ELANOR'S REVENGE

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Chapter Thirty-Three

“I have you,” Haldir said firmly. “You are safe.”

Supported by Haldir, Elanor took her first tentative steps after being bedridden for over a week. It felt good to move again, even if she did feel wobbly from the healing draught, and her ribs still hurt quite a lot. At least her shoulder no longer throbbed, and the healers seemed satisfied that no danger existed of her ribs penetrating her lungs. Haldir’s arm around her waist felt wonderful, and she longed to turn and wrap herself around him. Instead, she took another step toward the door.

“Soon you will be in your own talan,” Haldir reiterated. “Galadriel selected it for you personally. I have seen it, Elanor. You will find it most comfortable.”

“I want to be with you,” she grumbled. “I do not want my own talan.”

“You will do as the Lady bids. You are her ward now, and you owe her your allegiance.”

“I know,” she sighed, knowing she ought to feel more appreciation than she did.

“You have made me proud of you many times,” Haldir reminded her in an authoritative tone, “and you will not fail me this time. You will accept Galadriel’s guidance with suitable appreciation and respect.”

“Bully,” she muttered, beneath her breath. But she did not mean it, and she knew that he knew it. She could feel the ripple of his amusement through the indwaedh, although she could not share in it.

The moment they stepped outside, Doria, Nerwen and Healea came forward with smiles and greetings. Doria looked pale, but her smiles were nearly as sunny as always while she filled Elanor in on bits and pieces of news. Healea was herself--unflappable and elegant--but of late she had adopted a new and noticeable warmth toward Elanor that in anyone else might have been called motherly. As different as they were, the two ellith had formed a mutual bond of respect and liking that transcended any past friction or disparities of personality.

“Go on, Nerwen, tell her.” Doria gave Nerwen a little nudge.

Elanor looked at Nerwen, noting the delicate blush creeping into her cheeks. “Tell me what?”

Nerwen glanced first at Haldir, then at Elanor. “Rúmil has asked me to marry him,” she confided, her voice soft with joy. “And I have agreed.”

Surprised and pleased, Elanor would have thrown her arms around Nerwen except for Haldir’s restraining grip, a reminder that her ribs might not be ready for that. Haldir’s own reaction was more restrained, making it clear that he had already known about the impending betrothal, but had left it to Nerwen to tell Elanor herself.

“I am so happy for you,” Elanor said sincerely. “When is the betrothal ceremony?”

They discussed this for several moments, then Healea informed Haldir that Doria wished a few moments of his time. “Nerwen and I will gladly stay with Elanor while you are occupied,” she said firmly.

Healea left no room for debate, but Haldir seemed not to object; he merely inclined his head and stepped away, gesturing to Doria to follow. She did so with her head held high, but Elanor guessed by her rigid bearing that certain matters weighed heavily on her mind. She looked a question at Healea, who said, “She wishes to discuss Lurien. He seeks to make amends, but I think it is too soon.”

Elanor’s face tightened. She still shuddered when she thought about Lurien, recalling all too clearly how he had leaned against the door of Haldir’s talan and taunted her. Threatened her, really. Worse, she remembered every agonizing detail of the appalling, horrifying swordfight that could have cost Haldir his life . . . and had nearly cost her her own. Shivering involuntarily, she said nothing as she walked slowly along the pathway with a friend on either side of her, each with a protective hand on her arm.

“The question is, after what he has done, is forgiveness even possible?” Healea put forth, watching Elanor closely.

Elanor felt Nerwen’s glance. “For Doria’s sake, I hope so,” she said, but Elanor remained silent, too filled with turbulent emotions to articulate any kind of response.

Healea exchanged a look with Nerwen, and to Elanor’s relief, they redirected the conversation into happier channels.

Haldir, meanwhile, was having similar hostile emotions, although they were not aimed at the lovely elleth into whose face he gazed with what he knew to be an unfairly cool expression. “Did Lurien send you to say this?” he inquired.

Obviously distressed, Doria hung her head, her fingers twisting at the folds of her skirt. “N-no, and he would be very angry if he knew. Please do not tell my brother that I spoke to you!”

Haldir studied her, struggling to conceal how the mere mention of Lurien’s name still filled him with unspeakable fury. And now she asked him to make the first move, to go to her brother and initiate a reconciliation. The mere idea rankled deeply.

