Suffering

Suffering

Chapter Eight

Thanks for your patience.


And thanks to Lalaith and Isis for betaing this.

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Celebrían huddled in the corner of the bathing chamber, clutching her stomach and attempting to will back the waves of nausea which flooded through her, lapping at her overtaxed brain. Her head hurt with it; her throat was raw, her tongue thick with the noxious taste. It was all she could do to keep herself from burying her head between her knees and giving into the repellant craving to vomit, to give up what little she had eaten the previous night.

Her fist clenched against her midriff, the balled hand pressing into the pit of her stomach, willing it to stillness, the foul nausea to cease. If there could be but one morning when she did not have to endure this agony, this reminder starker than the sun rising in the East…

At last it was too much. Her stomach rebelled against the conscious dictates of her will, and she made it as far as the chamber pot she had placed at hand only just in time. Heaving, shaking with the paroxysms, she dropped her fair head over the porcelain container, retching uncontrollably, her fingers clenched into bands of bone against the rim. She could not have said whether it was minutes or hours before the nausea faded, and she sank back against the warmed stone of the wall to shudder in exhaustion, but Anor had barely crept beyond the horizon, its disc ruddy amid the drifting grey clouds.

She lifted a tremulous hand to her brow, sweeping back a lock of sweat-drenched silver hair as she did so, and tried to convince herself, not for the first time, that this could not be what it appeared to be. Surely she could not have been that foolish, that reckless, even in dreaming’s wandering paths…

And yet she knew beyond doubt that she had been that foolish, that reckless, and that in truth she could never hold sleep her reason. Her belly swelled daily beneath the soft folds of her diaphanous gowns, and in the soft moments of silence, she could hear the babe’s tumultuous heartbeat, and feel the soft flutter of tiny limbs within her. she she could not admit it, could not show it, could not even show this weakness which crippled her body, which ran like dull veins of poison through her mornings, and seemed as if it would never end.

Slowly, so slowly, she levered herself to her feet, feeling the cool, slick tiles beneath her soles. With unsteady steps, she made her way to the brink of the deep, fragrant pool, feeling as if she could break aparth ath any undue movement. Cautiously, she dipped one foot into the waters, and, finding them satisfactory, slipped in, sighing happily as the rich waters closed about her, soothing the aches of her abused muscles and protesting stomach. Silent and still, she floated in the pool, her hair trailing out around her, her toes resting lightly against the carved marble bear’s head which decorated one corner, her arms outspread, her fingers trailing through the heavy, luxuriant ripples in lazy circles.

After a while, she sculled briskly to the shore, and set her feet down, reachingfor the soap, and scrubbing the last putrefying odours of her own sickness from the heavy fall of her hair, washing her mouth out over and over again with the aid of an ewer of cold water and a copper basin which stood near at hand. Ducking her head under the water to rinse away the final suds, she allowed her mind free rein.

She could not tell him: that much was abundantly clear to him. How could she tell the husband who disregarded her for the comforts of others, who could scorn her love if she but offered it to him openly, that she was with child, and that that child must be his? That they must have known each other as husband and wife, and that she feared the dreams which came to her…? The dreams which poisoned her waking mind and infected her sleeping hours, poignant and sensual, more vivid than the day she looked upon with tired eyes. The dreams which had plagued her since that morn, when she had awakened within the compass of his arms, her legs tangled around his, resting against him most intimately… A lock of dampened dark hair had coiled across her shoulder, stark against her pale skin, and his breath had sighed across the crown of her head as he exhaled softly. Looking up, tentatively, fearfully, her heart pounding with nervous dread, she saw his eyes tight closed, his face peaceful, serene in sleep, the angles of his face outlined against the pillows. Only a narrow furrow between his brows betrayed anyt oft of discontent in his sleeping self, but still Celebrian had wormed free, disentangling her limbs from his long ones, careful not to wake him with any sudden movements.

How could this have happened? What folly could have overtaken her dreams to bring her to this end? What madness to expose herself thus, to risk her care-guarded heart?

Mayhap it had been nothing; mayhap it was chance alone she had awaken in his arms, her skin flushed with an unaccustomed warmth…

But sense and wisdom, hard sought in that hour, had bidden her otherwise, and dreaming’s dim memory had awoken within her, even as sheght ght his scent, unmistakable even after these long years of drought, lingering yet on her skin. She had halted, desire catching in her throat, setting her belly alight, and even then she had known, even as she had left him, sparing one last for the spare, elegant planes of his body only partially concealed under the thin sheets. She knew she had betrayed herself, betrayed the oath had had sworn to the darkened ceiling to show nothing of her affection to her beloved. And she had known that life grew within her.

