ELANOR'S REVENGE

Chapter Thirty-Two

Dreams tormented Elanor’s sleep--dreams of falling, dreams of endless darkness, dreams of Haldir’s hand floating just beyond reach. Scattered between these was the memory of his face at the moment he’d seen her with Lurien. And then her dreams would turn dark, replete with images of Haldir’s face filled with disdain and contempt for her betrayal. With the force of a white hot iron, that instant of shock and fury had branded itself into her brain, stabbing at her heart, haunting her and causing unbearable pain.

Between these dreams there were moments when she felt awake and saw him near her, holding her hand or leaning down to kiss her cheek. In these moments she tried to tell him that she had not betrayed him, but somehow her mouth was never able to form the words; speaking was difficult and she was so very tired. And she never really knew if his being there was only just another dream.

Then came the moment, finally, when she opened her eyes and saw the bright light of morning filtering through the nearby window. She blinked and lay unmoving, trying to take it in that her surroundings were real, and that she was really awake and alive. Her memories were vague, like a series of disconnected images from some long ago dream. Lurien . . . the fight . . . falling . . .

“Do not try to speak,” directed a familiar, authoritative voice. “Drink this first.” A cup touched her lips, and when a few drops flowed into her mouth, Elanor recognized it as the same healing draught she had given to Haldir not so long ago. She lifted her gaze, and saw Haldir’s unsmiling eyes locked with hers.

All at once her memories were sharp and crystal clear. “Haldir, I did not . . .” Her voice cracked, and she stopped and swallowed in an effort to sound more normal.

“Hush, Elanor, this can wait.” His face was calm and his eyes gentle, showing no signs of the anger he must be feeling.

“No . . . must tell you,” she insisted. “Important.” A tiny sob rose in her throat, and she felt his fingers press into her hand.

“What is it?” he asked her gently.

“Lurien,” she whispered. “I did not . . . invite him. He just walked in and I was already . . . I told him to leave, but he did not . . .” Her voice quavered with distress. “I love *you*, Haldir, and I would never, ever . . .” Emotion broke her voice, choking off the rest of what she wished to say.

Haldir tightened his grip on her fingers. “Rest easy, Elanor. I am aware that it was not by your choice that he was there. I do not blame you.” His voice was quiet, devoid of inflections that might have told her what his true thoughts were.

“I saw . . . your face,” she said desolately. “You *did* think it, I know you did, and I am so very s-sorry . . . I never meant . . . ”

Haldir leaned closer, his gray eyes holding hers almost forcefully. “Elanor, hearken to me. I admit it was a shock, but it took me no more than an instant to understand.” Husky emotion crept into his voice. “My love, it is I who should beg *your* forgiveness. I should never have--” He broke off abruptly as someone entered the talan. “She is awake.” His voice had returned to a more neutral tone.

Elanor turned her head and saw Healea moving to stand beside the bed opposite Haldir. “How do you feel, Elanor?” Healea asked solicitously.

Elanor’s vision swam, her head throbbed, and her chest felt like she has been thrown from a racing horse onto a mass of sharp rocks, but all she said was, “Thirsty. And . . . I hurt.”

Healea nodded. “That is to be expected. You fell, and your shoulder was injured. So were your ribs.” Her blue eyes moved to Haldir, then returned to Elanor’s face. “Drink more of the healing draught, my friend. It will soothe your pain and help you sleep. But first . . .” Healea moved to the foot of the bed and lifted the blankets that covered Elanor’s feet. “Can you move your toes?”

Elanor obligingly wiggled her toes.

“Very good.” Relief tinged Healea’s voice, and Elanor noticed the look Cothion’s wife exchanged with Haldir. It dawned on her at that moment that they had both been quite worried, but before she could consider the implications, Healea tucked the blanket back around her feet, and Haldir again held the cup to her lips.

His velvet voice instructed Elanor to drink as much as she could, and when she did, she could feel herself falling . . . softly this time, floating lightly into a sheltered place where he could not follow, a place where the soothing darkness cradled her in a way that helped her find peace. It was safe to let go. Haldir was safe, he was not angry with her, and she could rest.

~*~

Túre led Telrion along a path through the Golden Woods of Lórien, her fingers adoringly wrapped around his in a protective way that made him smile. Every so often he bent to kiss her, or nuzzle his lips against her neck or ear, savoring the sweet sounds of her laughter and contented sighs.

They had left the city the afternoon before, taken a picnic lunch and a blanket to a remote location near a peaceful, babbling stream. They had spent the entire night there, making love and whispering to each other, allowing their impassioned senses free rein to drink in the magic of each other and the surrounding forest.

Now they were headed back, and Telrion’s heart brimmed with happiness, for he was very much in love. It was a lengthy walk and thoroughly enjoyable, but by mid-morning they reached the gates of Caras Galadhon. Glowing with contentment, they strolled past the guards and continued along the path leading to the stairway that would take them to Túre’s talan. They had not gone far, however, when Minden stepped in front of them, accosting them with the words, “And where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Telrion gazed in surprise at his cousin, who stood a step above them on the curving staircase, and was about to make a flippant remark when he noticed the tension in Minden’s face. “Why?” he said sharply. “What has happened?”

“It is Elanor,” Minden replied.

As Minden described what had transpired during the hours they had been gone, Telrion heard Túre gasp and felt the color drain from his own face.

