kingdoms since the beginning of the Third Age, how an alliance forged by the great kings of Men and Elves and Dwarves alike could have, in the culmination of its task, resulted in such disunity. There had been no communication from the Dwarves since the ending of the war, and the breaking of the Last Alliance. The sturdy miners had retreated back into their mountain abodes and closed the door to the fragments of shadow that still lingered in dark corners of the land, and to their allies. Since Ohtar brought the shards of Narsil into Imladris following the death of Isildur, contact with the human kingdoms too had waned. Elrond, folding the letters into a drawer, found he could not raise much sorrow for that. His anger at Isildur had darkened into a lingering disappointment with the race of Men; so far had the Numenorean line fallen since the days of his brother, Elros, founder of that line.
It was the limited communications with the Elven realms that troubled him and, as he scanned over the few letters he held, he wondered why Glorfindel had not thought to bring it to his attention before. Fine lord of Imladris you have made and a fine start to this Age, where the weight of the world is yours to bear, he reprimanded himself, glowering at the letters, and found in their minimalism his own failings reflected back at him. But, he added, trying to repress the twist of pain low in his gut as he did so, The past cannot be changed, and dwelling on it will put you right back where you started this Age: some unreachable haunt in the realm of despair. Gil-galad would be furious with you. > As much as that thought hurt, it straightened his back, and he returned his attention to the letters with new concentration set upon determining what, if anything, had passed between the realms and what, if anything, could be done to improve matters.
The first of the letters was from Cirdan. Elrond did not look beyond the seal before he laid it aside. It was one of his few clear memories from the tumult of obligations, shattered dreams, and fallen stars that had comprised the beginning of the Age and rocked the sanctuaries of Middle-earth beyond the imaginings of their founders, and the intent of the Last Alliance. That they had chosen to summon down the upheaval before it was forced upon them was little consolation.
Without the Alliance Sauron would have destroyed the disunited kingdoms one by one; in joining together and marching upon his gate, bringing the fight to him, had resulted in a victory of sorts. Sauron's essence was scattered, his forces diminished, by the brave hand of Isildur, heir of Elendil and the line of Elros; though that same hand, Elrond reflected sourly, had claimed in weregild the very object which would have destroyed Sauron utterly. Instead, the man had bought the abrupt end to his own life with his dubious victory some years later, and left the Elves to endure the return of the darkness. A fine end to their alliance.
But endure they must, though how Elrond was not sure he knew. Of the four founders of the Last Alliance: Elendil, king of Men; Gil-galad, high king of the Noldor in the West; Durin of the Dwarves; and Oropher, king of the Sindar and Sylvan in the East, none had returned. Nor had Amdir, king of Lothlórien, nor had... Elrond stopped himself. The bitter taste the list left in his mouth would only increase with the thousands of names he could recall, and thousands more he could not. Victory, of a kind, brought defeat of a kind in itself. Rebuilding the Elven realms to even half of their former standing was a task beyond acomplishment; but a nod to it was essential and would have to suffice. And that task was left to the kingdoms heirs: Thranduil son of the Greenwood; Amroth of Lothlórien, assisted by lady Galadriel and lord Celeborn, whose prolongued stays in the forest had earned them a place among the Galadhrim and counted alongside its leader; himself, Gil-galad's herald and unofficially named heir; and Cirdan, the one remaining founder of the Elven kingdoms.
Cirdan, shipwright and lord of the Grey Havens in what remained of the kingdom of Lindon, had written only once. Glorfindel sent, with each new party of elves who headed to the Havens from Imladris, seeking the West and Valinor over their Middle-earth homes, some small message, and had apparently kept him updated on the changes Imladris was undergoing. But if Cirdan had replied, Elrond had not seen evidence of it. The single letter Cirdan had sent to him had broached the subject of Ereinion; and Elrond could not bring himself to speak of his fallen king. Perhaps Cirdan, Ereinion's foster-father, friend, and ally, had needed to talk to someone in the absence left behind by the king's death; but it would not be to him, Elrond had stated. He had since heard rumours that the shipwright was contemplating leaving Middle-earth for the West himself, and the outflux to the Grey Havens was increasing in fear of losing the passage the shipwright co-ordinated across the straight-road. It was time, he acknowledged, that he renewed connections with Cirdan. But not just yet.
