Laer o Faen

Twenty-five

Second Age of Middle Earth – 1695 to 1697

I-hiril celeb e gant im... barad dín ban, dan i-vaith lintad an chûn dín naegrad.

A/N The events in this chapter took place over at two-year period. They appear here condensed to aid in the flow of the storytelling. I also wish to put a general trigger warning in this chapter.

"There will be no peace between us, Celyndailiel," Sauron's voice rang out like thunder across the landscape. His threat like lightning that followed after. "But you will surrender to me, and you will beg for me to take you before the turning of another year."

The horse beneath her shifted and danced nervously sideways and Celyndailiel drew her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Winter was setting in, and already the ground, at first powdered white with the first snows, showed red with the blood already spilled… and more fell before her eyes.

"Noro!" she voiced the urgent command and put heel to horse, urging the skittish mount forward, closer to the edge of the battle, where the two remaining warriors of a Triad fought to hold off the Orcs and Easterlings that sought to reach their downed companion. It wasn't the first time she had ridden into danger in this way, nor did she believe it would be her last, but she would not sit idly while her kinsmen died around her.

As she reached the fallen Elf, she slipped her leg over her horse's neck and slid to the ground at the warrior's side. She reached for him, unflinching at the sting of a spark that landed on her cheek as her hands moved rapidly over ties and clasps of armor to reach the bloodied gash that ran in a diagonal slash across his chest.

"My Lady," he gasped, and she hushed him firmly.

"Time enough for that when we get you back to the encampment," she told him, pulling the last of her bandages from the satchel slung across her body.

Even as she finished speaking, at his urgent, warning cry, she dropped the bandages to the top of her skirts and snatched up his fallen shield, angling it up over her, even as she leaned closer to safeguard him from further injury. The force of the blow that descended on the shield sent a numbing shock through both of her arms; drew a sharp cry from her as the breath flew from her lungs. There was no time for such things. A renewed rush of hot blood struck her cheek from the injured Elf's wound, and growling with what was left of her breath, she launched the shield from her hands and into the face of the Easterling that loomed over her, relieved a moment later, when a second Triad reached their warrior companions and aided in keeping the attackers clear of where she ministered to the Elf. She bound the wound as tightly as she could, and murmured healing words, until one of the others turned her way, the fighting around them, for the moment, pushed back.

"Help me get him to my horse," she instructed, and the warrior nodded, reaching down to support her as she lifted the Elf to a sitting position, and then to his feet, even slumped as he was, until the both of them hoisted him to lie across her horse's neck.

She mounted behind him, gathering the reins with one hand, and keeping the other on the back of her patient, and turned back for the walls or Ost-in-Edhil, and to the encampment in the lee of its walls.

She had barely set her feet upon the ground again, and called for aid, when a large, strong hand closed around her arm.

"What in the name of Eru do you think you're doing?" Celebrimbor almost shook her as he asked, concern clear in his eyes, even atop his anger.

"Do you think I will sit within the city walls while our people die for my safety?" she snapped back, and quickly instructed the Elven medics as to the care of the fallen soldier.

"That does not mean that you must ride into battle yourself," Celebrimbor countered, turning her to face him, his eyes raking over her as if searching for injury or blemish. "If anything were to happen to you—"

"Then it would be my choice or my fate," she told him, and softening after a moment gripped his forearms, and met his eyes earnestly with her own. "Celebrimbor, I swore to you that I would not forsake you, and I will not. Nor will I forsake those under your command. While I am able, I will help them, and heal them… and if they cannot come to me, then I shall go out, even to the heart of battle to bring them home."

He shook his head.

"And I cannot allow you to put yourself in harm's way," he said, "Not like this. This is only going to get worse, Celyndailiel. Sauron will not stop until he gets what he wants, what he came for, and day upon day he draws closer."

"Then he will know disappointment," she replied stubbornly, "For he will not find the rings here, and he will not find the daughters of Finarfin so easily cowed. A year he gave me, before I would go crawling for his mercy and his attentions, yet here I stand, and here I shall remain. Celebrimbor, I deny him."

She closed her eyes as she felt the warms of Celebrimbor's embrace enfold her. The warmth of his robes, for just a moment, shut out the sounds of fighting carried to her on the ill wind, and the memory of the last such embrace washed over her.

As they reached the courtyard, Celyndailiel slipped down from the guardsman's horse, and picked up her mud stained skirts to run for the doorway of the inner keep, only to run almost full tilt into Celebrimbor's arms.

"Celyndailiel!" he wrapped her tightly in his trailing sleeves and she guessed that word had arrived before she, of what had transpired at the ford of the Isen.

"There is no more time," she told him, drawing back from his embrace. "You must send it, and send it now. It cannot remain here."

"I know," he said, sighing softly, "But I do not know how we might get it away from here when all roads and rivers are watched. And even should the messengers reach Lorien, Amdir would as soon cut them down as grant them entry to the Dreaming Woods. How then would Nenya reach Galadriel?"

"Trust your own work, Celebrimbor," Celyndailiel said softly, and held out her hand into which he – after only a moment's hesitation – placed the ring. "The Ring of Adamant will see to its own concealment from evil, and Lady Galadriel herself will prevent Amdir's interference."

"We will hold, Celebrimbor," Celyndailiel said, drawing away from his arms. "For a while longer at least. And for that to happen, I must see to the wounded, and you must return to your generals."

For once, the breeze was light enough, and blew from the sea, not from inland, so that the sounds and preparations for the coming war, and the many skirmishes and greater battles yet, did not disturb the lightness of Elrond's heart as he stood on the balcony and looked down into garden below, where the Lady Celebrían sat with her maids, taking the air.

He could have remained watching her for the rest of the day, but for the knowledge that Ereinion awaited him, and the arrival of Thranduil, within. With one last, longing sigh, he turned and went to join the King.

The study had become a war room, and Elrond's scholarly heart panged to see it thus. He longed for the time when his study might, once again, become a place of learning and of relaxation.

But that will not be here…

The realization halted his steps, and with a frown, he could not help but look back over his shoulder. If not here, then what of Celebrían? Where then was her future? Another sigh, and then a huff of self-deprecation shook him from his reverie. It was arrogant to believe that he might feature in that future, especially as he had neither spoken to her of his feelings, nor had he spoken to any other, save to the lady Celyndailiel, and only after she had challenged him on his growing connection to the beautiful elleth, whose light laughter reached him in that moment, and transformed his face, softening his frown of consternation.

The sound of the door opening in the room behind him, no doubt heralding the arrival of the Prince, drew Elrond, finally, away from his diversion, and he turned and entered through the gauzy drapes that enclosed the study. He nodded to both occupants of the room, even as Gil-Galad greeted Thranduil with terseness that bespoke his own concerns.

"I trust you had no trouble on the roads?"

"Little," Thranduil answered, "but I came from the north, and the trouble it seems lies in the opposite direction."

"And did it take you a month or more of scouting to discern that, Prince Thranduil?" Gil-Galad's tone was laced with ill humor, bordering on sarcasm that drew Elrond's gaze in his direction as tension grasped him, sinew, muscle and bone.

Only then did he see the poorly masked spark of mischief and friendship still lodged in the corners of the King's eyes, and his badly held, serious expression, which dissolved a moment later as the King took in Elrond's own mien.

"Oh, if you could see your face," he laughed, and reached over to clap Elrond on the shoulder, before turning to embrace Thranduil warmly. "It's good to see you, my friend."

Elrond relaxed, smiling to see the two together again. He took comfort in their closeness and had for many long years. So long as at least one of them stood in defense of Middle Earth, then all could not be lost.

"Indeed," Elrond echoed, serious in spite of himself. "We have missed you, Thranduil."

"As I you," Thranduil answered, and then, released from Gil-Galad's embrace, turned somber as he took the few short steps that brought him to the map on which the course of the battle was being charted. He waited then, until Elrond and Gil-Galad joined him there.

Elrond could not help but sigh as he looked down on the strife displayed there; the push of Sauron's forces against them evident in the line of black figures advancing slowly, but it seemed, inexorably in their direction.

Thranduil reached out to remove a similar line of black figures from the further north of them, setting them with quiet deliberation beside the map.

"There will be no interference from Angmar," he said firmly. "The road is secured. The greater threat we face comes from the south and east, as you have here arrayed."

Elrond watched as Gil-Galad's face turned from a frown to an outright scowl before he asked, "Then who holds the north Road?"

"My father's forces control the roads to the north," Thranduil answered, his face a stone mirror to Ereinion's. "Those of Lasgalen he sent as I requested and gave to my command."

The news did not appear to ease the tension on the face of the King and gave Elrond to frown in concern of his own, until he could no longer hold the question that he knew Gil-Galad held inside, in deference to Thranduil's feelings.

"Then what of lands further east?" he asked.

Thranduil's head snapped around to regard him fiercely as he lashed the air between them with his words.

"My people-" he began then amended, "Greenwood, will hold against the East!"

Elrond sighed, his gift of sight making the connections, providing understanding in matters of which Thranduil had not yet spoken.

"They remain then?" he asked somberly, and full of sympathy. "And still no word of their Lady, the queen?"