“These accursed Lórien elves!” he exploded, forgetting for the moment that he was in love with one of them. “I knew sending her away with Haldir was a mistake! And now look what he has done!” Anger thrummed in his blood, racing alongside his guilt for not having been here when it happened. If he had been, perchance he could have protected her. “Where is he?” he snapped out, dimly aware of Túre’s fingers tightening on his arm.

“The blame is not Haldir’s,” Minden said. “At least not entirely. From what I have been able to determine, it is the Sentinel, Lurien, who is most at fault. He planned it. He used our little Ellie as bait to draw the Marchwarden into a fight.”

“Then I will kill them both! Tear them limb to limb and feed them to the Orcs!”

“No,” Minden said emphatically. “You will do no such thing. Pick a fight, cousin, and you will only get us both thrown out of Lórien, or worse! Set aside your anger. Go and visit Elanor. I have heard she wakened briefly.”

“Have you seen her?” Túre put in softly.

Minden shook his head. “For a while during the night I stood near where she lay, but . . . I heard Haldir singing to her. I, too, was angry, but I could not go in. My anger has faded, as I hope yours will also. He cares for her, Tel, perhaps even more than we do.”

“Then he chooses a strange way to show it,” Telrion fired back. He glanced down at Túre, and saw such concern in her wide blue eyes that he softened at once, and tempered his voice. “Will you show me the way, my love?”

“Of course I will.” Túre looked at Minden. “She is in the main healing talan? The one where they took Haldir?”

Minden nodded tiredly. “Shall I come too? Or would you rather go without me?”

Telrion saw the strain and worry in his cousin’s face, and knew that Minden hurt as much as he did. “Come with us, Min. You love Ellie just as I do. We three will go together.”

It did not take them long to reach the talan where Elanor lay. Still angry, Telrion entered first, stalking boldly through the doorway without so much as a courtesy knock. Inside, he found Haldir, but also the two Lórien healers whom Telrion had come to recognize, as well as the cold and beautiful Healea. The healers were examining Elanor, and although Haldir moved quickly to intercept him and block his view, he was not quite quick enough to prevent Telrion from seeing far more of Elanor than he wished.

“I will speak to you outside,” Haldir informed him frostily.

Regretting his brash entrance, Telrion nodded and retreated back to where Túre and Minden waited. Even so, Telrion made no apology when he addressed the silver-haired Lórien elf. “How badly is she injured?” he demanded without preamble.

Haldir’s gaze drilled into him. “That is difficult to say. She woke briefly this morning, and was given more of the healing draught. Now she sleeps.”

“Did she speak?” The question came from Minden.

Haldir shifted his gaze, observing Telrion’s cousin with the same lack of expression. “She spoke, yes. And she was able to move her toes, which means there is no question of paralysis. She will heal.”

Paralysis. The very word sent a fresh shot of fury through Telrion. “No thanks to you!” he burst out wrathfully. “You were supposed to be her guardian, her protector! Instead, you cause her injury! What have you to say for yourself, Marchwarden? How do you justify this?”

“I do not justify it,” Haldir said evenly. “I regret it very much.”

This failed to satisfy Telrion. “A fine guardian you are,” he scoffed. “She tells me she loves you, but clearly you do not deserve her. You Lórien elves are a bloodthirsty lot. Elanor would be far safer in Imladris, where things are civilized.”

“Elanor’s heart is in Lórien. It is her choice to stay.” Haldir paused for an instant. “And I am no longer her guardian.”

“Oh?” Telrion lifted a brow in unconscious imitation of Haldir himself.

Haldir stared back at him. “Galadriel is Elanor’s guardian until her year of service is finished.”

“A wise decision,” Telrion said icily, though he was faintly startled by the news. He was about to add something insulting to Haldir when he felt Túre touch his hand, which had the curious effect of making him bite back what he’d been about to say.

“Can you tell us what Elanor said when she awoke?” Túre asked rather timidly. “Was she is a great deal of pain?” Telrion realized with surprise that his love must be unused to addressing Haldir and indeed seemed a bit intimidated by the haughty Marchwarden.

“I am sorry, but her words were for my ears alone.” Haldir’s voice was courteous and gentler than when he had spoken to Telrion. “She had some anxiety that I was able to ease. Now, she sleeps peacefully.”

“I am glad,” Túre said simply.

“When may we see her?” Minden asked.

Haldir’s cool gaze rested on the other ellon. “When the healers are gone. You are free to wait, if you like.”

“We will do that,” Telrion grated.

~*~

When the healers finally left, Haldir accompanied Túre and the two Imladris Elves into the healing talan and left them with Healea, who remained at Elanor’s side. It was the first time he had left Elanor since the counsel meeting, but he thought it best to allow Elanor’s visitors a chance to see her without him being present. He would not leave her long, of course, but he welcomed the opportunity to stretch his legs while he continued to contemplate the relief and guilt mingling inside him. He hoped for solitude.

However, this was not to be, for he had just set foot upon the forest floor when he heard himself being hailed. Turning reluctantly, he found the sons of Elrond striding toward him, one slightly ahead of the other, yet moving in the same fluid rhythm and pace.

“Marchwarden,” repeated one of them. Haldir thought it was Elladan.

Haldir stood unmoving, waiting patiently but without much interest in what they had to say. They came to a halt in front of him, their handsome faces solemn.

“We come to offer our condolences,” Elrohir said seriously. “Elanor’s injury is most unfortunate, and it is obvious you suffer with her.”

Haldir bent his head and touched his heart in brief acknowledgement.

“We also bring a message,” Elladan added.

“What is it?”

“Our father desires to speak with you. He requests that you attend him in his talan.”

“At once?” Haldir lifted a brow.