From the Greenwood in the East, there had been not a word. Thranduil had closed his doors more tightly than the Dwarves he claimed to despise; his father's death had come as a hard blow, and the population of the Greenwood had limped home at scarcely a third of its former size. Yet that channel too would have to be reopened, if they were to rebuild the kingdoms. Had as much as a century passed already? Elrond wondered, half incredulous. Had as little?
Only from Lorien had communication not ceased. The first letters from its Lady, Galadriel, and Lord Celeborn, had come in the early days of the new Age; Elrond did not and did not wish to remember the details. It was only recently, the last thirty or so years that they had tentatively reminded him of the marriage proposals begun during Gil-galad's reign, and initially publicly proposed to be between the high king and Lorien's daughter. Elrond had chosen not to answer them, but some ten years ago something had changed.
In the first demonstration of her heightened power, Galadriel had dispensed with letters entirely. Elrond, sitting on the window seat of his bedchamber his eyes upon the stars of Varda as they faded with the coming of daylight, had been startled by the opening of his door.
"My lord," Glorfindel had stepped back to allow an emissary to enter, garbed in the raiment of Lothlórien. "The White Lady wishes your council."
Turning with raised eyebrows at the insistence, Elrond had found himself uneasily confronted by a hooded stranger who made no move to uncloak.
"Lord Elrond," the voice was light, yet indefinable as female or male. "You stand upon the sidelines when you are a partner of the dance."
"I stand because I am alone," Elrond replied, keeping his voice neutral despite the bitter taste in his mouth and the blaze of pain that irrupted in his heart. "I will play the music, but I have no wish to dance."
"Yet the music and the dance are wrought by a composer who is not yourself; you must lead the dance, lord Elrond. And you do not stand alone.
"Pray indulge me," Elrond said with careful politeness, "Let us cease this cryptic web of words; what would you have with me?"
"I ask nothing beyond your capabilities, heir of Earendil," came the quiet reply. "I ask that you remember as one door closes, another opens; open your eyes, your ears and your heart and you will find your place, and come to cherish that which lies within the box of memory."
Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but the unidentified stranger held up a hand.
"You are a loremaster, and a healer, child of the First and Second born." The messenger held out a book and, taking it, Elrond recognised the Lay of Luthien. "Do not read the text alone, but seek the story beneath; none find themselves alone in a story's pages."
With that last inexplicable statement, the figure stepped back and, with a bow, and departed from the room.
Elrond was left, staring at the closed door with a frown.
"Ai, Galadriel," he muttered, somewhat irritated by the bewildering exchange. "What mean you by that?" With a shake of his head he turned to face the window, which opened out in the direction of Lorien and the Misty Mountains, wondering which poor message-rider had been sent with such a perplexing task and who would now surely have to return home.
He lifted a hand to rub his aching forehead and watched a star arc from the canopy of night to fall in a last brilliant display of brightness into the void. For each star that falls, another is crafted in its place. Idly he scanned the heavens for evidence. Vilya, worn carefully upon a chain about his neck instead of upon his finger, which would have permitted entry into his mind via the completion of the circle, hung heavily against his chest, a reminder of his burden for the coming Age. He lifted a hand to touch it through his shirt, and almost cried out as the ring burned. The power contained within the ring was heavily warded, yet still he could scarcely stand the touch of her. The defence of Imladris, however, so weakened by the war had necessitated her employment not only in veiling the kingdom from other's sight, but in slackening the effects of time and the weariness of the world, all of which had threatened to overwhelm the Elves in the wake of the Last Alliance. Exactly as Celebrimbor had promised.