Thranduil sighed, his anger, never fully realized in the first place, dissolved under Elrond's understanding gaze. He shook his head.

"There is still no word of her from those who remained in Cuivienen in search of her. I fear…" he trailed off, and Elrond watched as his thumb traced the line of the ring upon his hand. "But no."

A shake of his head, and he snapped out of it, even as the world around Elrond shifted.

"Such is the curse of all who see, my Lady."

She too, laughed, and her laughter became tears, and then a wince of pain that drew him to her side at once, kneeling on the ground beside her as she pressed her hand to the front of her shoulder, on the left-hand side.

"She lives yet," the words came from her as a sob. "And he has seen the horror she has become. I bound our fates when I gave her life from my own light. You knew, and yet you said nothing. Nothing… why?"

He shook his head, the words of the healing spell falling repeatedly from his lips over and over until he felt her relax in his arms; lean against him and cling to his robes.

The vision of the twisted, tortured soul that once had been an Elf of Cuivienen that he had seen through Celyndailiel's vision chilled Elrond beyond reason. Could it have been their queen? If such a thing could happen to one so noble… He paled and fought not to turn again and glance out through the doorway to the balcony and gardens beyond. If such a fate could come to pass, what of those who risked capture, death, or worse, in these daily assaults at the hands of Sauron's army.

"There is no safety here," he murmured aloud without realization, drawing the gaze of both Thranduil and the king in his direction.

"What did you see?" Gil-Galad asked, and Elrond knew the king knew him well enough to recognize the signs of sight in him.

He shook his head. How could he reveal what he had seen of the present, in his vision of the future… a much different time? How could he destroy Thranduil's hope?

"I fear for the safety of the ladies here," he answered honestly, "should they remain when the battles reach our door."

"When?" Ereinion echoed.

Elrond nodded. "I fear when, not if, yes."

"What would you have us do?" The king asked, "We cannot empty Lindon and all of its surrounds… and chances are that most of our ellith would be as eager to stand as fight, as likely as not."

Again, Elrond shook his head.

"Please, Ereinion, heed me," he implored. "They cannot stay here."

He almost jumped, he was so lost in his lingering horror that he had not noticed the prince's movements, when Thranduil placed a hand onto his shoulder.

"Elrond, my friend, please," he said softly, "What have you seen that has you so distressed and in fear for our maidens?"

As he looked up, Elrond saw in Thranduil an abiding sense of alarm, and knew that the prince was thinking, not only of the maidens in Lindon, but those in nearby cities, and in the fortress of Ost-in-Edhil. He reached out and gripped the other Elf's wrist, and in a low voice told him, "I have not seen danger to the one for whom you fear."

"Then-"

"But please, Thranduil, Celebrían… she cannot stay here," he looked away for a moment, and a little more openly for the sake of the king added, "The King's sister has already sent her from the encroaching battle, so I am not alone in my fear. She must leave."

Thranduil turned to look at the king, as if in confirmation of Elrond's news, or perhaps to garner unspoken approval for to act.

"It is true," Gil-Galad confirmed. "Celyn did send her in haste from Ost-in-Edhil."

Thranduil lowered his head as if in thought then with a breath suggested, "Perhaps then she and her maidens can be sheltered in Lorien, with her mother. Surely Amdir would not turn away kin to the Lady of Light."

"Perhaps for the best," Gil-Galad said, his own long, hard gaze at the map drawing first Thranduil's and then at the last Elrond's attention back to the battle. "We will hold them as long as we might, but Thranduil?"

"My lord?"

"We have need of you here." He leaned against the map upon the table and sighed, "We have need of greater forces here than we can muster. Do not linger in Lorien."

She looked at her hands… claws, her fingernails filthy and broken, as her body, but not her will – still her will held. Now they even taunted her with it.

"If you did not want what we have to give," one said as he ran a lascivious touch the length of her body, become twisted with their torture and the weakness in her body from the lack of nourishment. "you would flee this world… like the cowards all your kind be!"

"Closer," she rasped, wrapping her bonelike fingers around the thick, scarred wrist to hold his touch against her. "Come closer and tell me what I want…"

A rush of terrible anger – hate – flowed from deep within, from the space into which she pushed all of the darkness with which they assaulted her – all of the darkness that was the spirit of Barad- Dûr. She subsumed it; welcomed its strength as the Orc, laughing wickedly and gloating in front of his friends, sidled in.

"You want me," he growled.

"I want… you…" she whispered in echo, pressing against him, lifting a chained arm to wrap it – and the chains – around the creature; sniffed and nuzzled at his neck, as if in affection, as if to surrender to a wantonness that she pushed away, even as she embraced the strength it gave her.

"I want you… dead!" she snarled, and opened her mouth against his throat, and bit… hard, holding fast against his sudden struggles until his skin gave way and she tasted the foul, hot blood filling her mouth; closed her teeth together and tore her face away, spitting out the chunk of flesh at his feet, screaming primally as she pulled on the chains she'd wrapped him in.

"Fools!" she cried at the others who remained paralyzed by her sudden act of darkness that they had never thought to see from their elvish prisoner. "How dare you! How dare you presume yourselves worthy of me! Your master… he is the only one…!"

She gave a wailing cry again, a long and bitter screech that sent them scrambling away from the cell, and from their companion whose life blood spilled in a pool at her feet. They did not even take the time to close the door.

Válinsillúle freed the chains from around the dying Orc, and stumbled back, her angry cry becoming sobs as she fell against the wall, the blood still spreading toward her as she sank to lie in the filth on the floor, alternately tearing at herself and wiping away the lingering blood from her mouth.

How much longer could she fight this? Why did she fight? She could not help but wonder what pointlessness or what tenacity denied her even the thought to fade, after all that had happened to her.

What light remained flickered against her hand, reflected on the ring that they had not been able to take from her. She fought for her people… for all of Middle Earth and if one last breath she could take, still as the Elven queen she was, could even in some small way delay this great evil its dominion over the goodly peoples of Middle Earth, then she would fight.

…no matter what will become of you…

She shuddered as the voice invaded her head, and she felt herself welcoming the dark consciousness over her, to chase away all else.

All of her assertions to Celebrimbor that they would hold tasted as ash in her mouth as she looked down upon the map in the war room. She had come to find her mentor, her guardian. Instead her heart was filled with fear as she saw that Sauron's forces were closing in… and quickly.

Her eyes drifted, involuntarily, to Lorien. Scouts reported that a party from Lindon travelled that way, an escort for the Lady Celebrían, flying Greenwood colors. She closed her eyes, pushing away thought and feeling. She could not allow herself to think on that now, on him. Thankful, she was, that her friend was being hastened to safety, but no, to think on Thranduil now, when so much depended on her strength and wisdom...

"There is never a time you do not think of him."

She closed her eyes and leaned back into the warmth of Celebrimbor's arms as he slipped them around her and rested his cheek against the side of her head.

"How did you know?" she asked softly.

"I saw your gaze drift westward," he said, then turned her gently, but with purpose, in his embrace, leaning down to look in earnest into her eyes. "Celyndailiel, there is still time. You do not have to remain in danger here."

She shook her head, breaking his gaze.

"No, Celebrimbor," she reached up to rest her palm against his cheek. "You have been as a father to me, and I promised, promised I would not forsake you."

"I release you from that promise."

"But I do not," she countered, and shook her head, "And every moment I linger here increases the danger - brings the Enemy closer."

"Celyndailiel, you cannot blame yourself for this."

Again, she shook her head. "I do not," she said. "I know where on the blame falls, but while I may not be to blame, not the cause of this madness, I have it within my grasp to draw a halt to it, at least… at least…" she held up a hand as Celebrimbor seemed set to interrupt, and she could guess what he was about to say. She did not think so highly of herself to believe that the Enemy of her people marched to war simply because she hurt his pride when she rejected his advances. She knew... knew that she was simply a means to an end, but if - by her capitulation - she could delay the tide of horror that it seemed would descend over Ost-in-Edhil and beyond, all Eregion itself, then perhaps her sacrifice would be worth the cost.

"At least," she repeated again, softer yet, "temporarily."

With the open road and its dangers still at his back, Thranduil almost dare not give the order to reduce their hurried pace as they reached the borders of the Dreaming Wood, but slow they must, for to have ridden so roughly beneath the boughs of the trees of Lorien would likely have brought as swift an end as the pursuing Orcs and other minions of Sauron that dogged their escape.

Holding up a closed hand, he reigned in his own mount and glanced across to where Celebrían rode at the center of a triad of his own personal guard as he gave the order at last.

"Ledho athgar, Pado vae."

As one the company slowed, the horses dipping their heads almost in reverent understanding to their riders' unspoken commands as they slackened their pace from their hasty canter, to a steady walk.

"Ad anno ú-vaith ae tafnen na i-Ghaladhrim," Thranduil added, as he led the way beneath the first boughs of the trees of Lorien.

Almost at once the pathway grew too narrow to ride more than two abreast, and then in single file as the gray of the late autumnal sky disappeared from view, replaced by the over-arching browns and greens of the woodland, which cast wavering shadows over horse and rider alike.

"Allow the Lady Celebrían to pass forward," he ordered as a change in the dancing light sent fingers of warning along his spine. They were being watched. Paralleled... guarded.