Elladan smiled faintly. “At your convenience, of course.” He studied Haldir for a moment. “I witnessed the latter part of that fight,” he remarked. “If we are ever in battle together, I hope we fight on the same side.”

“Let us hope we are never in battle,” Haldir said, a bit shortly.

Elladan inclined his head while Elrohir tacked on, “Either I or my brother would be happy to spar with you if you’ve a mind for some exercise. We find you a worthy opponent.”

“I am honored,” Haldir said, with very slight irony, “but this is not the time for that. I will return to Elanor very soon.”

“I appreciate that, Marchwarden,” Elrohir said amiably. “But we are at your disposal if and when you change your mind.”

Haldir nodded and walked off, heading back up the long flight of steps to Elrond’s talan. Reaching it, he rapped lightly and was bidden to enter.

“Haldir,” Elrond said in greeting. He rose from his chair and nodded somberly in response to Haldir’s bow. Without asking, he walked to a nearby table and poured them each a glass of wine, then handed one of them to his guest.

Haldir accepted it without comment.

“I find there are one or two matters I wish to discuss with you. Concerning Elanor, that is.”

“What are they?” Haldir sipped his wine, his expression guarded.

Elrond returned to his chair and sat, gesturing with his hand to a second chair situated a short distance away. Haldir seated himself, inwardly braced for some kind of lecture or rebuke.

“Where Elanor is concerned, I am under a sense of obligation to her parents. I allowed her to travel here to Lothlórien without their knowledge, and her parents have taken the trouble to inform me that they were not pleased. Be that as it may, they accepted my claim that their daughter was safe and in good hands, and had been given a rare opportunity to learn and grow in a new environment, one that would be beneficial to her on many fronts. This, they accepted.”

Haldir contemplated the other elf, waiting calmly to see where this was going, although he suspected he knew.

“I am sure you will understand when I say I feel compelled to inform her parents of this mishap.” The words were spoken levelly, but with an underlying suggestion of apology.

“I understand,” Haldir agreed, steeling himself not to object. “It is their right to know.”

Elrond’s brows lifted. “What would you have me tell them?”

“Tell them the truth, my lord,” Haldir said. “Tell them I failed to protect her.” To his own ears, the words sounded hollow and flat.

“I do not care to phrase it just like that. You were defending her.” Elrond took a swallow of his wine and set it down on the table beside him. “I understand more than you think, Haldir. The Indwaedh’s power is strong, I know it well. You are a guardian by temperament and circumstance. And though I deprecate the use of unnecessary violence, I will tell you frankly that had I found Celebrían in such a situation, I would have done the same as you. Does that surprise you?”

Haldir considered his answer. “With equal frankness I will say that it does not, but it surprises me that you would tell me so.”

Elrond looked at him. “I sense how you suffer, how you blame yourself, but this does no good.” When Haldir made no reply, Elrond sighed and added, “I am sending my sons on to Thranduil’s land with correspondence on various matters. Lady Galadriel will be sending several Lórien elves with them as part of their guard. Has Elanor replied to the letters she received from her family? If so, I can send her reply along with my own correspondence.”

“To my knowledge she has not.”

“I see.” Elrond tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Very well, then, that is all. My sons leave tomorrow at first light. If you wish them to carry any messages, please be sure you let them know.”

~*~

Lurien paced back and forth in his talan, restlessness surging through him in waves of melancholy and despair. He needed to talk to someone, but not Tarwë. Not yet.

Never in his life had he felt as alone as he did at this moment. Foolishly, he had believed that if he took action, if he fought Haldir, all would resolve itself somehow and the terrible emotions that churned inside of him would somehow be appeased. Instead, he only felt worse. He had not known that it was even possible to feel like this, as though his very fëa was being consumed by something so monstrous, so terrible, that he would never escape.

He was no longer a Sentinel of Lórien. He had no task, no rank, no place.

Unable to bear another instant of solitude, he headed to the door and stepped outside, gazing around almost furtively to see if anyone lingered near. He saw no one, not even one of his sentinel friends. He felt abandoned. Slowly, almost jerkily, he began to walk, not knowing where he meant to go, only wanting to see others and know how they would react to him.

He paused on the first open flet he found, walking to the edge to peer downward. Below, he saw a group of ellyn gathered together on someone’s terrace. Their laughter floated upwards on the breeze to his ears. Were they talking about him?

He was no longer a Sentinel of Lórien.

He shoved the thought aside and continued walking, wandering along to see which elves would meet his eyes and which would turn away. A few looked at him and nodded, but others looked but did not nod. No one spoke to him, but no one turned away either. Perhaps they did not see him. The morbid thought came to him that he was already dead, and he glanced down quickly to assure himself he had not faded.

Eventually he found himself on the steps leading to the healing talan where Elanor lay. As if in slow motion he walked toward them. He wanted to apologize to Elanor.

He reached the talan just as the door opened and the two Imladris elves stepped out, along with the elleth Túre. The two of them looked at him blankly, not knowing who he was of course. Lurien turned on his heel and walked away. Why should they know him? He was nothing to them, only another Lórien elf, one of many.

He was nothing to anyone any more.

~*~

Rúmil walked into the blacksmith's clearing, ducked under a low-hanging branch from which one of the smiths had hung several swords, and greeted several elves who were laboring intently on their work. One long trestle table held an array of weaponry and armor while a second displayed a collection of delicate jewelry, belt buckles and other small items. On the edge of the clearing, a large stone forge glowed red, roaring into flame whenever one of the smiths opened the door.