“What do you expect me to say to him, Doria?”

“I do not know, but he . . . he is so alone right now. He will not let me comfort him. I fear that . . . ” She faltered briefly before continuing in a shaky voice, “I fear that Tarwë no longer cares for him. That alone is like a knife in his heart. My own heart bleeds to see him like this.”

“Lurien created his own troubles,” Haldir pointed out without sympathy.

“I know,” Doria said miserably, “I do know that. But I love him, Haldir. He is my brother, my family. Can you not understand? You would love your brothers no matter what they did, would you not?” Her eyes pleaded with his. “Can you not even try to forgive?”

Haldir turned from her and took a few steps back and forth before he swung around. “Elanor almost died,” he said sternly. “I could have died. Lurien himself could have died. And I share the fault in that. I can hardly even forgive myself, Doria, much less Lurien. Do you not see that?”

She bit her lip and nodded, her eyes filled with sorrow. “I do see. I also know that he feels deeply at fault. His guilt torments him. He hardly eats or rests. I thought perhaps . . . you could ease each other’s pain.”

“Unlikely,” Haldir shot back, then wished he had taken the trouble to gentle his voice when he saw the way she flinched. He swiped his palms over his face and sighed. “Forgive me, Doria. I am not angry with you.”

She bowed her head. “No, it is I who should beg your forgiveness, Haldir. This is between you and my brother, and I should not have interfered. Thank you for your time. I will leave you in peace.” She touched her heart and faded silently out of sight.

Haldir’s lips thinned as he stared after her, annoyed beyond all reason, yet acknowledging that she was not the cause. With a low, aggravated sound, he spun around and headed for the nearest set of stairs. He knew what he had to do.

~*~

Lurien’s head jerked up with the single rap on his talan door. He had had only two visitors this past week, one of which had been Lord Celeborn. The other had been his sister, who had come many times, sitting quietly with him for hours at a time. They had not spoken much, but Lurien had welcomed her company even though he had brushed aside her attempts to cheer him. He supposed she was back again, bringing more of her soup that he had little appetite to eat.

“Enter,” he said wearily.

He glanced up idly as the door swung open, then went rigid when he saw who stood in the doorway.

“You,” he said in stiff astonishment.

Haldir’s face was iron smooth, washed of any clue that would have told Lurien his purpose for being there. His uninvited guest moved into the room and shut the door, his granite eyes as gray as the bleakest of winter days in the lands beyond the Lórien borders.

Lurien rose to his feet, planting his legs firmly apart in case Haldir attacked him, although he could not imagine him daring such a thing in light of Galadriel’s warning. “You have gone out of your way to avoid me,” he said tautly. “And now you come here. Why?”

Haldir also adopted a watchful stance. “Because it is time we spoke.”

Lurien heard no rancor, but he was sure it was there, hidden beneath the surface. “Speak, then,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Haldir remained where he was, his expression forbidding and designed to intimidate. “I have little to say other than to ask you to stay away from Elanor when I return to Lórien’s borders.”

“Ask? Since when does the mighty Marchwarden ask anything of me?” Lurien sensed Haldir’s frustration, and knew he had touched a nerve, yet curiously this did not give him the pleasure he might have expected.

Haldir shifted slightly. “As you know, I am no longer her guardian and cannot command on her behalf. However, I can promise some form of retribution if you cause her the least amount of distress. She is mine and always will be.”

“And if I wish to apologize to her?”

“Stay away from her, Lurien.”

“Ah, now you command. I did not think the civility would persist.”

“She is not yet ready to hear your words.” Haldir eyed him, adding in a rougher voice, “She is just starting to walk again. I thank the Valar she is still able.”

It was these last words that did it. Despite his long-sustained animosity toward Haldir, despite all the jealousy and rage and resentment that he had nurtured throughout these long years, the harsh emotion in the other elf’s voice pierced straight through something hard inside of Lurien, reminding him of his own agony and bringing him face to face with a part of himself he seldom saw. His own inner light had been dimmed of late, but still it burned, just as Galadriel had sought to show him. No true evil existed within him, and the realization was a relief beyond all possible measure. All this time, all these years, he had never known for absolute certain that he was not inherently wicked. It was, perhaps, his darkest fear, one he had struggled to hide from and to deny, as well as defy. And suddenly, with an almost comical lack of flamboyance, this modest understanding of himself had made itself known. Like an elfling who played with fire, he had flirted with wickedness, never quite certain that it was a thing apart, with a power of its own that could consume him--and nearly had.