But she found no words to explain, no words to pardon, no words to make light of that which was heavy indeed upon her shoulders and upon her heart. And in the dreams which had consumed her since, which had haunted her shadowed days until repose was beyond her, and all she could do was sit with one hand resting upon her treacherous belly – in those dreams, she had not crept from his bed, not moved away into the silent dawn, but stayed with him, coaxing him awake with her caresses, until he had responded to her, eager and fervent…

Celebrían shook her head vigorously, trying to banish the images which danced before her eyes. It would avail her naught to dwell upon them, and it served only to cloud her mind when she needed her thoughts clear to understand what she must do.

Dragging herself ou the the pool, she wrapped herself in a thick robe, burying her damp hair under layers of soft fabric, sinking her chin to her chest like a nesting bird. Sitting down in a niche carved into the outside wall, overlooking the valley and the tumbling stream below, she tucked her legs up beneath her and gazed moodily at the haven revealed to her. How could she even think of telling its Master this? He whom she loved beyond the bounds and dictates of reason, beyond all hope and faith, beyond the future, beyond the past? How could she hope to tell him of this without further betraying herself and shaming him? For it would shame him, shame his noble heart, to know of the cramped feeling which lived deep within her and which he could never return.

“Nay. I cannot lay this upon him.” She twisted the hem of her robe until the fine tassels began to come free, separating into individual strands beneath her fingers. “I shall not tell him. Not yet.”

~*~

Elrond stared at the sheet of parchment before him, wondering whither his wits had fled. Aye, to be sure he was accounted among the wise – although he did not doubt that his wife would have much to say on that account – but he now he found no words would come to him, no ink flow from his pen but in blotches and an ungainly scrawl which barely merited the name of writing. Five times now he had attempted to begin the formal entry for this year in the chronicles, to frame the defeats and victories of that span of time in prose to sear the stars from the heavens and bind remembrance to something less fleeting than the mind. Now, the parchment was covered in increasingly frustrated crossings-out, half-fledged phrases, and in sketches - the new wing of the Last Homely House, the stars of night, the sea at Harlindon, the rising towers of Minas Tirith in the sunshine, and, again and again, a maiden’s face in profile, beautiful and mysterious, one hand raised to beckon to some unseen lover. Celebrían.

Why does she not tell me? Does she think I cannot see that she is with child? That she wakes in the mornings to sickness most unnatural to the Eldar, and sleeps in fear and worry? Why does she seek to hide this thing from me?

Long he had desired to reach out across the emptiness of their shared bed, to place his hand on her swelling stomach beneath the folds of cloth with which she sought to conceal herself, and to tell her that he knew, that he had always known. But the answer to all his questions, the answer which clothed his feä in shadow and in deep darkness, which brought him no comfort, forbade any such action on his part. She did not tell him of the babe growing within her, for it was not his. She had taken a lover, as he had long feared she would and even now the child of another’s flesh grew to birth within her.

And that morn, on which he had woken to such a burgeoning of hope within himself, had been but a mirage, an illusion built of smoke and shadows in the dimness of his mind. Even then, it had seemed as a thing strange and fey, something above the ordinary course of things, even in his life, for he had known not whither it had come, nor whence it might go. Indeed, there had been precious little of hope in that dawning, as he lay between cooling sheets, his arousal achingly warm between his legs. He could have sworn that he could taste her on his lips and on his tongue, but she was not there. And although his willful body called out to him to seek her, to beg her, nothing had changed. There was no more of warmth in her glance for him, no more of passion to match his own, and she had turned from him with the faintest of smiles, as one gives a hostile stranger or a child that needs pacifying.

And so it had become easier to imagine it all a dream, a fantasy born of his own crippled desire. Easier to believe that it could never have been, that the gulf was as wide as ever. Easier to live without hope and watch and wait until she might give him enough of her confidence to tell him of this.

But still he had sickened with dread as he thought of other hands upon her body, other lips on hers, of whispered proclamations of love in the dark hours while he, her husband, who should have been able to give her such adoration and pleasure and yet could not, sat alone in his study. A hot, angry lump of jealousy, undignified, despairing, coalesced behind his eyes. He knew that it was unbefitting, but he found he cared little if at all for such considerations. Even while the folk of Rivendell remained oblivious to their Lady’s state, his practised healer's gaze caught it every moment he was in her presence, as a fish is drawn to the bait which will set a hook through its soft palate. And in the Hall of Fire of an evening, he found he could not look elsewhere, that he had to gaze upon the soft curve of her belly beneath the heavy folds of cloth, the way she rested one hand upon it protectively, the tender smile which lit her eyes from time to time.

And – Eru’s mercy be upon me – I love the child too, although it is not mine, and it is not within me to deny it, nor to declare its stain of bastardy. He swallowed the sick dread which rose in his throat. And I have no blame for her, for she did not choose this match, any more than I chose to love her.

But the hollow sense of loss dogged him night and day, hobbled his steps and stilled his heart within him. And he realised that never until now had he truly given up the hopes he had once cherished. Only now, at the ending of things, could he cast them to the four winds, to go where they might and to bind him no longer to the past.