Rúmil grinned as the elf he was seeking lifted his head and caught sight of him, hailing him with a gesture to wait as he finished a bit of decorative enamel work on a silver cloak pin. Rúmil made his way to Thórion’s side, watching his friend as he skillfully completed the final detailing. Once done, he set the pin aside and turned to Rúmil.

“How can you tolerate this heat and noise?” Rúmil shouted, his sensitive ears ringing from the clangs of nearby hammers.

“Easily! I like it!” With a grin that lit his handsome face, Thórion caught hold of Rúmil's shoulder and guided him further from the sound.

Once they had reached a clearing some distance down the path, Rúmil turned and clasped his friend’s shoulders, shaking Thórion a bit. “Thórion, you scoundrel, why have you been hiding from me? I have not seen you in weeks!”

“Hiding? Ha!” Thórion laughed. "I will have you know I’ve attempted on quite a few occasions to locate and include you in one of our little gatherings. But you are never available. It seems the most eligible ellon in Lórien is too smitten by an elleth to spend time with his friends.”

Rúmil lifted a brow, attempting to look innocent. “Come now, I am often smitten by ellith. What can you mean?”

Thórion stepped back with a rueful shake of his head. “Not even a good try, Rúmil. How many weeks has it been since I heard you singing that bawdy song on one fair elleth’s roof? That I might have dismissed, but late report tells me you’ve been sighted holding hands with the very same elleth.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Your arm around a pretty waist is nothing new, but holding hands in public? Aye, my friend, you are smitten.” He clutched his heart, feigning a mortal wound, complete with horrid grimaces.

Rúmil rolled his eyes, his lips twitching at his friend’s antics. “Then I may as well make a clean breast of it. Aye, Thórion, I am indeed smitten in a way that I have never been before. And that is why I am here. I have need of your skills."

Thórion searched Rúmil’s face, then pulled off his leather apron and tossed it over a nearby branch. “If that is what I think it means, then we need something to drink. Come, follow me. We need a quiet place where we can sit.”

Rúmil followed Thórion along the path leading to the clearing where refreshments for the smiths were kept on hand beneath a small, colorful awning. Rúmil swung a leg over one of the benches while Thórion poured wine and pulled cheese and bread from a cloth-covered basket, setting them on a plate. He handed Rúmil a wine goblet and sat, placing the plate on the bench between them.

“So what is it that you would have me make for you?” Thórion asked.

Rúmil sipped his wine and helped himself to half the cheese. “Well now, let me explain. I admire your skill tremendously, but . . . I wish to craft this item with my own hands. I am hoping you will teach me how.”

Eyes twinkling, Thórion swallowed wine and set the goblet aside. “As if I could say ‘no’ to you. What do you wish to make?”

“A silver ring.”

Clearly surprised, Thórion peered at him intently. “A silver ring?” he repeated. “Do you mean a betrothal ring?”

“Exactly.” With a nonchalant air, Rúmil withdrew a rolled piece of parchment from his belt. “Take a look at these sketches. What do you think?”

Thórion stared at Rúmil, then turned his gaze to Rúmil’s handiwork, studying the drawings closely while rubbing his lips with his fingers. “And I thought you favored the sword and bow,” he said after a short silence. “These are exquisite. You waste your talents fighting Orcs."

“Ah, but I like fighting Orcs," Rúmil said, smiling lazily. “Far better than I like the noise and fires of a smithy. Still, I am smitten as you say, and aspire to make a ring for my lady love. Will you teach me?”

Thórion threw back his head and laughed. "Sure enough, I will. But first, explain one thing to me. Since when has Rúmil, fierce warden of Lothlórien and lover of so many ellith, fallen so far as to limit himself to only one maiden?

Rúmil sighed. “Come now, you are married, so I know you know of what I speak. Truly, I have never felt so happy as I do right now. But please, I beseech you, speak not of this to anyone. I wish the ring to be a surprise and would have none know of it."

Thórion nodded thoughtfully. “As you wish, my friend. We will do this together.”

~*~

Tarwë sat on the little terrace of her talan with her hands clasped firmly in her lap, staring out at the leaves, absently breathing in the crisp mingled scents of mid-autumn. She had not rested during the seemingly endless night, nor had she heard from Lurien throughout this long, bleak day. What he was doing, or thinking, or feeling, she had no idea and could not fathom. All she knew was that he was no longer a Sentinel of Lórien. Stripped of his rank, his sword withheld from him, he now had no place or position. How that must hurt him . . . and how very little she was able to care. He deserved it.

Did this mean that her heart had died? Was her love for him gone? And if so, was there any reason for her to remain in Lórien? Where would she go if she left? She felt no call from the sea, no urge to sail away into the West. This was her home, and yet she felt homeless, without place, locked in silent battle with something deep within herself.

She could no longer cry, that was the problem. She was absolutely and totally dead to all feeling. Yet beneath the numbness, rivulets of despair still trickled like water threading its way through rock, surprising her every so often with an unexpected painful nudge. And she knew she had a decision to make, one that would impact the rest of her eternal life.

It was at this precise moment that she heard the telltale click of her talan door opening. Her senses leaped in the old familiar pattern, telling her exactly who it was. She felt rather than heard him cross the floor, and then the terrace door swung wide, and there he was, a tall and lonely looking figure in the rapidly growing dusk.

“Tarwë,” he breathed, so softly she could barely hear.

She lifted her head. He looked the same and yet different, for his blue eyes held a haunted look that had never been there before, as though he had gained vast knowledge he had previously lacked. Too late, she thought. Too late.

