With the embassies to Mirkwood sent, in regards to that matter there was little to do but wait for a reply. Celebrían was not too dismayed, for there was still numerous duties that had to be attended to in the course of day and night. Her ladies had completed the tapestry that had been woven in honour of her marriage to Elrond and she was overseeing its suspension in the Hall of Fire when Elrond came to join her. He was dressed informally, in tawny coloured breeches tucked into boots the same shade as his russet tunic. The tunic itself bore a pattern of vines and leaves imprinted upon it in thread of the same colour but a satin stitch onto silk; the effect made the pattern shimmer when it caught the light. His undershirt was a light gold, matching the tiny metal cylinders that secured the end of his braids. Most of his hair was loose, save two looped strands either side of his temples and the upper layer held back in a simple clasp she herself had made for him, encouraged by the metal smiths who had taught her. The clasp was ever so slightly lopsided, having refused to solder properly, but the overall shape was an accurate golden silhouette of the valley, the details etched upon it.
Elrond stepped up beside her and tilted his head to examine the tapestry critically. "It's beautiful," he said after a moment. He turned to the head weaver and smiled at her. "You have done fine work, Celebriniel, my compliments."
Celebrían slipped her hand into his and Elrond turned to look at her.
"Isn't it?" he added, with a smile this time for her.
She nodded, still left slightly awed by the magnificence array of detail and colour woven into the piece, following the progression of events from betrothal to marriage, ending in the exchange of a kiss upon the front steps of Imladris bound together for eternity.
"Come," Elrond said after a moment, "I have something to show you."
Celebrían accompanied him willingly along the walkways that traversed the Hall of Fire, pausing only when one of the servants who had been hanging the tapestry hurried up to Elrond.
"My lord," he said, with a bow of apology. "We have been rearranging the portraits and tapestries in order to make space to record the ending of the previous Age and the beginning of this new Age. Lord Glorfindel has, I believe at your request, commissioned several of the landscape artists to recreate the scenes from the Last Alliance as you yourself recorded them at the termination of the year thirty-four fourty-one; however, it appears that there are no portraits of the high king Gil-galad. I was informed that Cirdan had collected the pictures from the galleries of Lindon, and that he is holding several in storage for you, including one of the few it is said that the king sat for. My lord, will you have me send for them?"
The other elf trailed off, and Celebrian glanced up at Elrond to find him staring at his servant, his eyes as hard as steel. But he only shook his head. "No, Baran," he said very quietly. "I will not have you send for them."
He held the surprised commissioner's gaze long enough to solemnify his words and then continued on his way. Celebrían stood for a moment, exchanging a perplexed look with Baran.
"My lord!" the commissioner began, taking a step after him.
Elrond paused. "I said no, Baran," he repeated mildly and then looked toward Celebrian. "Are you not coming, my lady?"
Closing her mouth, Celebrían hastened after her husband, clasping his hand when he offered it. As they stepped out into the midday sunshine, she ventured, "My lord, why will you not send for the portraits?"
Elrond's slight smile for the bright sunlight slipped from his face, and for a moment she thought he would not answer. "Because," he said, "I don't wish to."
He glanced at her, and sighed so heavily that she wished she had concealed the confused curiosity on her face. He continued slowly, reluctantly. "Too many of those pictures were not sat for and are painted in the likeness of the king as the individual painter wished him to appear, as was commissioned, appropriate to time and to place. They hold nothing of him within them and I will not dishonour his memory with false representations."
"Surely it is more a dishonour to erase his face from history, to refuse acknowledgement of him at all?" she said, still further perplexed.
Elrond's jaw tightened. "I will never forget him, Celebrían," he said, with unusual force.
He walked abruptly forward, so fast that she had to jog a few steps to catch up with him. She fell into rapid step with him, her mind reeling with the recollections of high king and herald laughing together beneath the trees of Lorien; that any could forget such a friendship seemed impossible, least of all one of the primary participants. Yet Elrond seemed to find that preferable. Thinking of her father's prolongued silences in the wake of the war and his will to forget what could not without pain be thought upon, she searched for a conversation to bring Elrond back to himself.
"My lord, where are we going?"
"Oh," Elrond glanced at her, almost as if he had forgotten she was there and gave his head a shake. "Celebrian, I'm sorry. One of the traders from Lothlorien arrived today with seven riding horses from King Amdir, in exchange for five of our chargers, and a gift from your father." He slipped a hand into his pocket and passed her a letter. It was addressed to Elrond, but he gestured to a passage that she read as she walked, relieved that Elrond slowed his step to remain with her.
My friend, I send along with the Lothlorien riding horses one more, as a gift to my daughter. I hope that you will not consider this an insult, that a father should make such a gift when it is generally considered one appropriate for a husband to give his wife. I know that your stables are somewhat lacking in riding mounts for both ladies and gentlemen and, although with the new bloodlines the king has provided you will in time be able to rectify that, I could not allow this young mare to be left behind. She is but four summers old and stands at just the height for Celebrían, and the sweetness of her disposition is an equal match I think for my beloved child's. Elrond, forgive me if I have offended you in any way; it was not my intention and I feel sure that you understand this. If you would do me the honour, please present to Celebrían this young mare, Celebrindal, with all her father's love.
The rest of the passages were related to Elrond alone, discussions between her husband and father that were clearly from past years of friendship so she returned the letter to him, unable to conceal the smile at the jump of delight in her heart. Elrond's smile mirrored hers.