“Please, come and sit down,” Lurien said in a humbler tone. “I have a matter of my own that I wish to discuss.” He was conscious of Haldir’s drilling gaze, and then to his relief, the Marchwarden crossed over and took the chair he had indicated, the one recently occupied by Doria. Lurien took the other chair, and let out a deep breath, chagrinned to discover that he was nervous.

“I admit I did wrong,” he said into the heavy stillness. “Many wrongs, in fact.”

Silence.

“I deserve my punishment,” he added with shame. “I know this and accept it.”

More silence.

“But I am not a monster.” Lurien felt himself flush at the jaggedness in his voice. He had betrayed himself now, just as Haldir had done, but it was too late for regrets. He leaned forward. “Look,” he went on, “I have to live with what I have done. I regret it for many reasons, and not all of them are selfish. I can change.”

“Is that what you intend?” Haldir asked, one skeptical eyebrow arched.

“Aye, of course!” Lurien flashed. “I must, I have no choice in the matter. Tarwë . . . it is the only way I can win her back. I love her.” He flushed again, aware that Haldir had no interest in his confidences or sympathy for his plight. “I wish to make amends, not only to Tarwë, but to Elanor and . . . to you.”

“How?” Oddly, Haldir’s voice was not entirely mocking.

“Would you care for a glass of wine?” Lurien knew he was stalling, but he was finding it difficult to broach the subject he wished to address.

To his surprise, Haldir accepted the offer. Lurien rose and poured them each a glass, handing one to Haldir before he sat down again.

“I face a daunting task,” he acknowledged, without style or flourish. “I must find a way to redeem myself to our people. It will take time, I know this. It may take centuries, even, but I intend to prove myself worthy of trust and honor.”

His guest made no comment, but a glance his way reassured Lurien that Haldir was listening. A twinge of respect for the other elf asserted itself as he continued, “I had an idea, which I have discussed with Lord Celeborn. It is only a start, a small gesture meant to indicate my willingness to serve and be useful.” He took a swallow of wine, wishing he were not so tense. “You may have seen the wood and rope that sits untended on the flet near where . . . near your talan.”

“I have seen it,” Haldir said calmly. “I was told that you put it there. What do you intend?”

“Our lord and lady have seen my plans,” Lurien continued. “They have approved my proposal on one condition. I must have your agreement, as well as Elanor’s.”

Haldir’s brows snapped together. “What do you intend?” he repeated.

Lurien set his goblet carefully upon the table and plunged into his explanation.

~*~

“You will do this for me?” Tarwë asked with an intense look. She curled her knees closer to her chest, leaning into the trunk of the mallorn tree as though she sought to become a part of it. But her attention was fixed on Gwirith.

Feeling uncomfortable, Gwirith plucked heedlessly at a blade of grass, then curled her fingers into her palms. “Yes, if you are certain.”

“I am certain. ‘Tis the only way I can be sure he speaks the truth.”

Gwirith studied her friend, wishing she had not been put in this awkward position. It would have been an easy and pleasant thing to do before she had known the depth of Tarwë’s feelings, but now . . . now it felt dishonorable and wrong. If the plan brought unhappy results, she would be the one who would have to tell Tarwë. And if not . . . how was she to handle it? Tarwë had not told her that, and Gwirith did not like to ask.

“Perhaps this seems like a low and wicked thing to do.” Tarwë’s voice was despondent and rather brittle. “But I must know, Gwirith. I no longer know what to believe, and I must know if he speaks the truth or if it is only more of his lies.” She glanced at her friend. “My heart can only heal if I know the truth.”

“When shall I do it?” Gwirith asked with sinking spirits.

Tarwë bit her lower lip and looked away. “Do it tonight,” she finally whispered, “before I change my mind.”

~*~

Haldir listened to Lurien’s tale of his proposed bridge with a calm demeanor, but inside he held mixed feelings. On the one hand, the lord and lady had approved it, and that weighed heavily in its favor. On the other hand, he did not personally relish any reminder of that dreadful day, nor did he feel any urge to support Lurien in his quest for atonement. However, he was also quite accustomed to setting aside his own opinions and desires in deference to the greater good of his people, and he had to admit that to have a bridge in that particular location would be convenient.