“Hello, Lurien,” she said indifferently. At least it felt like indifference.

With his usual grace, he crossed the short distance between them and stood looking down at her. “May I sit?” The question actually sounded humble.

Tarwë lifted a shoulder. “If you like.”

He filled the empty place beside her on the bench, but did not look at her or move too close. “I suppose you heard,” he said finally, breaking the thick silence.

Tarwë inclined her head, her gaze on her still hands lying folded in her lap.

She felt him glance her way. “Do you have any suggestions?”

The words echoed in her brain, reverberating off every memory she had of the many times she had given him advice. Without thinking, she surged to her feet and struck him as hard as she could across the face.

He flinched, but said nothing. His blue eyes stayed steady on hers.

Breathing hard, Tarwë stared at the red welt upon his cheek, and then lifted her hand and struck him again. He allowed it. The third time he caught hold of her wrist. “If this does us any good, I am willing to let it continue,” he said quietly, “but I do not see the good in it.”

“I am angry, Lurien,” she said tautly, with a shocking thread of viciousness. “And it feels good.”

He released her wrist. “I imagine it does. Go ahead then. Strike me as much as you please until you tire of it. Then we will talk.”

Appalled at herself, Tarwë thrust her hands behind her back and shook her head. “I am finished, Lurien. Finished with you. I do not wish to talk.” But at least she could feel again, she almost added.

He gazed at her with deep and obvious pain. “No. No, I love you, we must talk. You are all I have left.”

“Then you have nothing,” she said flatly. “You do not have me. You have lost me, Lurien. Lost me because of your foolishness. Did I not tell you to let it all go? Did I not . . . ” Her voice fluctuated, caught in an unexpected snare of emotion. “How *could* you?” she said, almost inaudibly. “How could you risk my love for this?”

“I readily admit I was a fool. But you have always loved me, Tarwë, and I still love you. I know you are angry, but our love can survive this.”

“You are so sure,” she said bitterly. “But I am not.”

“You cannot forgive me?” He wore the strangest expression on his face, as though he had never seen her before, and could not quite believe that she was real.

“I do not know.” Her voice was even. “I need time to answer that.”

He bowed his head. A long silence ensued before he spoke again. “Will you let me stay with you tonight?” he asked in a quiet voice.

She turned her head to look at him, wondering if he had lost his mind. “You can stay out here on the terrace,” she said coldly. “You may not touch me, Lurien. Not tonight, nor for a long time to come. Perhaps never. You have much to rebuild. You have destroyed nearly everything.”

“Tarwë,” he breathed. He looked stricken, but to her surprise he did not argue.

She rose, gazing down at him with churning emotions. He looked the same as always, smolderingly handsome and perfect, but at the same time there was a shadowed, gaunt look about his cheeks. Could she truly leave him? She did not know.

Time would tell.

~*~

Lurien left Tarwë’s talan with her words echoing in his ears. If anything, his torture had increased, but he was glad she had struck him. He knew she had needed to, and he wished to give her what she needed.

He stood in the dark for a few moments, debating his next move, when he heard a voice call to him. In his head.

“My lady,” he whispered.

She spoke again, a gentle and soothing ripple of emotion and thought that drew him down the steps, turn after turn, taking him closer to the ground, guiding him inexorably along the paths of Caras Galadhon toward the Lady’s garden. When was the last time he had spoken to her there? Many years had passed since then.

He came upon her in the glade that harbored her mirror, and for a moment and with some trepidation he wondered whether she meant for him to gaze into its waters. If given a choice, he would decline. To see his own future or past would be unbearable just now. Instead, he focused on her tall and regal form, so beautifully adorned in a crystalline white fabric that glimmered in the starlight, reflecting the mysteries of the distant skies. Her golden hair hung past her hips, rippling like a waterfall in the night, and even this was filled with light. In short, she was revealing herself to him in a way that she did not often do, allowing him to see the fullness of the light of the Two Trees that lingered on within her aura.

“My lady,” he murmured, awed in spite of himself, in spite of all the times he had seen her, or spoken to her. A long time ago he had sworn his fealty to her. He had sworn an oath to protect her, her city, and its inhabitants, and the realization of how he had failed swept over him anew. He hung his head in shame.

She came to him then, and he felt her fingers lift his chin. “Lurien,” she said, far more gently than she had in court, “you suffer so. I have asked myself why, but I have found no answer. It is as though throughout your life you have carried a sword whose only purpose is to turn its blade against yourself. You harm yourself by harming others, and by feeding the part of you that serves you ill.”

He curled his fingers into his palms, a deep part of him shaking with some unnamed emotion. “I did not intend to slay Haldir, my lady. I swear it.”

“I know it. That is why I still have hope for you.”

“I am dishonored.”

Her eyes held his, allowing him no respite. “You can regain that honor. In time, and with effort. All is not lost.”

“How, my lady?” he asked, hardly daring to hope.

“By heeding your heart. By rebuilding trust. By honest labor and endeavor, with humility and resolve. Many will watch your actions, Lurien, and we elves have long memories. I will be one of those watching. But I have hope for you. Your parents were good elves. I see their light shining in your eyes. There is no evil in you.”

He bowed his head, feeling her gaze still on him. He could think of nothing to say, but she did not seem to require him to speak.

“Remember my words,” she added softly, “and take them into your heart.” She left him standing in a pool of moonlight.