"Lord Thranduil?"

Her soft voice almost at his shoulder disturbed his attempts to reach out to the surrounding woods and gain a measure of what was to come. He drew breath and turned his head to find her gaze a mirror of his own concern, and would have answered, had not his next steps been halted by the hiss and thrum of three, swan-feather fletched arrows that struck the ground barely a hair from his horse's hooves.

"Daro!" The voice seemed to be that of the very trees around them, as the answering whisper of weapons drawn and readied by the Lasgalendrim at his back stirred tension from the air, which added, "I-dûr o i-Aran.

"It is by the request of the High King, and of Lord Elrond that we come," Thranduil answered, raising a hand - an empty hand - to signal to his warriors that they should lower their weapons, for had he not so ordered but moment before. "Seeking asylum for the Lady Celebrían, daughter to the Lady of Light and Lord Celeborn, who dwell in peace among your people."

A shadow stirred, and a figure resolved itself from the leaves to stand on the pathway before Thranduil, his countenance stern and his gaze turned toward the elven maiden who shifted atop her horse, as nervous as the mount itself.

"Ill follows you, Lasgalen," the Elf said in greeting.

From the saddle, Thranduil offered a polite bow, his hand laid to his breast in recognition of the Elven commander.

"It is why we are come," he said.

"To bring danger to the Dreaming Wood?" the Elf snapped, as frosty as winter mornings.

"To seek the aid of your king." Thranduil would not be diverted, "and to deliver this Elleth safely into the arms of her family."

The warrior-commander of the Galadhrim stared at Thranduil, and time seemed to slow and to distort so that a single calm breath became painfully inadequate to the needs of his body. He forced himself to exhale, an attempt to release the tension that gathered at his shoulders, like restricting arms laid about him. He took a second breath, the words of a more urgent plea forming in his mind, like ready arrows, should the Elf refuse them passage to the heart of Lorien.

Without a word, the Elf melted away into the shadows as quickly as he had appeared, leaving behind a single word in his place.

"Aphado."

The combined voices of the advancing forces, raised in chant, played counterpart to the hiss and ring of Elvish steel on the baser Orcish iron. Like fireworks, though with far less beauty, the sparks of battle lit the gathering gloom, and the called commands, like plainsong against the bass beat of evil that marched ever closer, shattered hope.

The day fractured into tears, and Celyndailiel shivered, and pushed away from the window of her chambers, weaving past the maidens that scattered like deer even as they sought to stay her footsteps.

"My Lady!"

She ignored their cries as she hurried down the breezeway and staircases to the courtyard below, where the incoming wounded, and outgoing reinforcements met and mingled in macabre dances. The stench of blood, and worse, of fear and death, hung heavy in the air, and turning to forbid her maidens follow her, she snatched up a spare healer's kit, and armed herself with a short, leaf-blade, before she pushed her way through the confusion of comings and goings, hurrying out toward the battlefield.

"Tangado haid!"

"Berio i ost!"

"Tiro an i ennyn!"

"Maetho ni amon!"

Orders cried from every direction were punctuated by the cries of the wounded; of those still in battle, a cacophony of battle sound, like scars in the very air itself.

"Tangado-Berio-Tiro-Maetho!"

Celyndailiel fell to her knees beside an injured Elf, assessing quickly the care he would need, even as field medics reached her side, to take over as she pressed a clean dressing to a ragged wound, exposing muscle and bone.

"There is nothing you can do for him here," she said, urgently, "Get him into the city."

"Lady," the medics roughly bound the linen in place and barely lifted him away before a snarling mass of putrid flesh descended upon them, and Celyndailiel spun away, deflecting an incoming blow from the Orcish soldiers that pushed toward the gate behind her.

"Berio i ennyn!" she added her warning call to the shouts of the commanders already on the field, "Berio i vên vi ost ni harn!"

Blow after blow rained upon the Elvish short-sword she carried. Underestimated by her Orcish adversary, she pushed back, even as she grew weary. She ignored the slips and stings of spark and minor scrapes as his dulled blade slapped against her barely armored form, covered as she was only in healer's leather vest and skirts beneath her cloak.

Fatigue descended fast - too fast - but the tide and confusion of battle pushed her away from her opponent, jostled by others joined in the fray, pushed clear, into a rare and momentary space to draw breath.

She felt him before she saw him, as the touch of a cold hand along her spine. Turning, she saw him then, arrayed, still, in shining glory against the filth of his minions, head and shoulders above their bowed and twisted forms.

The battlefield fell away, nothing existed between them but promises made and denied, and then the cries and the screams began to echo in her mind - the scent of fear and death made sharper by her nearness to him filled her lungs and made her sicken with the first stirrings of despair. She could stop this... halt this tide.

"... you will beg for me to take you before the turning of another year."

As a sudden surge, awareness of the battle returned, and pushed into motion Celyndailiel took one and then another and then more steps toward the Dark Lord, an arm raised as if to catch his attention. Her pace hastened, until she was running. Her hand opened, and the sword she carried fell to the ground, to be trampled into the mud beneath the churning of booted feet.

Uncaring, she pushed aside the swords and spears raised to hinder her progress. She would reach him. She WOULD turn the tide of this battle.

No matter what will become of-

Heat burned at her wrist, and light burst behind her eyes. Pain from the many cuts and scrapes she had received in her desperate flight spoke in on her all at once, and a jarring, almost tearing ache in her shoulder brought her to a sudden halt. Celebrimbor caught her arm and pulled her to him.

"Celyndailiel, what...?"

Her eyes met his and saw understanding dawn in them. She wanted to tell him she was sorry - that it was the only way she knew to give them time enough to find another, but the words would not come in time, and in that moment, she knew... knew as surely as though she had written the days to come that she would lose him. The only father figure she had truly known.

"No... no!" she clawed at his wrist, at his armor, his cloak to try and hold to him, but she had tired, and with a strength she had not known he could use against her he threw her away from him. Back... back toward the Elven elite she flew, and stumbled to fall amid their uncounted Triads. With what strength remained to her, she clawed at the rutted ground to find her feet again.

"Tangado i thî!" Celebrimbor cried out to them, his voice clear even above the roar of rage that swept over them, a fierce wind, tangible as the Dark Lord was denied her as his prize.

"No!"

She found her feet at last, but too slow, too slow, as the Triads divided, two of each threesome linking arms to stretch across the battlefield, every third of them turned away from the enemy, while the remaining warrior of each Triad tool one step away from their companions, swords raised to defend the line.

"Tangado i thî! U-ristad!" Celebrimbor called, repeating the order as the first of the Orcs reached him, took hold and began to drag him down by their sheer force of number, drawing him toward where Sauron raged in defeat. "U-ristad!"

"Baw!" Celyndailiel threw herself repeatedly at the line of Elves that separated her from the retreating Orcs, trying to break through, but as ordered, their line held - unbreakable. "Baw, Sennui adar nín!"

"Dan!" Celebrimbor's words became lost in the increasing, jeering roar of Sauron's forces as they dragged him away, "Dan ost! Tangado thî u-ristad! Berio dín... Berio dín!"

"It was right, Oropherion," Amdir said softly without moving from the carven throne on which he sat, holding audience on the highest flet of Lorien's settlement, "that you returned the Lady Celebrían to her home, and to her family here."

He gestured, and from the side of the audience chamber, Amdir's steward approached where Thranduil stood, carrying refreshments on a tray of filigreed wood inlaid with silver. Thranduil had never felt less like accepting such empty hospitality - knowing that without a doubt, the king of Lorien was about to deny his request for aid for Eregion. He also knew that to refuse would be an insult to Amdir, and that would further prejudice the king against him. With a half bow of thanks to Amdir, he took the offered goblet of wine, and sipped at it, barely wetting his lips.

"But...?" he prompted quietly when Amdir did not immediately continue.

Amdir's face took on a frown of confusion.

"But there your business in Lorien ends," he said his voice matching his countenance, "As does our responsibility to you; to the lands outside of our woodlands."

Thranduil gripped the goblet in his hand more tightly and silently cursed the stubborn naivety with which Elves such as Amdir, leaders among their people, thought on the true threat posed by Sauron, as if they disbelieved the reports coming from the battlefields, where others of their kin lost their lives to his madness - his evil. Had he never even spoken with Celeborn, who dwelt among his people and had seen - first hand - the loss of life, and the establishment of shadow that Sauron brought to the already fragile Elven lands.

"Amdir," he began, but faltered as the guards around the flet all shifted, tightened their grip upon their weapons, and Thranduil felt their eyes bore into him. "Aran..." he added softly, but with an urgent fervor, "with respect, against the multitude of his minions, the sheer fortitude of numbers ranked against them, our people will not hold. We need all the help that we can-"

"Adar nín..."

Thranduil stopped abruptly as Amroth appeared at his side and place a hand on his shoulder in solidarity of his words.

"Thranduil speaks the truth," he said. "I have seen the destruction his armies have wrought, and if they are not stopped in Eregion, their march will bring them eastward across the mountains and Lorien will be their target."

Thranduil watched as Amdir sighed and standing from his throne, descended the steps toward where his son now stood in support of him. He glanced at his friend and felt the warmth of Amroth's brief smile reach him before the chill of Amdir's words fell over them both.