“I will consider this,” he told Lurien, who was waiting expectantly for his reply. “But I cannot promise to agree.”

“And you will speak to Elanor?” Lurien spoke as nonchalantly as possible, trying to hide how apprehensive he felt about her receiving the story in the way he would like. How would Haldir explain it? Would he leave out important details? Would he influence her with his own opinion?

“I will discuss this with her when she is stronger. This is not the right time for it, Lurien. I leave for the Fences at the end of this week. Perhaps when I return I will mention it to her. In the meantime, I suggest you rein in your impatience.”

Lurien had been about to protest the delay, but thought better of it. “Very well,” he said instead. “I submit to your wishes.”

Haldir finished his wine and set down his glass, then shot a keen glance at Lurien. “If you lack tasks to occupy you, you may come with me to the Fences.”

Lurien stared, unsure whether or not he was being mocked. “I have no sword,” he said at last.

“Galadriel did not take your bow, did she?” Haldir’s cool voice was steady.

“No.” Lurien swallowed. “Why would you want me there? I am not a warden.”

“I do not want you there, but it gives me the opportunity to keep an eye on you.”

Lurien flushed. “You do not trust me, then.”

“Not yet, I do not. You will have to earn my trust.” Haldir’s lips twisted. “I do trust you not to put an arrow in my back.” He rose to his feet. “Think about it. I leave in three days, and my offer stands.”

“What of the other wardens?”

Haldir lifted a brow. “You fear them?”

“No!” Lurien glared.

“Then you have no reason not to go, unless it is Orcs that you fear.”

“I do not fear them either,” Lurien said defiantly. He had seen and fought Orcs while accompanying Galadriel on one of her forays outside the Wood. Nasty creatures, they were. He loathed them, but he was not afraid.

“Good,” Haldir said unexpectedly. “Give me your answer soon, then.” He crossed the room and left.

Lurien sat unmoving, his bemused mind following new and unexpected paths. Paths that led him away from his beloved city . . . to the border of Lórien.

~*~

The moon hung high over the mellyrn by the time Gwirith drifted silently along the pathways of Caras Galadhon. Her thoughts were no less at ease with what she was set to do than they had been when Tarwë had asked it of her. Perhaps she ought not to have agreed, but she and Tarwë had been friends for a long time, and Tarwë had been so persuasive.

The small, twinkling lights lit her path, but her feet knew the way to Lurien’s talan; she had been there before, although not for a long while. She reached his door and paused, her heart thumping, not with excitement, but with apprehension and guilt. Still, she was determined to do as she had promised; she had given Tarwë her word. Thankfully, she found that Lurien had not secured his privacy latch, so that she was able to gain entry easily enough.

Inside, she paused to listen, but heard no sound, nothing to indicate he was even in there.

She moved on into his sleeping chamber, her sharp eyesight searching for a sleeping figure in the bed, but she saw no one. Where was he?

The terrace, of course.

It did not take her long to find him. He had spread out a blanket, and lay on his back under the rustling leaves, his fair hair fanning outward as though arranged by a tender, feminine hand. In reverie, he looked even more sublimely beautiful than he did when he was alert and awake. In short, he was the most perfect male Gwirith had ever had the pleasure to observe; that much had not changed, and perhaps never would.

Gwirith inhaled a breath and moved forward, slowly lowering herself to her knees beside Lurien. She touched his shoulder and smoothed her hand across his chest.

“Gwirith,” he said calmly, “what are you doing here?”

“I came to comfort you,” she whispered. “You have been so lonely of late. I thought to relieve you of some of your burdens.”

With fluid grace he sat upright, his gaze probing hers. “You should not be here.” His eyes ran over her, though not with his usual, lingering style.

“Why not?” she asked.

Lurien frowned. “Because it is not fitting.”

*’Push him,’ Tarwë had bidden her.*

“Not fitting?” With a little laugh, Gwirith inched closer, so that her knees pressed against the hard muscle of his thigh. The gown she wore was gossamer thin, a pale blue that revealed far more than it concealed. “But who is to know?” she breathed. Her hand slid across his stomach, her long fingers caressing him gently.