"I thought I should come and find you at once," he said, taking her hand again. "Though I had intended to introduce you to the newest arrivals in any case. I had thought to do it this evening, but it does no good to keep a lady waiting." He grinned. "You must guess which one your father's present to you, though."
"You aren't offended, are you?" she asked, a little worried.
"No, not at all." Elrond shook his head. "I had hesitated to find you a horse for your own because you had expressed no preference for any of those you had ridden, and I did not want to presume I knew what suited you best. Your father knows your taste better than I, though I had meant to speak with you soon to establish if you wanted any of the horses here. You may still have one, if you wish," he added, smiling at her. "There is no law that says a lady is restricted to one mount!"
"Not of the equine persuasion anyway," Celebrían teased.
Elrond's eyebrows lifted in his now familiar expression of amused surprise and he spun her around into his arms for a kiss. She came up breathless and laughing. "I am yours, I am yours," she protested, kissing his lips more lightly.
"You are a mischief," Elrond returned, his eyes sparkling like the sun on the Bruinen.
"Your mischief," she murmured, leaning against him and smiling as he held her close. She did not see the frown flit across his face or the way his eyes lingered unhappily on the possessive circlet encompassing his finger where it laid across her back. She felt his chest rise and fall in a sigh though, and lifted her head.
"Elrond?"
He looked up. "Hmm? Oh, I was just thinking...of my brother," he answered her questioning look quickly. "That was his line when we were elflings. If we disagreed, I would walk away and sit for hours – sulking –" he admitted with a slight grin. "While he would storm around in a temper until he finally stalked over to me and we decided we'd had enough with being angry with each other. I called him 'mischief' once and it became his default line, which now I come to think of it," he added with a frown, "Used to get him out of apologising. He had a rather possessive streak, and about the only way of appeasing me was to invert that. I hated it." He chuckled softly at himself.
Celebrían giggled. "You were twins, weren't you? What was your line?"
"I used to apologise!" Elrond replied, shaking his head. He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Terrible habit."
She laughed, opening the door to the great open-air stable block and stepping inside onto the walkway between the long rows of loose-boxes.
The eight horses from Lothlorien were in the quarrantine stables at the far end of the passage. Four greys, two bays, a dun and a chestnut peered over their loose-box doors as the lord and lady approached. Elrond held out his hands to them, murmuring softly in Quenya as their breath gusted over his palms, and then reached up to scratch the chestnut under his mane. Celebrían rubbed the nose of the dun horse, and then turned in surprise when a silvery muzzle sneaked out of the next door box to lip at her hair. Extracting her stolen braid, she breathed into the nostrils of the grey, who blew back gently and brushed velvet soft lips over her nose. Laughing at the tickle, Celebrían ran her eye over the young animal, who stood at about sixteen hands in height. The horse's coat was a rich dappled grey, silver dapples on the pale coat glimmered when the horse moved, a long tail the colour of mithril flitching across muscled flanks as the horse shifted. Celebrían stroked the wide forehead beneath the silky forelock and the horse rested its soft nose on her shoulder. Celebrían leaned her cheek against the horse's jaw, and glanced over her shoulder at Elrond, who was already smiling.
"I think perhaps I have found my father's gift," she said, kissing the mare's nose.
Elrond nodded, and moved to pat the mare's neck. "I think she found you," he said wryly. "Traitor, horse, you were supposed to make her guess."
The mare blew at him and nibbled at his collar innocently. Elrond just shook his head at her and yielded to the hopeful nudges of the bay, reaching into his pocket to extract a few pieces of apple.
"You'll spoil them!" Celebrían chided him, laughing as the remaining horses leaned eagerly over their half doors.
Elrond lifted one shoulder in a shrug and smiled guiltily. "Not this once, I won't. Just don't tell the grooms."
Holding out her hand for a piece of apple to give Celebrindal, Celebrían pressed a finger over her lips in complicity.
At that moment the main doors flew open again. Celebrindal threw up her head and backed away, several of the horses shying as a page rushed through.
"Steady, steady," Elrond called to boy and horses alike. "Taron, whatever is the rush? You know better than to run around the animals."
"The lords Glorfindel and Aranel bid you come at once, my lord," Taron gasped out. "They said to tell you that Tarador is..." His face paled and he almost whispered the next word, "Fading..."
Elrond's countance froze and he nodded once, turning away from the horses instantly. "Go," he said. "Tell them I come at once." He grasped the back of Taron's collar to stop him from going back through the aisles of resident horses. "*Not* that way – quarrantine – use the back way."
Taron fled instantly. Elrond followed, turning at the door. "Come with me, Celebrían," he called, and ran for the house.
Celebrían stared after him, a cold sickness starting in the pit of her stomach. Fading. The word was whispered among their kind, the fate of those whose spirit could not bear the pain inflicted on it by the death of one close to them, or the weariness of the world. The sundering of body and soul. Death. She shivered at the very thought, unwilling to follow as Elrond had bade her. As far as she knew it could not be prevented, and the thought of seeing it made her blood run colder than the Bruinen in winter. She noticed the coolness of the air against her face, the warm breath of the horses, and the musical bubbling of the rivers seemed suddenly louder. The wind haunted the branches of the trees, and they whispered fearfully together.
Celebrindal's nose nudged her in the back. Suddenly ashamed of herself, Celebrían left the barn and began to run toward the house. She did not know what she could do, but she knew she couldn't do nothing.
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