~*~

An intoxicating floral scent curled its way around Elanor’s dreams, filling them with vibrant color, luring her senses toward awakening in a manner far more pleasant than the first time she had done so. Awareness crept in gradually, but she did not at once open her eyes, for the lovely fragrance still lingered at the fringes of her reverie and she was loath to leave it behind. Dimly she recalled that she was injured, and that with full consciousness would come pain. Even now it was becoming noticeable.

At last she forced her eyelids open, and even then it took a moment to take in what she was seeing. Flowers filled the healing talan. Plants in baskets hung suspended from the ceiling, neatly attached to the long wooden rods that crisscrossed their way above her head, connecting the soft, fluttering white fabric of the roof. Haldir still sat beside her, and she wonderingly turned her head in his direction, her amazed gaze traveling around and behind him as she noted the many places the plants had been nestled, tucked away on tiny tables and odd little shelves that cascaded down the sides of the talan. So many varieties and mingled scents, all brought here for . . . her? And by whom? Startled, she looked back at Haldir, who sat watching her calmly.

“Who did this?” Her voice cracked, her mouth and throat dry with thirst.

Haldir reached for a cup. “Doria organized it,” he said, holding it to her lips. “Most of Lórien helped. Your love of flowers is well known. Drink, Elanor. “

Elanor took some of the draught, then looked around again as he set the cup aside. “So many,” she said in amazement. “And so beautiful. I cannot quite believe . . . my goodness, Hírion must have been displeased.”

“Indeed, he did mention rather loudly that they were very much in the way. However, he was told by several of your friends that you would benefit from flowers far more than from his presence. I am afraid he took some slight offense.” Haldir’s eyes glinted with amusement.

Absorbing this, Elanor looked around again and suddenly realized what she was seeing in a small clay pot on the table beside her. A single ninniach-loch plant bent toward her, its rainbow-tinted flowers spilling over the side and glowing with health.

“Haldir?” she whispered doubtfully. “How can this be?”

Haldir reached for her hand, rubbing his thumb across the backs of her fingers. “Galadriel’s work,” he replied. “Apparently the ninniach-loth took a liking to you. It has consented to visit as long as it is returned in due course to the glade where it belongs. It has taken a liking to our elanor plant also.” Indeed, next to the ninniach-loch sat the elanor plant from Haldir’s talan, and the two plants had intertwined their leaves as though they had formed some kind of bond.

Elanor moved her arm, thinking to reach out to touch the leaves, but was prevented by a sharp stab in her ribs. Haldir heard her gasp, and leaned closer. “Do not move, my love. You have much healing to do. I know how difficult it is, but you must do it.”

Elanor lay still, searching his face as she recalled his reassurances regarding Lurien. That, at least, had not been a dream. And as she looked into the gray depths of his eyes, she could read no censure in them, none at all. He truly did not blame her for what had happened. And yet he still did not know the whole truth.

“Haldir,” she said with difficulty. “I have something to confess.”

“What is it, Elanor?” His tone revealed no hint of concern.

“I fear I have done something dreadful,” she said feebly. Haldir said nothing, but his face remained composed. “It is about Lurien,” she said in a subdued voice. “I fear you will be very angry.”

“Elanor, you distress yourself without cause,” he said imperturbably. “Everything to do with Lurien is in the past.”

“You do not understand. He knows . . . what happened, back in my house in Imladris. He saw the letters from my family. I should have destroyed them, or hidden them in a better place.”

Haldir shook his head. “Elanor--”

“He guessed,” she cut in miserably. “I told him nothing, but he guessed, and my face gave it away. I am sorry, but I could not help it. He knows how shamefully I treated you. I was so horrified, I knew not what to say.”

“Elanor, whatever he knows, or thinks he knows, he will keep silent about it. He has already admitted to the council that he read your letters, and that he tried to blackmail you into leaving me. No more than that was revealed.”

Elanor stared at him, hardly able to believe. “He confessed? He said nothing at all . . . no hint of what I did to you?”

“No, Elanor,” Haldir said gently. “And if he had, it would not concern me.”

“Now, Haldir, you know that is not true. I am sure you would not want people to know that I had you tied to a bed unclothed.”

Haldir reached out to smooth his fingers through her hair where it lay on the pillow. The corners of his mouth twitched wryly. “You are right, I would not like it at all. But if the truth came out, I would survive. I would rather that, than have you leave me.” The last statement was spoken evenly, but with an undercurrent of emotion that spoke more loudly than words.

“Haldir, I will not leave you. I have told you this and it is true. I will stay with you as long as you wish, I swear it.”

“Elanor, I must tell you something. You are no longer my ward.”

“What?” Her heart skipped a beat. “Why? What has happened? Am I being sent away?” Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, unable to lift an arm to wipe them away before he could see.

“Galadriel is your guardian now.” His thumb touched the corner of her eye, stroking gently at the moisture.

“No,” she protested, her voice almost inaudible. She searched his face, dismay surging within her, unheralded and powerful.

“All is well,” Haldir soothed, stroking her cheek with his finger. “There is no cause to look like that. She will be kind to you.”

“But why?” she asked fretfully.

“It is my punishment, and I count myself fortunate it is so lenient. Lurien did not fare as well.” He paused. “He is no longer a sentinel of Lórien. They have taken his sword.”

Elanor was shocked. “What will become of him? What will he do?”

“I do not know, Elanor. That will be Lurien’s task to discover. My only concern is with you. I want you well again, healed completely, as I am.”

“Is that all you want?” she asked, a smile trembling on her lips.

He smiled faintly in return. “Indeed not. But it is a good place to start.” He reached again for the cup. “Drink a bit more. It will ease your pain.”