His hand captured hers, halting her motion. “Gwirith,” he uttered, his voice a little rough, “I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but please stop. I cannot . . . ”

*’Entice him, Gwirith!’*

“Of course you can.” Gwirith leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, kissing him softly. “I have been without an ellon for too long.“ Shifting her weight, she brazenly swung one leg over his so that she straddled him. “Make love to me, Lurien.”

Lurien’s eyes slid shut, and a look of near agony crossed his face. “Gwirith, hearken to me,” he gasped as her hands began to roam. His fingers clamped around her wrists, pulling her away from him. “I am your friend, sweet one, but I cannot be your lover. I am sorry.”

“Why?” She pretended to pout. “Am I not tempting enough?”

“You are very tempting and lovely, but . . . you are not Tarwë, you see.” He sounded apologetic. “I have vowed in my heart to be faithful to her.”

“I see.” Gwirith struggled with mixed feelings, assuring herself that she did not feel rejected in the least, although she did, just a little. It was very foolish of her, especially when she was so pleased and relieved on Tarwë’s behalf. “You are in love with her?”

“I am, yes.” Lurien’s blue eyes held a sense of purpose, but no regret.

With a leisurely nod, Gwirith climbed off him and gracefully rose to her feet. “Then I will go. Forgive me for intruding on your rest.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said graciously. “You honor me with your visit.”

Gwirith sighed and retreated, wondering how honored he would feel if he knew she had been sent to test him. She still felt foolish, but she had done what Tarwë asked and that was what counted.

Retracing her steps, she walked once more along the pathways of the city, debating where to go next. It would be discreet to return to her own talan for the remainder of the night, but it would be cruel to make Tarwë wait until morning. Besides, she had to pass Beredain’s talan on the way to Tarwë. Perhaps fortune would smile on her, and she would happen upon him on the path.

~*~

Elrohir winced at the shrill female voice on the other side of his horse, the speaker hidden from his view by the tall stallion prancing nervously from the sound. He smoothed the plaits of hair around the horse’s ears, whispering in a vain attempt to soothe the animal, but the complaints continued until Elrohir gave up and jerked the horse away from the elleth whose fingers had hold of its mane. Lana frowned, her blue eyes narrowed as she compressed her lips in the unattractive pout that Elrohir despised.

Everything had gone nicely until Elanor’s sister had seen the horse the King had selected for her. Now it was Elrohir’s horse she wanted, and everyone in the small paddock had heard her strident complaints about the mount she had been given. Off in the distance, but not out of earshot, stood Telrion and Minden, along with the party of Lórien elves who had made the journey with them. None of them looked very pleased. Elladan murmured something wicked beneath his breath, just loudly enough for Elrohir to hear.

Elrohir shrugged, exchanging a knowing look with his twin while Lana rounded on her father and stomped her foot.

“Ada, all I want is a better horse! The other one is a . . . a slug!”

“That is enough, Lanaewen.” The voice was weary, but Eluon, Lana’s father, gave no other sign of weakness. He stood staring at his younger and very spoiled daughter with a hooded gaze, hand resting affectionately upon his lovely wife’s shoulder.

Elrohir expelled a sigh of relief. He had wondered if anyone would speak up and rescue him and his stallion from the elleth’s tirade. To be addressed by her full mother-name, apparently a rarity from the parents who had coddled her into a spoiled brat, had momentarily shut Lana’s mouth, but unfortunately it was a blessing that did not persist.

“But, Ada, I want to ride as I should, in the style meant for a--”

“You will ride the beast that Thranduil has so thoughtfully provided,” Eluon cut in sharply, “and you will do it without complaint. I am weary of your tantrums, child, and we have a long journey ahead. You will behave respectfully toward those who journey with us to keep us safe.” He glanced at his wife, but Lana’s mother’s lips were pursed and silent. She did not relish this journey, Elrohir knew, but nothing anyone said had talked her out of making it. A pity, really, since neither the Lórien elves nor those from Imladris relished making the journey with either Iriel or her tiresome daughter, even if they were both exceptionally striking, with their near look-alike beauty.

Lana turned to her mother. “Naneth!” she tried again, but swallowed when Eluon lifted a warning hand.

He turned to address Elrohir and Elladan, who had both stepped forward. “Please forgive my daughter,” he said, his mouth slightly twisted. “We are ready to depart if you are. I expect Thranduil will be happy to see our backs.” Lana glared at him, and even Iriel looked a little annoyed, but neither elleth contradicted him, to Elrohir’s relief.