“Elrond?”

He looked up, startled, to find Glorfindel standing over him.

“Yes?”

“Long you have chided me to be more careful with those Mandos-forsaken ledger-books, and now I find that you have deceived me.” The Balrog-slayer gave him a wicked grin, and pointed at the table. Elrond followed the direction of his gesture and cursed succinctly. His left hand rested in a puddle of dark ink, the palm upwards, the fingers clawed tightly around the bottle from which a trickle of the liquid still issued. Try as he might, he could not remember what he had done. Hurriedly, he snatched his hand away, and began gathering up the tomes, shaking the ink off them like a damp hound. Lacking anything else, he was forced to mop up the spillage with spare sheets of poor-quality parchment, while trying to keep his flowing sleeves out of the mess. Glorfindel joined in with an expression which indicated that he would rather be doing almost anything else.

At last, they had finished, and the golden-haired elf-lord slumped into a chair with a triumphant sigh. “Care to tell me what happened, mellon-iaur?”

“No,” Elrond said shortly.

“Fine.” He shrugged amiably. “’Tis just that you have been of short of temper as a bear disturbed from his winter’s sleep these last weeks, and now this…”

“’Tis nothing, I tell you.”

“Might that nothing be possessed of rather magnificent silver hair and a temper to match?” Glorfindel inquired in mock innocence.

But the look of fury and despair which Elrond shot him, dark as the wings of the storm, stilled his merriment in his throat. “Aye, I shall keep my peace, as you will it, my lord.”

“Thank you, mellon-nin. I cannot… I must not…”

But whatever he might have been about to stay with silence by the appearance of a newcomer on the threshold, her silver hair stark and bright against the dark green fabric of gown and the voluminous shawl she wore cast around her shoulders, its trailing ends falling below her knees. “My lords…”

“I was just about to leave.” Glorfindel grinned, but even his merry, charming face could not quite relieve the room of the pall of deep gloom cast about it. “My lord Elrond here knows and tells far too much of tax practices in the Dwarven realms to be anything but chilling company.”

With a hastily flourished bow, he was gone.

“My lord…”

“My lady.” Elrond inclined his head curtly, but with complete propriety.

“My lord, I must speak with you on matters which concern us both nearly indeed.”

His heart hammered in his throat, and he wished he could turn away before the words were spilled like water from a shattered glass.

“Speak then, if you must.” He was never sure how he managed to produce the bitter words that burnt his mouth.

Stepping forward into the pallid light of the room, Celebrían let the shawl fall from her shoulders, pooling around her feet. “As you can see, my lord, I am with child and nearing my term.”

A sudden wave of tenderness overcame him to see her standing there with such uncertainty in her eyes. How he loved her then, no matter what had happened, nor what would happen once the babe was born. He closed the distance between them, and placed one warm hand on her shoulder. “Be not fearful, hervess-nin. I hold no bitterness within me for this thing.” It was a lie, but one close enough to the truth to suffice.

Even as he looked down into her face, he found it impossible to read the multitude of emotions written therein. Fear, anger, indignation, longing, shattered hope; surely all these were a part of it?

And…

Shame? Surely it was not shame she was feeling?

“Celebrían…”

But she had stepped back, wrenching her shoulder from his grip as if he were some loathsome beast from the pits of Angband.

“Think you that I find my shame in this? That this is something unworthy?” she spat, her eyes blazing, wide and dark with rage. “Even from you, I had not expected such condescension.” Sad regret, yes, but not the barely controlled hatred for something – or someone – she read in his eyes. She had not imagined that even her folly could be greeted so, born as it was of her love.

“I know you do.” He turned and walked back to his desk, fiddling idly with a pen before replacing it and picking up another. “But indeed there is no shame in it. I always knew that of this match we have made between us, there could be little joy and no glory.”

She frowned as he continued; she knew she was missing something of critical importance here.

“I will not deny the child, but I ask you to tell me who the father is, so I may speak with him.”

She laughed then, laughed until her voice was raw with it, her throat torn and aching. She laughed until she had to clutch at the heavy drapes and her hand clamped around her rich fabric so that she might stay upright. “You think that I have broken the vows I spoke the day we were married, broken them for the fleeting pleasure and enduring love my husband could not give unto me?” she asked bitterly, one fist balled against her chest, against her racing heart.

“I know it. What other explanation can there be?”

That the child is yours, born of your flesh and my folly, meleth-nín, hir-nín, hervenn-nín…

But she could not say it: the proud daughter of a proud mother.

“Mayhap you speak from your own guilt, Elrond Peredhil. How many have warmed your loins since we two were wed?”

“None. There have been none for me.”