"The woodland and the people of Lorien have been safe through the ages and it is by absenting ourselves from the conflicts outside of our lands," he said. "I will not endanger them now by sending them into a war that is not ours."

"Not yours!" Thranduil asked with rising incredulity, and ignored the way the guards shifted again, and Amroth's squeeze to his shoulder. "Have you heard nothing your s-?"

"I have heard, Oropherion Thranduil," Amdir answered formally and in anger, "and far more than you have divulged."

Thranduil watched as he shifted his gaze then to his son, before turning and heading for the stairway leading down from the flet, commanding as he went, "There will be no aid from Lorien. Only should they reach the borders of our land, and only then, they will be met with deadly force, you can be assured." He paused at the top the stair and turned back to Thranduil with a scowl. "Your business with Lorien is concluded. You will leave by nightfall tomorrow."

Amdir left then; descended to the forest floor and his guard after him. Thranduil and Amroth stood alone. Thranduil sighed, but it was Amroth that broke their silence, encouraging Thranduil to stay even before the Prince of Greenwood had realized his intent was to leave immediately, given such unwelcome reception.

"Dartho, mellon nín," he murmured, "a pedithan an adar nín."

"I fear that nothing you can say to him will change his mind," Thranduil said.

"At least until morning then," Amroth countered, and Thranduil could not help but smile in sorrowful appreciation of his friend's attempt to support him as the Prince of Lorien added, "You will need to be rested for the journey back to Lindon."

Thranduil sighed.

"Until morning," he conceded. "And perhaps you can discover what it is that he knows, that I do not."

Amroth grinned then, drawing an unwilling chuckle from Thranduil's heavy heart.

"Count on it," his friend promised. "I will come and find you later."

Thranduil nodded, and murmured as soft, "Athar."

"You wish to see me, Ereinion?"

Elrond's hurried steps came to a halt before the desk at which Gil-Galad sat, and he looked down upon the missives set before the High King. He could not help but wonder which of them had precipitated the king's summons.

Gil-Galad stood and came around the table to place a hand on Elrond's shoulder and to lead him away, toward the fireplace, as if the king needed to chase away some insidious chill.

"There is something I need for you to do," he said.

Elrond said nothing for many moments, simply watched and reached out to gauge the feel of Gil-Galad's mood, or to try to anticipate the errand upon which the king would send him, but for once, no hint of any purpose or reason reached him.

He drew back in to himself, and was alarmed to see the king holding out to him one of the rings from his fingers, but not simply a ring... The Ring - the one that Gil-Galad had so carefully guarded since Celebrimbor had sent it to him several months before.

"No!" he exclaimed, actually stepping back and holding up a hand in denial, but Gil-Galad shook his head and followed him a step forward as he retreated more.

"Take it, Elrond," he said, "For it is yours now, and you will need it where your path will take you."

"You need me here," Elrond argued.

"I do," the king answered, "but I cannot keep you. You are needed more in Eregion. I need you to be there... to save what you can of Ost-in-Edhil."

He stretched out his hand again, the Ring of Sapphire still held between his thumb and forefinger, the firelight glinting, distorted by the visible, tangible magic of the Ring of Air's shimmering gold band and perfectly cut gemstone.

"Take it," he said.

Still hesitant, Elrond reached out to close his hand around the Elven Ring. At once he was beset, assaulted by so many images, so many phrases spoken in voices all his own that he trembled with effort of catching his breath and to remain grounded in his present. Moments of time, faces he did not yet know, but who were as familiar to him as his own blood, love and loss and dread - a great and heavy feeling of responsibility, and then-

Silence... the still small voice of the ocean, calling... calling...

I Aear cân ven na mar.

Alone.

I Aear cân ven na mar.

Peace.

I Aear cân ven na mar

"Elrond...!"

Gil-galad's hand was on his arm, and the king shook him gently. Elrond took a shuddering breath and murmured an apology, before slipping the ring onto his finger.

"It goes ill in Eregion, Ereinion," he said as if to explain his 'absence' and yet, nothing he had seen spoke to that. He simply knew that they would lose the battle there.

"Forget Eregion," Gil-Galad told him softly, "It does not take the sight to know that Ost-in-Edhil is as good as lost. I charge you to safeguard the souls that remain there, Elrond... for I also know that this... and if not this, then the continuing conflict with this Dark Lord will be my undoing. Do not speak of it to my sister, but-"

"She already knows, my king." Elrond interrupted softly. "She has the sight."

"Still, you will not speak of it to her," Gil-Galad told him calmly. "But from this time on, you will be my heir, and are my regent. And if, as I believe and as you have no doubt seen, Ost-in-Edhil cannot be saved, then you must lead our people to a safer place; maintain a stronghold there until this evil can be vanquished once and for all."

Rest and reverie evaded him, though he did not begrudge others who took advantage of the peace beneath the boughs of Lorien to calm their spirits. They would be back in the heat of battle soon enough, and with little enough respite then.

Thranduil stood staring out into the gathering darkness of the woodland evening, the fingers of his right hand resting against the living heartbeat of the forest, one of the ancient woodland's tree. The sense of it gave him calm enough to think, not to simply vilify Amdir for his lack of willingness to act.

He sighed softly.

"Your heart is troubled."

Thranduil tensed as the cool couch of Galadriel's fingers ran over his, over the promise ring that weighed heavily upon him. She circled him, ducking beneath his outstretched arm as it rested against the tree, speaking as she moved, her words a slow trickle from her lips, her tone grave.

"You fear for her safety. She holds your heart and you would have her," her fingers trailed down across his shoulder, across his chest to the hilt of his blade that still hung at his left hip. "near you, where the reach of your blade might protect her."

She moved away then, removing her touch to circle behind him again, and though chilled, all but frozen in place as if she had cast some enchantment over him, he craned his neck to keep her in his sight. Impossible.

"What do you see?" he demanded, a hard edge of fear making his voice brittle.

"She cries for you in the gathering shadow." From behind, her answer felt all the more sinister - all the more urgent - and at his side the fingers of his left hand curled into a fist. "Disavows you by day, but weeps for you nightly, and yet, you no longer hear her... what had begun, is lost, for you stand in your own way."

"What must I do?" he asked, his jaw tight, teeth clenched. "What can I?"

"Nothing!" she hissed, once more ducking under his arm, this time to grab the lapel of his cloak to keep him close, even as he tried to move away. The fingers of his hands closed around her wrists, intent upon extricating himself from her grasp, but he could not - with ease or respect - break her hold upon him. "She is beyond you now."

"Lady Galadriel..." he began, but in that moment, she released him, and circled behind him again, and though he could no more move than before, he sensed that her steps would carry her away. "Hiril nín!"

He shivered as he felt the touch of her mind against his, her words heavy with prophesy.

Dan... boe an dín anno veriad lín.

The breath went from him in a rush, and suddenly freed, spun around, questions dying on his lips, for he was alone. Galadriel was not there.

A madness of fire and ice rippled through his body as Sauron tightened his fist in the air before him. Celebrimbor refused to cry out. Even when the Orcs that ripped at his arms as they held him, sending rivulets of blood to run hot and sticky along his arms, he refused to make a sound.

Stripped of his armor, his fine clothes in ruins around him, he stood, trembling in agony, but defiant in the face of the Dark Lord who still shone with the falseness of the disguise he had used to beguile them all. How could they have been so foolish?

Celyndailiel had seen through him, he realized then - for why else would he have been so fixated on an elleth that would have done little to advance his ambitions, other than to prevent her from foiling all his treacherous machinations.

You have taken something that belongs to me...

The push of Sauron's mind into his own broke his resolve to silence. The agony of darkness - like knives against his soul - drew a cry of terror from the very depth of him... and as it faded, spittle and blood form his bruised and bloodied mouth, where first the Orcs and goblin-kin had beaten him before delivering him to their lord, flew to fall like rosy petals against the churned mud of the battlefield as he spat, "I will never speak of that which your deception wrought against Elvenkind, and against all the good and free folk of Arda."

"Tell the Master," the Orcs whimpered into the cold of the twilight, as if Sauron's power hurt them too, at his refusal to speak. "Tell the Master and it can all be over... no more hurtings..."

"Pelo an undûn!" he growled and pulled against the spiked gauntlets that held him, tearing further flesh, like strips along his arms.

Where are the rings!?

The voice in his head split him apart, and he cried out again, his pain forming words; the words denial, "You will not have them... I will not breathe their place to you!"

Fool! Wretched imbecile!

Celebrimbor laughed, his sanity fragile in the face of such evil, yet bound and determined to protect, as best he could, all in Middle Earth from the horrors of what he had in his ignorance had a part in creating.

"A fool I am." He cackled, "for believing in the lies with which you seduced us... lost now. Lost to you at least."

"You will speak," Sauron spoke aloud and dreadful with it as he delivered the threat. "Or you will die, and I will find the truth of where they are from that pretty little maiden you protect, when she surrenders to me, and the city falls!"

Celyndailiel looked up as she heard the clatter of hooves in the courtyard and, handing the care of the injured guardsman to one of her maidens, climbed to her feet, gathering her skirts as she hurried outside to meet the incoming warriors.