Lana’s lower lip thrust out, but withdrew again when a young Mirkwood ellon sprinted into the paddock, hurtling over the low wooden fence that held an assortment of gear.

“My lady,” he called to Lana, “wait, please wait! You cannot leave yet!”

Lana smoothed her skirts, brushed back a long strand of her hair, and to Elrohir’s sardonic amusement, plastered a sweet smile on her face.

The smitten young elf skidded to a halt in front of her. “Lady Lanaewen, you did not tell me you were leaving today!”

He sounded rather hurt, and Elrohir wondered if he would ever know what a lucky escape he was getting. Still, Lana’s reply sounded fairly sincere.

“I am sorry, Gelion, but I did not know we would be leaving so quickly. We have word that my sister has been injured.” She sent the Mirkwood ellon a sad smile. “I did wish to tell you, but I had no time. For all we know, Elanor may be dying.”

In which case, Elrohir reflected cynically, wasting time arguing about which horse she would ride seemed exceptionally imprudent. But then, had Lana ever really cared about anyone other than herself? From the corner of his eye, he saw Elladan shrug, his reply to his twin’s silently voiced musing.

Gelion drew back with a gasp. “Oh, my lady, that is terrible news! No wonder you are rushing off.” He turned to Eluon and bowed deeply. “Forgive my intrusion, Master Eluon, but I hold your daughter close to my heart. You do expect to return, do you not?” he added anxiously.

Elrohir’s brow shot up as he studied Lana more carefully. She was actually fidgeting, peeping up through her eyelashes at the tall, slim elf who spoke to her father. Her cheeks were flushed, and if Elrohir were not so distrustful of Lana’s motives and attention span, he would almost have said that she, too, was smitten, or at least infatuated. Lana? He laughed to himself. What she needed was to have her heart broken a time or two; it would do her a world of good.

Eluon was smiling. “We will return eventually, Gelion, but I cannot tell you when. Depending on circumstances, we may travel back to Imladris, where you would be most welcome to visit.”

Gelion beamed, bowed, and touched his heart. “I would be delighted.” Looking happy, he whirled to capture Lana’s hand and raise it to his lips to kiss. “I will hold you to your promise, my lady. The one you made to me not three nights ago.”

“Lanaewen!” Iriel exclaimed. “What promise is this?”

Elrohir fought a desire to roll his eyes while Lana blushed and pulled her hand away. “‘Tis nothing, Nana. ’Twas no promise, Gelion, as well you know! Look, I must go. We have a long journey to make.” Clearly flustered, she turned to Elrohir. “Where is my horse? Why do you not fetch it for me, Elrohir, instead of standing about with that clumsy horse, listening to private conversations?”

“Lanaewen,” Eluon rebuked, “that is no way to address a son of Elrond. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Oh, forgive me, please,” she said to Elrohir--far too sweetly, in his opinion. “I did not mean to be disrespectful.”

With a civil nod, Elrohir walked away toward the rather commonplace gray mare that Thranduil had decided he could spare. The King had not really wanted to part with any of his better horses, but he had given Eluon and Iriel a pair of tolerably good mounts. As he walked across the long grass, he noticed Telrion pacing back and forth. That elf was clearly in a rush to return to Lórien, however much he tried to hide it. That elleth, apparently. What was her name? Túre, that was it.

Elrohir sighed. In the meantime, Lana was still Lana. It would be a long journey back to Lothlórien.

~*~

Feeling content after an afternoon spent translating texts, Healea carried two bowls of stew to her dining table, setting one before Túre and the second before Elanor. She then returned to the simmering pot to ladle stew into two more bowls, one for herself and one for Cothion.

“It has been too long,” Túre said restlessly as Healea joined them again. “Why have they not returned by now? It is not as though they traveled on foot, they had horses! What could have delayed them?” Her fingers tapped nervously on the edge of the table, betraying the extent of the agitation that she had until tonight mostly kept hidden.

Cothion poured wine for Elanor and Túre. “How long has it been?” he asked, although Healea knew that he knew. He was simply giving Túre a chance to speak of what worried her, a kindness that did him credit in his doting wife’s eyes.