“Aye. I might have known that such a creature of blood as cold as the Grinding Ice which our forefathers knew would care nothing for passions, but for the passions of chill metal and raging power.” She pointed with her own ring-less hand at the finger which bore Vilya, a warm and unsullied blue against his flesh. And her pride impelled her on the disastrous course she had chosen. “And what would you thus care if I took my pleasures where I could find them?”

He came nearer, his robes whispering across the floor, draped gracefully around his tall frame, and took her trembling hands in his. “I have no right to care. I do not ask you to give him up, merely that I might speak with him to claim the child for my own so that it might know no shame in its parentage. Keep your lover dear to you, if you wish, but do not deny me this.” He shook with the effort to restrain his raging fury, not to demand – beg – plead – that she might love him and no other, but still he remained resolute. He would ask nothing of her that she could not give freely.

Celebrían was incensed by his words, by his calmness, his peace.

That he should be so willing to let me go… I, who would transverse the Marred World for him without a glance or a doubt…

In spite, and in anger, in hurt pride, and in ruined love, she answered. “I will not tell you his name, for you do not deserve to have it within your hold, my lord.”

He bowed deep to her, his face etched with some unreadable emotion, and left, the tip of one sleeve brushing against her, and she shuddered, holding back her tears until he was gone beyond hearing.

For it is your own name, my dear love, and I would not have you hear it in anger and in pity.

~*~

Elrond realised that all his hopes that this birth would be easier than the first were but a dream. No matter that they had done this before; no matter that the babe was not his, it was still an agony of waiting, seeming to stretch each passing second to a life-age of the sun. Too fearful to wait in the antechamber, he had closeted himself away with a pile of excessively dull tax records and Erestor, who appeared mildly baffled by his lord’s distraction.

The elf-lord’s stomach had worked itself into knots, and he found himself glad that he had had naught to eat to break his fast that morn, such was the tension which ruled him as the afternoon wore on towards the dimness of evening, and his attention slipped away again and again.

A knock on the door seemed to reverberate through his very breastbone, and he sprang up, his fair face a mask of worry, concern, fear, joy…

“What? What news have you?” he barked, even before the door was opened.

It was the twins, their identical faces flushed with excitement, their grey eyes bright, their garb in disarray from their passage through the corridors of the Last Homely House. “Adar!” they cried in unison, barely able to keep still. “Adar, come quickly. It is over. The child is born.”

The scroll Elrond had been toying with fell to the floor with a resounding clatter, but it was left to Erestor to pick it up with an expression of severe disapproval. The peredhil scarcely spared it a backward glance, hurrying towards the birthing room shoulder to shoulder, tall and dark.

Elrond looked at his sons, and rejoiced to find their countenances wreathed in smiles, but his own heart still beat with an irregular tattoo in his chest. His hands were trembling, and he was aware of even the least of sounds and scents – the musty air rising up from the wine cellars, the creak of a door somewhere in the distance, the scent of warm bread, and the click of a lock…

He could not have said whether the journey was long or short, whether he climbed stairs or descended into the bowels of the House, only that she was somewhere ahead with the babe…

The door opened at his touch as if he was awaited, and he stopped, gazing upon his wife who rested among the mounded pillows with her fair hair streaming back from her head. Fresh sheets were tucked around her slender frame, and her eyes were closed in peace. In her arms lay a tiny bundle, wrapped in fine linens, from which a tuft of black hair, soft as swans’ down protruded.

Elrond’s heart leapt, but he kept himself steady, hoping that his legs had yet the strength to carry him across the room while his pride bade him to flee. Eventually, he coaxed his feet into tentative motion, crossing the small chamber as if it encompassed all the distance and danger of the Enedwaith.

Gently, so gently, he took the babe in his arms, surveying the girl’s delicate features. There could be no mistaking her for aught but a peredhel and his own true daughter at that. The shape of the closed eyes, the breadth of the birth-red brow, the stubborn set of the babe’s mouth… Even in the childish features, he could recognise his own, the countenance which stared out at him from the mirror each day.

Elrond allowed a broad grin to split his face, and felt a great, joyous laugh bubbling up within him as he looked upon the face of his daughter.

And out of the corner of his vision, he saw that Celebría eye eyes were open, and that she was looking upon him. Gently, he placed the girl-child in her arms and knelt by her bedside, contrite at his unfounded suspicion.

“Thank you, hervess.” He could find no other words to explain what he felt, to cast it into speech. “Thank you for my daughter.”

Although he spoke no more, Celebrían smiled, her heart glad, for she heard all that he did not say – that he knew she had broken no vows.

There was a long silence, and it fell to her to speak first, one delicate hand stroking the feathery hair on the top of the babe’s head. “We must have…”

Elrond bit his lips. “I am sorry…”

“Nay; I am sorry.”

Long they looked at each other, neither able to relinquish the moment, neither able to speak, neither daring to hope. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, for hope could destroy them both.


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