Wondering if he had imagined it, Elrond touched Vilya again, cautiously, and again the ring flared against his hand, sending a pulsing wave through his body. Gasping, he reached for the shields to draw them down around her more closely. As one door closes, another opens. The voice of the messenger stirred unexpectedly, and Elrond stared at the ring, glowing fiercely in his palm. He closed his eyes, seeking solidity in the earth, in the rivers, in the fire that burned in the grate before he opened himself to the raw energy carried in the ring of Air. For a moment all he could hear was the roar of a gale in his ears, then slowly, it slackened, to the low whisper of the breeze around the branches of trees in winter. The muted rustle teased him with indecipherable words, like the whisper of Eru's music in the wind.
But as he listened, he could gradually make out a voice. Reaching again to touch with his mind earth, water and fire, Elrond let the magic of the Air surround him.
The voice that spoke was low, becoming stronger, becoming recognisable.
Bleak is this Age that has fallen upon the land, like a starless nightfall in winter. Galadriel said, And we wander lost in the shadows seeking lights that have faded from this world; are we then to fade, Elrond? We of the First Born, before our task is done?
The question bypassed him in the shock that jarred through him like the collision of two swords. How in the name of the Lady...?
...did I come to speak thusly with you? Galadriel finished. Beware your thoughts here, lord Elrond, for I hear your mind and not your voice. Celebrimbor told me of this detail when Nenya was first given to me; yet before now it has not been safe to use it.
Since Celebrimbor had passed the remaining two elven rings to Gil-galad, who was not known to possess the crafts the elven witch who was Lorien's lady commanded, it was little wonder that Elrond knew nothing of this. Scanning the swirling white mists that filled his vision, Elrond focused upon the silver-white glow emanating from somewhere in their depths and felt, as though he stood beside her, the presence of Galadriel. He had not become guardian of Vilya in Gil-galad's place merely by default of his position in the court.
Have you dispensed with letters entirely?
Since you seem little inclined to respond to them, and my need was great.
Perhaps, Elrond suggested. Your emissaries should be more adequately provided with the means to form a coherent discussion; I would not turn away a messenger, and your letters have not been ignored.
Surprise flickered through Galadriel. My messenger? Her thoughts distorted briefly and he could not discern them. I see. Then the purpose of my contact has reached you. Elrond, listen to me...
He had watched then as the race of the Elves had ended, passing into the West or fading in the forgotten kingdoms. Before the passage of a millenium, the Elves were but a fable in the realms of men. Together we may stand against the might of Sauron; alone he will destroy us one by one. The high king's remembered voice echoed through the mind-to-mind connection. All that was left when Galadriel finally broke the connection, was the knowledge of how two ancient lines could unite to bring about the security of Middle-earth.
Strong hands caressed his back the sheets slid with a whisper of silk as he lifted his legs, and was subsumed in the rising beat of his heart, the warmth of quickening breath, of skin sliding against skin, the building of delicious, anticipatory friction. At the moment of unity he awoke.
The light breeze ghosting through the chamber made the drapes on the window blink in the early morning light. Jerked into the present, Elrond stared up at the crimson canopy of his four-poster bed. The sunlight danced over the flagstones, and outside the morning chorus lifted harmonic avarian voices to sing in the day. Imladris itself had awakened before him in the usual flurry of haste that preceded any great occasion. The scuttling steps of servants sounded along the corridors inside and out; the housekeeper's clear tones organised the early hours and servants to her will. The emptiness in the room was his master. The door to the outer world was over four yards away; the canopy was closer. If he closed his eyes he could see the night sky still stretching into accessible infinity, illuminated by the inviting glow of the stars...
But they were too bright. Elrond forced his eyes open, banishing the spectres of the past to the night. This, he reflected tiredly, was supposed to be a day of the future, the uniting of two great lines of the elves in one house. This was supposed to be his wedding day. He pulled back the bedcovers, sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. It was easier once the cold flags were beneath his feet and he was actually moving. He glanced out at the window as he wrapped a robe around himself. The sun's head was higher over the horizon than he had meant it to be. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to erase the lingering images of his dream, and crossed to the door.