Túre told him, clearly expecting a reaction, but Cothion was careful not to look alarmed, for which Healea was grateful. It really had not been that long, and she did not want her friend to be frightened unnecessarily. She had suffered enough as it was.

Healea glanced at Elanor, who had fallen strangely silent. “Elanor? What is wrong? Are you not hungry?”

Elanor looked over at her and smiled quickly. “Nothing is wrong, Healea. Forgive me. My mind was elsewhere.” She picked up her spoon and took a taste of the stew. “This is delicious.”

“Cothion made it,” Healea informed them, directing a fond smile at her husband. He sent her a meaningful look, one that reminded her of a little promise she had made to him if he would prepare dinner for them all.

“Are you not worried about Telrion and his friend?” Túre asked Elanor.

“I am trying not to worry,” Elanor replied slowly. “I am more inclined to wonder if . . . ” Her voice trailed off, her cheeks a little flushed.

Healea tasted her soup, wondering what was troubling Elanor. Was she concerned about Haldir being at the border in Lurien’s company? She had not been happy when she had heard about it, that much Healea knew, although Haldir had assured her that he and Lurien had made their peace.

“What is it, Elanor?” she prodded.

Elanor set down her spoon and forced a small smile. “Nothing, Healea. It is only that I am wondering what my family’s reaction will have been, and if they have decided to travel here. If so, it crossed my mind that it might explain the delay.”

“Now that could be,” Cothion remarked. “You see, Túre? Telrion and the others are likely slowed down by Elanor’s family. I am sure they are all quite safe.”

Túre looked relieved to be provided with such a reasonable explanation, but Healea noted the tiny furrow on Elanor’s brow. She did not appear at all enthused by the prospect of her family’s imminent arrival. Somehow Healea was unsurprised, although Elanor had not told her very much about them; even so, she had made a few assumptions on her own. Still, Healea decided, brooding was not good for Elanor; she needed a distraction.

“Perhaps it is time to resume your archery practice,” she commented. “You are strong enough now, do you not think?”

Elanor looked a little startled. “I suppose I am. But I am not sure that Haldir would approve.”

Healea gave a little snort. “Do we care? If you are going to keep him around, Elanor, it would be most unwise to let him have his way too often. Besides, is it not Galadriel whose opinion you should seek? Haldir no longer has any say over what you do and do not do.”

“True,” Elanor allowed, with a slight, wistful smile. “I will speak to the Lady tomorrow. She has allowed me to resume my work in her garden, but of course that is easy toil.”

“Let me know what you decide, and I will join you on the field.”

“I will,” Elanor promised, looking a lot happier.

Healea vowed silently to be sure that Elanor’s family understood certain things, some of them concerning Elanor’s desire to stay in Lórien, some of them concerning Haldir, and some of them concerning Healea’s own, very high, opinion of Elanor herself.

Now, if only that Imladris elf would get himself back here and see to Túre!

~*~

Elanor slept, drowsing lazily in the afternoon sun of the Lady’s garden. She was dreaming of Haldir, dreaming that her body nestled against his, his arm around her waist. She could not see him, for he lay behind her, but within this dream she opened her eyes and saw a white marble archway entwined with honeysuckle.

For a reason she did not understand, she felt alarmed. "Haldir, where are we? I do not know this place."

"You do know it," he replied, reaching out to pull her back into his arms. "This is our home, Elanor. Our home in the Undying Lands."

"This is Aman?" Why did she not remember?

Elanor blinked, trying to see more, but the dazzling sun obscured her vision. Only the archway could she see, and when she turned to look at Haldir, he saw that he was lying in a bright patch of ninniach-loth, his silvery hair spread outward around his naked shoulders. "Elanor," he whispered. "Where are you?"

"I am right here. What do you mean?" She reached to touch him, but to her horror, her hand passed right through him.

"I cannot see you, my love. Are you hiding from me?"

"I am here!” Again she tried to touch him, but it was as though he were only made of smoke.

"Where are you, Elanor?"

"I am here!” she said again, with rising panic.

"I cannot see you . . . " His voice echoed strangely.

"He sees only *me*," purred a voice Elanor knew all too well.

Elanor sat frozen, afraid to look around.

"Soon I will arrive,” Lana whispered, “and once I do, he will never see you again.” A crimson rose landed on Haldir’s belly. “You will be invisible again, just as you were before and always will be.”

Another rose, and then another, fell upon Haldir.