She reached Elrond's side just as he slid from the saddle and handed the reins to a nearby groom. He was breathless and bloodied form battle, and her eyes automatically ran over him to check for injuries that might need attention.

He shook his head, but even so she took his arm and moved him to the side of the courtyard, in the lee of the great hall.

"There is no sign of him," he said even before she asked the question, "and we dare not push deeper into enemy held territory."

"They are practically at our door, Elrond," she lamented.

He nodded, "And coming closer hour upon hour. Celyndailiel-"

"No!" she snapped. "I will not abandon him. I promised."

He cupped her face between hand that were still soiled with the evidence of his many battles and leaned down to meet her eyes with his own. "You will not help him if you condemn yourself to harm and death at their hands."

"I will not abandon him," she repeated, clasping his wrists in her hands and drawing them away from her face; squeezed his fingers in her own, though kept his eyes held tighter still in her own gaze until she knew he understood.

"Then no more will I," he said, but Celyndailiel shook her head, turning then to take in the courtyard, the walking wounded, those wandering in search of food or rest.

"No," she told him, the surety of sight lending weight to her words. "No, Elrond, you were given a charge by my brother, and now is the time to act upon it."

"I will not leave you to face this enemy alone," he argued.

"Elrond, the enemy is at our door," she pointed out into the courtyard at those she had been watching mere moments ago. "There will be a siege here, and it is one we will not survive unless... unless," she raised her voice above his objections, "you lead our people out of here while we still may."

"But if you stay..."

"I must," she said, "For there are those wounded who cannot be moved and need their healer, but you... you will take those able bodied enough to travel. Go east, and to the north. Take to the mountains of Hithaeglir. They will shelter you. You will find a way - and a place of solace. This... I know."

He reached for her again, this time laid his forehead to hers and with his eyes closing on the sorrow she saw there, he whispered, "E enni u-gohenad lín."

She shook her head as she pulled away.

"Our paths are separate," she answered, "It is not for him to forgive or otherwise, in respect of me. Not any longer."

But even as she spoke the words, the felt his arms around her, breathed the scent that was uniquely Thranduil's... the heat of his kisses.

"Celyndailiel?"

She blinked, and realized her arms were braced against Elrond's, as though she had been trying to push him away. She took a breath, and avoiding his question, answered, "We have been preparing... those who are fit to travel. Gather your warriors, Elrond. You leave within the hour, while you still can."

She turned away then, and hurried across the courtyard, unseeing those in her path, still lost on the edge of a moment that had yet to be.

...She acquiesced, then mirrored his passionate need and denial of their enforced separation. The taste of him kindled her desire keenly as he ran his fingers into her hair, the silken strands of it tangling in the roughness of his hands that were still bloodied and roughened from battle. He lifted her against him, and moved, taking her toward the nearby pillar of a breezeway that might shield them from prying eyes...

True to his word, Amroth had spoken with his father, and Thranduil had been summoned the following morning to receive what amounted to an apology for his lack of understanding and hospitality from Amdir.

Days later it was cold comfort to Thranduil, who had wrestled with his conscience and his feelings in the wake of his encounter with Galadriel, as well as what little news filtered beneath the boughs of the Dreaming wood.

Matters did not go well in Eregion.

"How might I," he said to Amroth as they walked together earlier in the day, "in all good faith remain here longer, knowing that my people need me."

"How can you not?" Amroth countered, "When you would better serve them well rested and the stronger for it." His friend placed a hand upon his shoulder, "Besides which - with a few more days, chipping away at his objections a little at a time, I may be able to move my father to action. Give me that time, my friend, hmm?"

"Prince Thranduil," an urgent voice broke in upon his thoughts, and he turned to see one of Amroth's guard hurrying in his direction. "You are needed. There is a messenger come from Lindon."

Thranduil nodded once, and then hurried after the Elf toward where the messenger had been received, unsurprisingly upon the highest flet, within the audience hall. When he arrived, Amroth turned a worried expression his way, and Thranduil approached his friend.

"I like not the look upon your face," he told the Prince of Lorien.

"You will like, even less, the news that this one has brought to my father," Amroth said, without his usual teasing tones. Thranduil frowned in worry, prompting Amroth to reveal, "He comes from Gil-Galad. The High King sent Lord Elrond to evacuate Ost-in-Edhil."

"The battle goes more badly than we anticipated then," Thranduil said, but Amroth shook his head.

"It isn't that..." Amroth began, but in that moment, Amdir reappeared at the head of the steps leading into his private study, the messenger at his back. Thranduil looked from one to the next and back to Amroth, before he lifted his voice in polite, but firm request.

"My Lord," he began, "May I be apprised?"

"I believe you should," Amdir answered, "For in part the message was intended for you, from the High King himself. It would appear he commands your counsel."

"What does he say?" Thranduil, emboldened by the presence of the King's messenger, Amdir's respect for Ereinion, and by apparent urgency of whatever brought the messenger to Lorien.

"It is ill news, Oropherion," Amdir said, "Celebrimbor has been taken by the agents of the enemy, and in spite of many attempts at rescue, none have prevailed."

Thranduil felt a shiver of unseen warning pass down his spine, sensing there was more to this 'ill news' than Amdir would have him discover. The loss of Celebrimbor was an insurmountable loss to the Elves, but he could not help but feel, like a pull upon his heart, a terrible need within an enclosure of danger fear and longing.

"What more?" he demanded of the messenger directly, ignoring the scowl that his inquiry brought to Amdir's face. The messenger glanced almost nervously in Amdir's direction, and Thranduil's patience and resolve finally snapped. "Look not to the king, but speak your message. I am here as agent of the High King, Gil-Galad, and I should hear all that he has to say."

"Thranduil," Amdir warned, "Prince..."

"Pedo!" he demanded again. "Aran Tar lín i dûr"

"A host of Orcs and Goblin-kind has laid siege to Ost-in-Edhil," the messenger said quickly. "The king's advisors warn the fall of the city is immanent, without aid."

"Then we must bring them aid!" Thranduil said, looking pointedly at Amdir. "And tell me," he asked before he could stop the words from falling from his lips. "What of hi- What of the Lady Celyndailiel? How fares she in her endeavors, and where?"

"My... Lord she," the messenger stammered, "I-"

I-hiril celeb e gant im... barad dín ban, dan i-vaith lintad an chûn dín naegrad.

"She remains within the city," Thranduil breathed in mounting alarm as he unlocked the meaning of the words spoken within his mind, and turning toward Amdir then, he unleashed the full fury of his shattered patience, "King Amdir, I have acted only with respect whilst within the borders of your realm, but I cannot countenance your continued apathy toward your kin. Ost-in-Edhil must not fall, and our people within must be freed. You have within your power to send aid to Ereinion, and to the people of Eregion, and I demand it of you now."

"Demand all you will," Amdir answered calmly, "but I will not leave Lorien defenseless in the face of the coming storm. Leave if you must, with your own guard, but the warriors of Lorien will follow you no further than the borders of my realm."

Prince and King stared at one another, open hostility between them and Thranduil fighting tears of frustration and a pain bordering on panic. If Ost-in-Edhil should fall...

"Go, my friend," Amroth grasped his arm. "They have need of you and what little aid you may bring could change their fate. Natho dín."

Thranduil met Amroth's eyes and they held their gaze for a long moment, before sharing a tight, but brief embrace. As Thranduil took his leave without a word of farewell to the king; descended the steps toward the forest floor, sending ahead a summons to his guards, he heard the soft voice of the Prince of Lorien reach out to his father... urging reason.

Naked, save for the cloth that preserved his dignity, bloodied and raw from where Sauron's torturers had all but flayed the skin from his muscle, the tissue hanging in strips, torn and weeping, and with fever gripping his trembling form, Celebrimbor was dragged before Sauron.

No longer restrained by his Orcish tormenters, for he lacked the strength and vigor to stand, the Elf fell to his knees, gasping softly, no longer caring about himself, but determined not to allow the Dark Lord to move on Ost-in-Edhil; not to slaughter the guard, and capture the gentle light he knew Celyndailiel to be.

Sauron had made such fell promises, threats that Celebrimbor had no doubt that he would carry out, should he fail to divulge the location of the rings, and images of Celyndailiel, held in thrall by the creature of shadow that was Sauron, forced to submit, debased, abused...

"No," he whispered. The simple word cracking his already injured lips, his broken mouth bleeding his denial onto the cold, hard ground.

"No?" Sauron grasped his hair, drew him up on trembling legs.

"I cannot," Celebrimbor gasped, "I... they..."

In spite of himself, he still fought; denied the push of the Dark Lord's mind against his own, but at the last he could hold no more. As he trembled, as he spoke names and places, watched as the Dark Lord sent out minions and small groups of Orcs to the north, and to the south, and east beyond the mountains, Celebrimbor embraced despair in knowing that those Elves in whom he had put his trust to guard the Five and the Nine would be hunted, taken, and if they were lucky, murdered for what they guarded, but the three?

"Forgive me, Celyndialiel, iell nín, that I was not strong enough to guard them all."

And in the end...