He opened it just as a hand rose to knock upon it and found himself staring into the fist of Glorfindel.
"Morning," Elrond remarked drily.
Glorfindel lowered his hand. The seneschal was already attired: brushed velvet robes became his person, the soft, rich greens of the forest accentuating the thick golden hair tidied into formal braids at the crown, falling loose over his shoulders beneath. His boots, which he buffed casually along the back of his breeches as he stood, shone beneath.
"Good morning," he seconded, his sharp blue eyes taking careful stock of his tardy lord.
Elrond forestalled him with a slight smile, his own gaze shifting to the silver-grey robes draped upon dark-haired Erestor, standing a little behind Glorfindel.
"You both do me great honour," Elrond said quietly, impressed at the transformations.
Erestor gave a single nod, but Glorfindel smiled, steering Elrond back inside his chamber.
"We are but pale reflections of your magnificence, my lord," he teased, gesturing to Elrond's sleep-tousled hair and crumpled dressing robe. Releasing him, Glorfindel turned a circle with a flourish. "So, we shall not disgrace you then?"
"You know perfectly well that you do not," Elrond reproached, chuckling a little as he watched the body servants filter into the room.
"He knows you know, and he knows you know he knows you know," Erestor remarked, crossing the room to lay out the folded finery he carried upon the dressing racks. "He is fishing for compliments, as usual."
"Had I but one from you, I would stop seeking," Glorfindel sparred, flashing Erestor a wide-eyed look of hope.
"I will not be party to the unnecessary flattery of you and your overdeveloped sense of self-worth," Erestor retorted.
Glorfindel laughed aloud and caught the words from the air as if they were a blown kiss. "But one barb from you is worth two honeyed words," he teased.
Erestor snorted.
"I see I shall have to work on my compliments," Elrond observed, smiling as the tendrils of affection reached out from his counsellors and drew him back from his estrangement.
"Come, come, my lord," Aradan, the head body servant interrupted gruffly, "Is this to be your wedding garb?"
Elrond submitted to the removal of his robe, while Glorfindel strolled over to lounge on the window seat; Erestor remained standing alongside Elrond's costume, supervising both the proceedings and the seneschal with a hawk-like eye.
Elrond's own gaze drifted past both and out over the open valley beyond. The trees were bright with the green of flourishing spring, and the bushes stood tall again. The valley floor was arrayed with fragile flowers and tiny plants that gathered along the edges of the paths, and lifted inquisitive heads across the gardens, now restored to their former glory. It was as if the encampments of the great kings of Numenor, Lorien, and Lindon had never been there at all.
"Elrond."
He realised with a start that Glorfindel stood before him. The seneschal's tone implied he had missed several preceding "my lords?" Erestor's gaze was heavy upon his shoulders and even the body servants had paused. Elrond blinked and focused upon his seneschal.
"Yes, Glorfindel?"
He caught sight of Erestor's sharp gesture for the body servants to continue and watched as they poured away the scented water - when had they washed his body clean of the night? Glorfindel's eyes lingered on him and he squeezed Elrond's shoulder before he stepped back.
"Did you dream last night, my lord?" he asked, watching too closely for the casualness of his tone.
"No," Elrond replied. "No dreams, Glorfindel. I find they come less often of late."
Glorfindel's relief was open in his smile. "Good," he said warmly, and his hand gripped Elrond's shoulder again. "Good."
Elrond forced a smile and reached up absently to grip Glorfindel's hand. The Elda's fingers cradled his for a beat, before he was hustled aside by Aradan.
Erestor approached, running a critical eye over his lord, decked now in thick satin robes that shimmered along the colour between white and silver, trimmed in fine mithril thread.
"You look well, my lord," he said with solemn pride.
Glorfindel's eyebrows flew up at the remark. "You do indeed," he approved, watching as the last touches were put to the braiding on Elrond's hair. "You should marry more often – perhaps it would teach Erestor a new language: one of compliment not insult!"