"No!" Elanor protested in horror. "No, no!"

A hand was touching her, shaking her shoulder gently. “Elanor, wake up. It is only a dream, my dear.”

Elanor’s eyes flew open, but for a moment she could hardly take in her surroundings. Then she realized it was Galadriel bending over her, her lips curved in a beautiful, tender smile.

“My lady?” she gasped in confusion, her body still shaking from what seemed an unbearable pain in her heart.

“’Twas nothing but a dream, child, born of old fears. It is time to let them go. You do not need them any more.”

Embarrassed, Elanor sat up hastily, brushing her hair from her face. “You saw my dream?”

“Forgive me, but I did. I felt I had to see what it was that so troubles you.” Galadriel sat down beside her in the grass, her blue eyes filled with compassion. “You have nothing to fear, Elanor. Haldir’s love for you is true.”

“I know he loves me,” Elanor murmured, feeling foolish.

“I am glad. No other has he loved before you. Not even Healea.”

“Yes, he told me that.”

“Remember it then, and lay down the burden that you carry. Your sister does not possess the power to take him from you.”

“I know,” Elanor mumbled, gazing at her fingers.

“They will arrive in three days,” Galadriel said gently. “I have seen it.”

A wave of anxiety shuddered through Elanor.

“Your family loves you, child. They have made mistakes, but they do love you.”

Elanor lifted her head. “Thank you, my lady. Thank you for everything.”

Galadriel gracefully rose to her feet, and gazed thoughtfully down at her ward. “You wish to resume your archery practice?”

“I feel strong enough, yes.”

“Then so be it.” Galadriel studied her with those brilliant, wise eyes. “I think someday you and Haldir will see that marbled archway in your dream. It is the entrance to one of the most beautiful gardens in Valinor. I remember it well.”

With that, she turned and glided away, leaving Elanor to consider the implications of her words.

~*~

Haldir settled into the crotch of the tree, bow hung on a small notch within an arm’s reach, his quiver balanced on his lap and his feet tucked into the crook of two branches.

It was, on the Fences, as close to laziness as a warden could get. His eyes still scanned the forest below, and his head turned, tilting occasionally as his sensitive hearing picked up different sounds. To a stranger, he would have looked as if he had not a care in the world. But of course he did have cares, one in particular who was constantly on his mind and in his heart.

Pressured only by himself, he had finally left Caras Galadhon to return to the far-reaching fences of Lothlórien. For too long had the border patrols lacked his presence; for too long had he pushed aside his responsibilities. He needed to reassure his wardens that he was still a capable leader, one who would share in their duties, fight alongside them, take command and make decisions.

But he sorely missed Elanor, even with the indwaedh hanging against his chest, assuring him that she was but a heartbeat away. He touched the jewel beneath his tunic, absently smoothing the wool fabric. He had chosen the northern boundaries of Lórien for a reason, sending Rúmil to the south to lead the guard against the occasional raid of Orcs from Mordor.

He knew Elanor’s parents were coming; they must be. Elrond had sent word to Eluon and Iriel of Elanor’s fall, so they would come, would they not? Any day now, any moment, they were bound to arrive. And he had yet to decide what he would say to them or even how he would react to them, knowing what he did about Elanor’s family situation.

Haldir sighed. He would not hide in the city, nor would he choose a distant watch that would keep him far from her family. His choices had put Elanor in danger, and he would accept the responsibility for that. He would accept harsh words from her father, apologize to her mother, endure the sister’s waspish tongue . . . whatever it took.

But he would not give up Elanor. She was his.

Feeling irritable, he uncrossed his ankles, knowing he ought to have spoken to Lurien on this subject, warned him what to say and not say when her parents arrived. Not that Lurien would appreciate it, but he probably would have listened since he seemed to be genuinely trying to fit in. In fact, Lurien had done well so far, acquitting himself admirably in a small skirmish with a ragged band of Orcs who had wandered too close. The other wardens had tolerated him and been courteous, thank the Valar. So, all in all, things were going well.

The sharp trill of a kestrel sounded through the forest, bringing him to instant alert. Someone was coming. The wardens would watch the trail, alerting him as the travelers moved deeper into the forest, closer to where Haldir had taken up watch.

Haldir braced himself inwardly, knowing the moment he had dreaded was at hand.

[tbc]