“At least the taste is not foul,” she remarked as he put the cup to her lips. She took another sip of the draught, and felt the warmth spread through her, alleviating a portion of her throbbing discomfort.

“Yes, I am kinder than you,” he agreed with a gleam. “Thus far.”

“Thus far?” she asked as he set the cup down. “Is that a subtle attempt to bully me?”

“I have no wish to bully you,” Haldir said mildly. “You are far too apt to come back at me in some unexpected way. Even so, I will take measures to ensure you do all that is necessary for you to heal.”

“Which means you will bully me,” she remarked, and closed her eyes with a sigh.

“I want you to heal,” he said. “I have plans for you.”

She reopened her eyes. “Plans? What kind of plans?”

He smiled enigmatically. “You will see.”

“Tell me now, Haldir.”

He shook his head.

“Haldir,” she pleaded.

“Elanor,” he replied in a stubborn voice.

Their eyes locked for a long moment and then he said, “I do not feel it is the appropriate time to ask you the question I wish to ask. When you are well, and no longer anyone’s ward, then I will say it. In a few weeks, your year of service will be finished. Then I will speak.”

Elanor sighed. “Very well then, I will wait. I know what you want to ask me anyway.”

He arched a brow. “Oh, you think so?”

“I do,” she said with a tiny smile.

“In that case you will have ample time to ponder your answer.” He tucked the blankets more firmly around her and rose to his feet. “Healea waits nearby. I promised I would fetch her when you woke.”

“I only want you,” Elanor murmured, “but do not tell her that.”

He stood still, gazing down at her, and then he bent and kissed her, his face close to hers. “If I had lost you,” he said huskily, “I do not know how I would have gone on. Can you ever forgive me for failing you?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered. “You did not fail me. You never have.” She smiled tremulously. “You have my love, Haldir. Never doubt that for a single moment.”

They gazed deeply into each other’s eyes, and then he kissed her tenderly on the lips. “You have my love also, Elanor. Now and forever.”

~*~

“Túre,” Telrion said quietly, after they had partaken of the evening meal together in her talan later that same day. “I have something to tell you.”

She snuggled closer to him on his lap, her elbow resting on his shoulder while her fingers played with his smooth, dark hair. “What is it?” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the curve of his ear.

“I must leave you tomorrow,” he said regretfully, “at first light.”

Her entire body went stiff in his arms.

“What? Why?” He saw the shock in her face, and wished he could have given her more advanced warning of his departure.

“Lord Elrond has asked Minden and me to accompany his sons on their journey to Taur-e-Ndaedelos, Thranduil’s realm,” he explained, in an easy voice intended to make it sound like a trivial expedition. “We go along as part of the guard.”

She gazed at him, her blue eyes filled with wretchedness. “You have no choice? No one else may go in your stead?”

He tucked a long strand of her hair behind her ear. “It is not a question of choice, my love. It is my duty to Lord Elrond. Minden and I are both skilled with sword and bow, and Lord Elrond’s sons are dear to him. Several Lórien elves go with us, and if they are willing to risk danger, then how could I refuse, even if I were given that alternative?”

“But what of Elanor?” she asked plaintively. “How can he ask you to leave when she lies injured and unconscious? Are the two of you not like brother and sister?”

“Elanor is well tended, by Haldir and others. With time she will heal.” Shoving aside his lingering anger at Haldir and the sentinel he had fought, Telrion drew Túre close to him. “You fear for me,” he said gently, “but I will come back to you, I swear it. We will return safely, all of us. The journey should not be overlong.”

“But it could be dangerous.”

“Every journey we make can be risky, I will not lie to you about that. We may also encounter danger when I take you back to Imladris. But we are all well trained and far more intelligent and skilled than the creatures we fight. I am strong and able, as are those who travel with us. I am not as eager to encounter the enemy as some of the others, but I am willing to face them if need be. I swear to you I will come back to you, my little love.”

A tear trickled from the corner of her eye. “I will hold you to that, Telrion. I cannot lose you. I could not bear it.”

“You will not lose me,” he soothed. “I am yours, and you are mine.”

“We have had so few days together,” she said with a watery smile.

“Thus far,” he admitted, capturing her hand and bringing it to his lips. “But countless days lie ahead of us, my love. Days that we will have together.”

She bowed her head. “I am sorry to be so cowardly. I will try to be strong. I will pray to the Valar for your safety.”

“You are strong,” he told her, rubbing his finger along the curve of her cheek. “You have always been strong. Do not doubt yourself so much.”

She lifted her chin. “I wish we had more time before you have to leave.”

“We have tonight,” he said comfortingly, and drew her closer still.

~*~

The rope was light, the wood was not, but Lurien carried it without complaint, climbing the many stairs high into the upper reaches of Caras Galadhon in as many trips as he had taken in a month, pressed into a few short hours. The daylight was nearly gone by the time he reached the last step with the last load and placed it with the others.

He surveyed the stacks of planks, wrought of birch and pine, enough for the structure he envisaged in his mind. Days had passed since his conversation with Galadriel, days in which he had despondently pondered her words and his future. He had been unable to speak to Elanor, although he’d heard she was healing, and he had not attempted to approach Haldir. He did not yet know what he would say to either of them. He only knew he had to accept responsibility for all that he had done, and been, and felt, and thought.