Erestor rolled his eyes and passed Elrond his diadem. Elrond accepted it and set the circlet carefully atop his head. Aradan tweaked a few stray hairs straight before the body servants yielded to Elrond's quiet thanks and dismissal.
"Well, my lord," Glorfindel said, turning to face Elrond squarely. "Are you ready?"
Elrond drew in a long breath, wondering if anyone could ever truly be prepared for marriage. He banished that thought with the practice the last century had driven upon him. He was ready to face the day; the rest he could not allow himself to think about. He nodded. The two councillors stepped aside and Elrond led the way out of the chamber.
He fixed a smile to his face as they walked through the corridors, tempering his expression to a mask of collected pleasure. The detachment he had felt on awakening was unfolding within him once again; but the emptiness was his to bear, not for others to suffer. Had he looked in a glass the falsity of his look would have appalled him, but he could wear it and if he had to meet no one's eye it would serve its purpose. Servants passed him with smiles or compliments, deceived. But one of the Lorien ladies, whom Elrond recognised as Minuial, the daughter of Amroth's chief advisor, skittered past to her lady's chamber, darting him a look equal parts admiration and distrust. Elrond, startled from his interior isolation by the unexpected, raised his eyebrows. Glorfindel chuckled.
"No sword uncovered means one is clothed," he observed, gesturing to Elrond's empty belt. "To lop the heads from maidens."
"One. One maiden, Glorfindel; you have too many plurals," Elrond corrected, smiling in spite, or perhaps because of the coil of tension reawakening had snaked into his core. "And that was crude."
Glorfindel laughed, unashamed. "At least you don't have the same wedding night worries that Celebrían is facing."
Elrond stopped walking. "And whatever makes you think that?" he asked, stepping forward again when he felt Glorfindel had sufficient chance to blink at his astonished expression.
"My lord," Glorfindel reminded him with affected patience, "You can hardly say that you sail into unchartered waters – your bed was not an empty place this last Age."
"By that metaphor, Glorfindel, it is somewhat like saying because you have sailed once into the West, with the same map you may navigate East."
Glorfindel's brows drew into a frown and then he chuckled. "By the stars, I'd not thought of it like that."
"Clearly," Elrond muttered, giving him a quick glare as the Elda struggled not to laugh.
"Well, you know the theory if not the geography," Glorfindel consoled him. "Or if you prefer, I can draw you a diagram."
Elrond thinned his lips and rolled his eyes at the snickering Elda. "I think the theory will prove quite adequate, thank you," he retorted with a wry twist of his lips.
"Fortunate," Erestor observed dryly. "Any map of Glorfindel's would surely lead you astray."
The Elda clutched one had dramatically to his chest. "Cruelty thy name is Erestor!" he protested. "And what guidance, my celibate insulter, could you offer our friend in need?"
"The advice not to take yours," Erestor quipped instantly.
"Oh quiet, both you!" Elrond said, laughing at last. "You bicker more than the serving maids."
"Ah, but our wit is infinitely finer," Glorfindel assured him.
"I can't imagine how you would know," Erestor acerbically noted. "Your 'conversations' with them rarely examine what philosophical jewels they can offer."
"Sarcasm," Elrond interjected, before Glorfindel could launch into his philosophy about the philosophical benefits of carnal indulgence, and raised his voice a fraction, "Is not wit but idleness of thought..."
"And deed," Erestor said, catching on as they reached the door to the servants' quarters. The harassed looking housekeeper hastened to stand before her lord.
"Come friend," Erestor added, with a dubious glance at Glorfindel.
"To war," Glorfindel jested, casting a last look at Elrond. "And conquest," he added playfully. "Of lands not-quite-unknown."
Erestor's eyes met Elrond's, and his expression hardened into its usual lines of severity. "What knowledge of that you do have," the advisor unnecessarily reminded him, "You would do well to keep a secret."
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