In the end, she knew that there would be very little time after Elrond's departure before the enemy would be at their door. He left with those of their people who were well enough to ride; solo or in tandem, in a dreadful flight to the north and east, into the mountains - a desperate column of refugees emptying from the city before the enemy was near enough to perceive them gone.

Left behind, a loyal and yet small number of Celebrimbor's guard who had sworn to protect her, along with those injured in previous battles, and those that simply pledged to stay behind and give their fellow Elves time to reach the safety of the mountains, all rallied to set up quarters in the main courtyard, listening as the hateful sound of Orcs and Goblin kind marching upon them, came closer and closer with each day they went practically unhindered on the road in their advance on Ost-in-Edhil.

At first, when they arrived, they drove them back.

Volley upon volley of arrows rained down upon the Orcish hoards on the plain before the city gates, then in the confusion and panic that followed, they opened the gate and came upon the them, blades drawn, and cut them down; drove them back.

It bought them but a day of rest while their adversaries licked their wounds and had their morale, no doubt forcibly, rebuilt.

The following assault seemed no less thick with the foul creatures than the initial assault had been, and yet buoyed by their success, the elves of Ost-in-Edhil fought, and fought hard, valiant in their energies and their will to drive the enemy away.

Then, the return of the Orcish hoards was swifter, more intense, and though the brave company met Sauron's forces with arrows and their blades, before the turning of another day, it was they who were forced to retreat, and to wall themselves within the city. Ost-in-Edhil was truly besieged.

"Your orders, my lady?"

"Bar and barricade the gates," she said at once, "For they will bring the ram against them. Strengthen and protect the walls. Burn whatever ladders they erect with oil, or pitch, even simple fire will do, but they must not breach the walls."

Celyndailiel hurried from the courtyard and up to her chambers to strip off her arms and armor, still bloodied from the last battle in which she had fought side by side with her fellow Elves. No shrinking violet, nor delicate elleth, not when so much depended on them keeping the enemy distracted there.

"Not when my people must flee, and flee safely," she murmured as she set about washing herself and pulling on fresh clothing beneath her supple, leather armor. Then, tirelessly, she returned to the courtyard below, to move among the injured and the frightened, and to pass among the gathered warriors to offer a word, a touch, or a blessing to each and every one.

"Come, Lady Celyndailiel," the commander of the guard left behind by Celebrimbor as he left said and touched her arm softly, "You must eat, and you must rest."

She shook her head.

"Not until I have seen all others here are settled," she argued. "Only then."

"They would not have their Lady exhausted on their part, nor see her hunger," he said, "You know I speak true, my lady."

As if to prove what he said was indeed the truth, the Elf whose wounds she had been binding laid his hand over hers, and said softly, "Please, my Lady, rest."

She hung her head for a moment, closing her eyes to swallow down the rising emotion threatening to overflow, and finally with a deep breath nodded and rose to her feet, but not before she called to a nearby runner to demand, "Please bring this soldier something to eat and drink," and as the runner nodded in acknowledgement of her words she caught the youth's arm and added, "And then see to your own rest, your own needs. You have done enough today."

Days passed, and by some blessing of Eru the city held, but Celyndailiel was not yet fool nor desperate enough to believe that it would hold forever. The next assault came hard and damaging as indeed the enemy rolled in with the ram that they had made from the trees they felled. A great beast of a war machine, though hastily constructed, and lashed together with coarse rope. They were, it seemed, as ill prepared for the siege as the Elves, and for a while, Celyndailiel took strength from that; strength and hope.

But hope is a fragile flower so easily crushed beneath the heel of a boot or the wheels of a charred and crude ram, and already she felt the mourning of the surrounding woods as keenly as though she had lost one of her own. She jumped as the first discordant pounding of wood on wood split the tense silence that had fallen inside of the city. It would not be long, she knew... and still, though she knew that Elrond would have sent word to her brother in Lindon, there came no aid.

Hurrying, she made her steps carry her up to the top of the walls, dismay weighing in her heart as she set eyes upon the sea of Orcs, and goblins awash on the plains before the city, and beyond, the great gash cut into the woodland. The repeated beat of the ram against the city gates became the pounding of her heart, dragging her down and down and down toward hopelessness and despair.

A high keening, splintering sound broke her downward spiral, and she saw the gate begin to buckle, and despair became anger, and anger action and she ordered, "Oil... oil and pitch... cast it down upon them, now... now!"

Her loyal company hurried to obey, bringing what they had from the adjoining walls and tipping the scalding liquids down upon the ram, and upon the Orcs that wielded it alike, shutting out their screams as she snatched a bow and arrow from a nearby soldier; ripped the bottom of her skirt and wrapped it around the tip, before bringing the arrowhead to the brazier to light it.

Taking aim, and compensating for the weighted tip, she sent the fire down into the oil, hardening her heart against the cries and screams of Sauron's minions, and calling, "Archers! Drive them back...! Cut them down!"

Her commander adding to the orders, "And bring sand! Sand for the fire!"

Already exhausted, the gathered soldiers sent arrow after arrow over the walls into the burning Orcs and into their gathered host as well, as others hauled up sand by the bucket-load to cast over the crenellations above the gatehouse and extinguish the fires before they could do the Orc's work for them and breach the gate. It had been an act of desperation on her part, but for the moment, Celyndailiel prevailed.

The night fell to silence, heavy with menace, pregnant with fear. She stood atop the wall looking through the rising smoke and the stench of cooked meat to the field below. She sighed when she felt the commander's hand come to rest on her shoulder.

"Must it be my command to you every night, my Lady, that you see to your rest?" he said softly.

She shook her head and sagged a little to lean against the wall as she peered further into the night, leaning over to watch the volunteers who had bravely insisted they be allowed to open the gate in order to push the ram away enough that they could add another layer of protection on the outside of the gate, turn the damaged ram to the side so that it could become a barricade.

"They will only make another," she said, as though thinking aloud.

"They will," the commander answered, "And it will be little enough we can do to stand against it. You know that."

She nodded, but said, "And we will hold, while we can."

She turned then, from looking out on the darkened battlefield, to face the west, and Lindon, where she sent a silent call for aid to Ereinion, that he might send warriors to flank the Orcish army, that they might all survive.

"And then what?" he asked, soft and desperate... sincere in his obvious wish for her to give him answers, "If none from Lindon come?"

"Then we will fight," she said, with more confidence in her voice than she had in the whole of her body. "Go to your rest, Commander."

"I shall rest, when you rest, Hiril nín," he said.

She shook her head.

"Then we will watch this night through together."

Daybreak.

In the first sliver of light that pinked the sky through the smoke rising between the city and the horizon the sentry caught sight of the approaching figure and sent up a cry of alarm, stirring Celyndailiel from her near stupor. Instantly alert, she hurried to the Elf's side, a phalanx of archers at her side, all poised to send what ammunition remained to them over the side of the wall.

"Hold!" she ordered urgently as her eyes caught sight of the tattered fabric waving in the brisk breeze of the incoming morning. Then to the nearest of them added, "You alone. Light an arrow and aim for the ground before the feet of their mounts... send a second in its wake."

As the arrows hit the ground, the flames lighting the battlefield whereon the three mounted Orcs brought their Wargs to a halt and retreated enough to avoid the fire, in as strong a voice as she could muster, commanded, "Come NO further!"

She saw then that the makeshift flag they carried was white, or as white as Orcish filth could manage, and was about to ask what they wanted, when the largest of them, the one riding between the two others, called back.

"We bring word to Celyndailiel of Lindon from his eminence the High Lord Sauron."

The commander at her side spat into the ground and began to raise his bow, but she stayed his arm, and called back.

"I recognize that Morgul bastard no lord." She took a breath and said, "Speak, and be gone - all of you. Leave Eregion and live... remain, and I cannot make that promise!"

"Brave words, little Elf maid!" the leader of the Orcs called back in clear derision. "But Lord Sauron offers one last chance for you to attend him. Surrender the city; surrender to him and he will show mercy... refuse, and we will take the city and its people stone by stone, Elf by stinking Elf."

Every emotion she had ever felt came crowding in on Celyndailiel at once. She would not... could not expect it of her people to give themselves to the 'mercy' she knew Sauron would deliver them. Anger rose in her like a fever, aching in her bones, and without regret - even aware that what she was about to do broke all conventions of war, she snatched an arrow from the commander's quiver, nocked it and took aim.

The Orc to their leader's right, the one in whose hand fluttered the flag of truce fell back, releasing the flag to fall and become trampled beneath the Warg's feet in the muddy ground, clutching at the arrow that pieced his throat, the gurgling cry and his last breath clearly audible in the dreadful morning's hush.

"Good answer," murmured the commander as she handed him her bow.

"Leithio i philinn!" she cried out her order, even as the remaining Orcs wheeled and hurried their mounts away beneath a hail of arrows. Neither would survive, she knew. She also knew that Sauron would have expected such an answer.

"Gather all that can fight in the courtyard below," she told the commander. "I would speak with them... with you all," she added, "one last time."

Closing her eyes, she sent out her thoughts, solemn and with a final air, opening her heart to all from whom she was parted, and whom she had ever loved, and then with a last look at the pale sun that ushered in the morning, she turned and descended to stair to where her people stood, awaiting her word.