And last night, suddenly, an idea had come to him.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, he crouched on his toes, idly looping a strand of hithlain around his hands as the last rays of the sun reached out to caress his face. A deep ache welled in his heart, an anguish so great that he shuddered. So much he had lost--his place, his rank, his sense of belonging, the trust and respect of those around him . . . and perhaps even Tarwë’s love. Surprisingly, that cut the deepest.

Nevertheless, he had to go on, he had to find something to occupy his time and his mind . . . or the despair would eat him alive.

Years of attentiveness warned him that someone approached, but he did not bother to turn to look. He had passed many elves on his passage up and down the stairs, and although he’d received many curious looks, no one had asked him what he was doing or even greeted him. He did not expect to be addressed now, and was startled to hear a familiar voice.

“This appears to be a large project you are embarking on.” Lord Celeborn’s robes whispered behind him as he crossed the flet, his gaze scrutinizing the wood and rope before searching Lurien’s face for an explanation.

Lurien rose and bowed deeply. “I have much to atone for, my lord. I thought to begin by building something new.”

Celeborn studied the wood at his feet, his expression revealing neither reproof nor encouragement. “A promising response. What do you propose?”

Lurien forced himself to look at the flet across the way, at the exact place where Elanor had gone over the edge. Oddly, his horror over this occurrence had only increased with the passing of the days. Hiding this, he said, “I wish to build a bridge from here”—he pointed to the edge of the flet upon which they stood—“over to there.” His gaze shifted to the opposite flet. “To the place where Elanor fell.”

Celeborn was silent for a moment. “Why would you wish to do this?” he said at last.

Lurien drew a deep breath, willing himself to say the words. “It would serve as a reminder of the folly of anger and the madness of hatred. So that such deeds will never reoccur here in our beloved city.” Simply speaking of it was a relief, he noticed.

“To do such a thing will prevent it from being forgotten,” Celeborn pointed out.

“I do not want it forgotten, my lord. Only forgiven.”

Celeborn’s gaze probed intently, as if searching for hidden truths. “You show courage. This is truly what you wish to do?”

“It is, my lord,” Lurien said firmly.

“Then bring me a drawing of what you intend. I must speak of this to Galadriel. I would have her counsel before you proceed.”

Crestfallen, Lurien struggled to control his expression. “It did not cross my mind that you might not approve. Beyond the reminders of my folly, I thought a bridge in this location would add benefits to our people. I have assisted with other bridges and am versed in their construction. I will do this thing alone and do it well,” he added sincerely.

Celeborn lifted a brow. “I do not doubt your ability, Lurien, but what you propose will have consequences beyond what you suggest. Not everyone will wish to be reminded of recent events. There may be those who will be offended by what you wish to do.”

“Offended?” Lurien’s heart sank. “Do you refer to Haldir and Elanor?” It had not occurred to him that anyone might take offense. All he desired was to make amends in some small way, and to contribute something of value . . . not to create more ill feeling.

“Haldir, Elanor, or others. When one hurls a stone into a pond, the ripples touch more than one shore.” Celeborn turned to gaze at him, the depths of his blue eyes reminding Lurien of the many trials he had witnessed, events that Lurien had only heard about, or read. “Your reasons for wishing to build this bridge are to your credit, but we must consider whether the benefits are sufficient.”

Lurien bowed his head. “Very well, my lord. I understand.”

“If we do approve this bridge,” Celeborn added, “have you the strength to see it through? It is no easy task to complete on one’s own.”

“I will do whatever I must to complete it.”

Celeborn nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps we were blind, Galadriel and I. We had hoped that you would rise above your hatred. We failed to understand the depth of your anger. We remembered a world torn asunder by the same antagonism, but I fear we have forgotten what it takes to rebuild a trust that has been lost.”

Lurien waited a respectful moment before replying solemnly, “What is forgotten can be remembered. I will repair what has been broken, my lord. I must if I am to survive.” He struggled to keep the anguish from his voice.

“Bring me your plan, Lurien. Galadriel and I will let you know our decision.” With a single nod, the tall Elf-lord turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Lurien returned to his talan, determined to sketch out his idea this very eve. Sketching was not something he did well; the plan was in his head well enough, but could he draw sufficiently well to convince them? Soon, however, he had a simplistic drawing that seemed adequate. He thrummed his fingers on the table and stared at it, then added a detail he thought might make a difference.

He sat back and sighed, his heart still very heavy. Was it foolish to want to build something that would remind everyone in Lórien of such a horrible day? What would Haldir think? What of Elanor? He had a sudden wish that he could discuss it with them, but he could not.

The one time he had tried to approach the healing talan, Rúmil and Orophin had physically blocked him. Lurien had not argued, merely bowed and turned back, his pride in the dust . . . where it had been for many days.

He did not blame them for their anger. He deserved it.

Tarwë’s dismissal of him came back sharply, lancing him with renewed misery. He had taken her for granted, he realized that now. All these long years he had known her, he had taken for granted her love, her support, her unfailing loyalty. And now he’d lost her.

His thoughts still on Tarwë, he rolled up the drawing and secured it with a slim strip of leather. Perhaps she would see him differently if he built this bridge. Perhaps she would find him honorable once more. Perhaps she would even love him again.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and walked to the window, staring out into the gathering dusk. He would regain respect. He would prove to Tarwë and everyone else that he had not fallen so low that he could not come back. Lothlórien was his home, one he loved dearly. He would guard her treasures and her people again, with a passion and love that surpassed any he’d ever known.

He would be the Sentinel he was meant to be.

[tbc]


*Taur-e-Ndaedelos = Forest of Great Fear, a name given to Mirkwood during the period of time before Sauron’s fall.