"The enemy," she began as the murmuring dropped to a whisper, "will be upon us within the day. They offered to deliver us to the mercy of the Dark Lord... if..." she paused as the muttering objection grew loud once more, and she raised her voice to be heard among them until they quieted again, "If we were to surrender, and I to Sauron himself." More voices were raised in protest, and this time she raised her hands for silence, repeating, "I have refused. I have refused!" They cried out in their agreement, and then their voices dropped to a whisper again as she told them, "You know, as I, that there was never any hope for Ost-in-Edhil... and so... when they come, we can surrender and be slaughtered like cattle, or we can show our spirit to the last and fight!"

As one body, every elf before her raised their voice and cried, "An Eldar!"

That she sent his messengers back to him cut to ribbons, like porcupines atop Wargs driven mad by the smell of their riders' blood should not have surprised him, but he roared in anger and cut the beast down even as they turned on one another to rip the Orc's bodies from their backs, and in their madness tore into each other instead.

"Bring me the Elven smith!"

There was little left of the once skilled and noble Elf. Dragged before the Dark Lord, his body little more than a shell, fingers broken, ankles shattered, scratched and cut and bleeding. Sauron could not help but feel a sliver of respect for the Elf's tenacity. Most of his kind would long since have loosed their hold on their immortal life, but not Celebrimbor. Did he think he could protect her still? Protect the rings?

He leaned down to grasp the Elf by what remained of his hair, pull back his head to speak against the bruised and swollen side of his face, the words hissing like water on hot coals.

"You taught her well, Smith. Tempered her. Made her..." He paused to drink in the answering moan the Elf gave as he seemed to claw his way back to some measure of awareness. "...unyielding. I showed her mercy, but she refused me. Insulted me!" He paused again, watching as Celebrimbor forced his eyes, swollen and bloodied as they were, to open in an attempt, it seemed, to fix him with a baleful stare.

"One last chance, Elf, and I will spare her," he hissed. "Where are the rings?"

That he refused, drew back his head and with some reserve of strength spat a mouthful of blood into Sauron's face also should have been no surprise, but the Dark Lord bellowed in fury, and backhanded the Elven Smith so hard that he flew to land full ten feet away, and then turned on his Orcish leaders and roared.

"Bring him as my banner!"

Breathless from the frantic ride, so close now to the south-eastern border of Eregion, and Ost-in-Edhil barely hours away; pushing his mount as hard as he dare, Thranduil drew in a breath that was audible even over the drumming of hooves, and pulled so hard on the reins that his horse swerved and almost stumbled as the sudden contact pushed into Thranduil's mind.

Forgive me... I can hold no more... no more...

Like a fell whisper on the wind it chilled him, lacerated his soul, stealing life and hope from the very depth of him.

"Baw!" he gasped, righting his seat and urging his horse on still faster, "Celyndailiel, Melethril nín!"

The battle around her was a storm. Blood and sweat rained torrential upon the ground and upon the fallen littered there, and still she fought. Flanked by loyal Triads, each of the Elven guards that were a part of them seeking to shelter her as they might. She swung her leadened arms to cut down every enemy that came before her; fought bravely, earnestly, but she tired and mistakes came more and more frequent - missed parries that forced retreat, or else overreached strikes that left her guard open, vulnerable and weakened.

With a growl of denial, she parried again and then thrust her blade against her enemy, penetrated his guard and cut him down, kicking hard against his staggering body to push him from her blade. Only then did she lift her gaze and a fresh and bitter wash of despair drenched her spirit like a wave as her eyes took count of the number still ranged against the Elves. The fire of dread kindled beneath as, at the head of the incoming enemy, in gold that seemed tarnished; diminished by its nearness to the dark soul it enshrouded, Sauron himself leered across narrow space of the battlefield.

"Raise my banner!"

His command pierced even the shrill cacophony of the battle; the ring of steel against iron nothing beneath the swell of his voice, and then she saw...

Barely recognizable, and yet enough, Celebrimbor hung, impaled upon the sharpened cross of rough wood. Even across the distance she knew the torture he had suffered. His scalp, near bereft of any remaining hair where once a luscious mane of dark tresses fell, oozed and bled; his eyes, one plucked by the crow that perched on a clearly dislocated shoulder, hung on his cheek. That cheek crushed by repeated beatings, and the tattered rags that covered little of his ruined body, fluttered in the wind, scattering the blood that soaked them to redden the air around where he hung.

Anger, pain, loss, despair, all and yet none of these - for her true emotions could not be summed in words - tore from her throat in a single cry. From the depth of the horror she grasped at hilt of her blade and in defiance of the enemy before her, took a hurried step forward. If she could reach him...

She stumbled, her ankle turned and she came to one knee in the blood-soaked mud. She fisted her free hand and pushed up from the sucking mire. She could reach him. She would. She must. Instinct alone had her duck beneath the incoming rush or Orcish iron that would have crushed the breath from her, and primal rage garnered the wild swing of her fine Elvish steel in response, the sheer will of her emotion lending the strength to somehow cleave the enemy in two. He fell, but like the heads of a hydra, was too soon replaced by two more. Again, she swung, again the enemy fell, again more rose before her as if they sprung full formed from the drops of their comrade's blood that she spilled.

Surrounded and no closer yet to the mortal remains of her beloved mentor, she slapped at the many clubs and blades that threatened to take her down, until, swinging wildly, and letting out a growling shrill cry with each desperate, uncontrolled strike and ineffectual parry, the enemy began to toy with her, a mouse beneath their increasingly deadly claws. Pain stung, then hurt... then seared as one by one she failed to defend against their thrusts, and blood red darkness began to close upon her like a shutter spiraling in; herald to her end.

His warrior's gaze took in the battlefield in an instant, sorting friend from foe, even as his fae searched for one specific light amid the gathering dark. It guttered no sooner than he found it. Mortal peril surrounded her, a seemingly impenetrable threat - an Orcish hoard intent on her destruction.

Forcing himself to think, to assess the better path of ingress to her aid, he pulled up on his horse's rein and his warhorse reared, striking out with steel-clad hooves that struck down the enemy that already rushed in upon him. At his side, a similarly armed and armored horse and rider came to a circling halt.

"Go!"

The understanding and urgency of Amroth's command told Thranduil that he too had seen the danger that had already overtaken Celyndailiel.

"Get the princess to safety," he continued, "Rally her people and lead them out from this hell. We will hold them here as long as we might."

He needed no second bidding. As though Amroth's words had cleared a path for him through the chaos of war, Thranduil released the tightness of his hold on the reins and urged his horse forward, picking up speed as they came, like the thunder in the storm of battle and his blades the lightning, cutting down all who would stand in his way.

Left and left, then right, his steel flashed, and the black blood of Orcs and Goblin-kind fountained the air as they fell. Thranduil shifted as his horse reared again, striking out with its hooves to ground the Warg that sprung, teeth bared and the rider already hefting the heavy iron axe toward Thranduil's head. The Elven prince gripped his mount with his knees and leaned back as the weapon split the air, and as the heavy horse came down, hooves trampling and cracking the Warg's head underfoot, pushed upright, already striking out with both blades to relieve the Orcish Warg-rider of his head.

"Eregion, anim!" he cried, pushing forward, "To me!"

A late parry, and a dull blade skittered across his leg, heavy enough and with enough momentum to split several links in his already punished armor, and he hissed as the heat of pain burned up along his thigh. He switched his longer blade to his offhand, by virtue of plunging the shorter in the clumsy gap between the Orc's beaten leather breastplate and horned helm, pulling it free again as he struck out with his longsword, taking the Orc's arm, and sending it toppling backward, dying in a bubbling of blood, trampled underfoot by its fellows.

He was nearer now - within striking distance of the enemy directly at Celyndailiel's back. That she still stood was a clear testament to her strength, that even in the grasp of such intense despair, she fought still, and had not succumbed to press of the enemy surrounding her in number. He took them down, first the one at her back, and then two more, to her right, before steering his mount to her offside, picking up speed, defending even as he leaned down to wrap an arm around her waist and swing her up into the saddle before him.

In the instant he made contact with her, his eyes beheld the horror that had kindled such desperation in her; knew with a clearer mind what she could not see.

She fought him, snarled and writhed in his grasp until he called her name, soft but urgent against her hair as he held her close, trusting in his mount and the Elves that had rallied to his call to carry them safe from the immediate danger.

"Celyndailiel!" he cried, then softer with each breath, as they moved further from the heart of battle, "Celyn... idh! Idh melethril. Diheno nín. E gwann. E gwann. No e."

"Baw," she moaned as her struggles ceased; as instead she clung to the fastenings that held his cloak in place, his words reaching her. "Please no."

"No e, Celynen," he whispered. "No e."

Immediately as they had arrived, a beaten, exhausted and war-weary band of survivors, Ereinion had mustered his armies and sent them in support of the of Prince Amroth and the army from Lorien, forbidding Thranduil to ride out with them.

Instead he bade him relate all he knew, all that he could tell of Sauron's army and their tactics, as Thranduil had no doubt he similarly questioned Celyndailiel, until he felt browbeaten and irritable at repeating himself over and over. He was also almost sick with worry.

Though she had ridden pressed against him, almost clinging as though for warmth and solace, since she had slid from his mount, safely into the arms of lady's maids and healers, Thranduil had neither seen nor heard Celyndailiel. It was as though in coming to Lindon, she had once more disappeared from his life. He knew his apprehension should be for other things, other people, but a nagging doubt, like a toothache gnawed at him in those hours when Gil-Galad was not berating him for the lack of detail in his report.

"What more do you want from me?" he stood abruptly, hands braced against the table between them, all but trembling in anger as the king asked him - again - for a full accounting of his part in the battle.

"She would not speak with me, Thranduil."

His anger drained to be replaced by a creeping dread at Gil-Galad's soft spoken words, given as a plea.

"She would not speak with me nor accept my solace," the king repeated, "And I her brother. What terrible specter haunts her sweet light that she cannot find comfort in all that we have always shared?"

Thranduil straightened, opened his mouth to speak of his suspicions, his own fears a knot around his heart, when Gil-Galad raised a hand, shaking his head even as he asked the question, then standing, drew Thranduil's attention to the battle map that dominated the room.

"They are coming," he said the same tension and fear in his voice as moments before in match to the tone in which he'd lamented for his sister. "By all accounts, the hordes divided and rather than be overwhelmed and beaten back by Lindon and Lorien combined; lose the ground that they have gained in the sacking of Eregion."

Thranduil took the time then to cast his eyes over the map, to where the figurines had been arranged, two prongs of a coordinated attack, heading for Lindon, and into the mountains in the North East.

"Imladris," Gil-Galad confirmed, and Thranduil looked up at him again. "Elrond has assured that they will hold, but already the fighting is fierce upon the battlefields, even as Lorien's forces fight in their defense."

"And what of Lindon?" Thranduil frowned, his mind racing and trying to move ahead of his king in the conversation; to make sense of the switch-back nature of the ride of it. "If they are coming here, you say?"

Gil-Galad shook his head, though when he spoke, Thranduil realized, not in denial of his words.

" Our numbers are strong," he said, " and we are long prepared for all that may come, but Imladris..." the king sighed and paced away before turning back to fix Thranduil with an almost desperate stare. "She would not speak with me, Thranduil, and I sent her to Imladris. I assumed it safer there, before Elrond's report came, but I have sent her into danger."

"You could not have known," Thranduil said. "And if Elrond has sent word that they will hold, then-"

Again Gil-Galad shook his head, and more softly commanded, "Go to her, my friend, please. If I cannot protect her then you... you who were her dearest-"

"You cannot ask this of me," Thranduil protested, but there was no heat in his words, for in his heart he wanted nothing more than to be the one to whom Celyndailiel would turn. "I am not free."

"Go to her, Thranduil," Gil-Galad ignored his words. "I command it."

The desperate beat of the hooves changed from the dull thud of a heartbeat as the ground underfoot the handful of horses changed from mossy loam to the steel strike of shoe upon rock, and he rode into the barely constructed courtyard of Imladris, Amroth at his side.

The reinforcements Thranduil brought with him had been a welcome respite for the tired and harried warriors of Lorien and Imladris alike, and with their coming, the Elves were able to beat back the Orc and Goblin hordes from the banks of the Bruinen river into the less hospitable wilds beyond.

Grooms rushed out to meet them, as bruised and bloodied as the incoming riders, but none touched Thranduil's concern as he threw himself from the saddle, tossed the reins to the nearest Elf and with a curt nod of farewell to his companion, and steps that were unseemly in their haste and pulled at each and every bruise and scrape and cut his body wore, he reached Imladris' inner ward almost blindly – seeing only her light.

"Celyndailiel…"

His eyes raked over every inch of her, noting the bulge in her bodice where the bandage she wore betrayed that she too had been spared nothing in the desperate flight from Lindon and the fight for Hithaeglir.

The distance closed as she turned, her face pale; her eyes sunken, her cheek bruised.

A deep anger blossomed inside of him, mingled with the love he held and could not more deny than he could his own light, and yet that love and need he denied for duty's sake. Before he could catch the emotion, he crossed final space between them, capturing her face between palms more gentle than the impulse with which he held her; drew her face to his as he stooped, and with a desperation born of fear, and hope realized, kissed her – pouring into the contact the whole of his tortured, trembling soul.

For a moment, a sweet and blessed moment, she acquiesced, then mirrored his passionate need and the denial of their enforced separation. The taste of her was sweet in his mouth, her desire sweeter still to his soul, and he ran his fingers into her hair, the silken strands of it tangling in the roughness of hands still bloodied and roughened from battle, and he moved, taking her back toward the nearby pillar of a breezeway that might shield them from prying eyes.

Then the illusion broke, as his forearms bore the brunt of the sudden press of their bodies against the stone, the arms she had wound around him tensed and tugged at the back of his cloak – and she tore her mouth from his… a sob breaking from her with the action.

"Thranduil, don't!" she wept, "Stop please… I cannot… we cannot…!"

"Celyndailiel," he breathed her name and lowered his brow to rest against hers, easing the pressure of his body against hers, though he did not move away, and neither did she insist upon, nor even encourage it. Instead she ran her trembling fingers over the long strands of his hair, their tips barely brushed against his ear as they moved.

"Forgive me, Enedhen," the hoarseness in her voice betrayed her emotion to him, and he would have crushed her to him again, except that she added, "But I will not be the cause of your faithlessness."

She released him then, eased from between him and the pillar to put distance between them before turning to face him, her hands wringing each about the other, and tears spilling from her eyes that only caused him to step closer again and catch her hands in his own as if he could, by that simple touch, ease her distress.

"I love you," she said softly through her tears, "with everything that I am, and always will for as long as I endure, but you are bound to another." She shook her head, "And that I will not betray, nor allow you to betray, no matter our want."

"No matter that it flies in the face of all we believe?" The words flew from him in anguish, and yet in such regard for her integrity and sacrifice.

"Even then." she wept, "If I have learned anything from Celebrimbor's death, his strength, it is that we will need such souls, such strength... such selflessness in the darkness that is to come, and you, my light, are of the divine Eru himself, and I will not tarnish that; tarnish you, Elen."

"You..." he could no more hold his own tears in the face of all she was to him, all that she gave, "...you are the light, the star... divine." He shook his head, "I am but a base and selfish Elf who would as soon let the world fall to ruin in favor of his own desires."

"No, Thranduil," she breathed, and freed her hands from his, only to reach for him again, and step trembling into the shelter of his waiting embrace. "And well you know it."

"Ai, Celynen," he fairly sang his words of lament. "Is there no hope?"

In answer, she stepped away from him, and dipped a deep, low curtsey to him, her eyes lowered and fixed upon the ground at his feet.

I am, and always will be, your servant, my Lord Prince...

The words echoed in his mind, his heart shattering into the darkness of duty that he had, for one sweet moment, allowed himself to forget.

... for myself I ne'er can clearly see what the march of time will bring.

Válinsillúle howled at the touch of the light and love that flowed around her tainted soul as the words crossed the time and space between her and the elleth who had at one time saved her life.

"And all for this," she wailed, "All for this."

Even the light that surrounded her was not match enough for the darkness around her, and the seed of darkness that had grown within her, subsumed her and twisted her; dark magics from before the dawn of time.

She knew she could not stand against it.

She knew her time had come.

With her claw-like fingers she reached for the ring upon her hand, drawing it off; drawing blood as if the fine Elvish silver burned and cut her corrupted flesh.

"If never after," she murmured, beginning to lose the power of speech as the darkness sped over her more quickly now, "Eru grant me this: let him see... let them know... Oropherion Thranduil, I... release... you... from... our promise. I no longer... hold your... soul as... twin to..."

...mine...

With the last word barely an echo of a thought, Válinsillúle surrendered, twisting and snarling into the darkness that had become of her.

From her scalded hand, ran a momentary, thin stream of molten silver.

Noro! - Ride!

Ledho athgar, Pado vae - Walk softly, tread lightly.

Ad anno ú-vaith ae tafnen na i-Ngaladhrim - and offer no resistance if challenged by the Galadhrim

Daro! - Halt!

I-dûr o i-Aran - By order of the king.

Aphado - Follow

Tangado haid! - Hold your position!

Berio i ost! - Protect the City!

Tiro an i ennyn! - Look to the hills!

Maetho ni amon! - Fight for the gates!

Berio i ennyn! - Protect the gates!

Berio i vên vi ost ni harn! - Guard the way into the city for the wounded!

Tangado i thî! - Hold the Line!

U-ristad! - Unbreakable!

Baw! - No!

Baw, Sennui adar nín! - No, my foster-father!

Dan! - Retreat!

Dan ost! Tangado thî u-ristad! Berio dín - Fall back to the city! Hold an unbreakable line! Protect her!

Aran - King

adar nín - father (lit. my father)

Dartho, mellon nín - stay, my friend

a pedithan an adar nín - and I will speak to my father.

Athar - yes (lit. You will)

I Aear cân ven na mar - The Sea calls us home

Dan... boe an dín anno veriad lín. - and yet... you must protect her.

Pelo an undûn! - Go to hell! (lit. Wither to the Dark Pit)

E enni u-gohenad lín - He will never forgive me

Aran Tar lín i dûr - Your High King commands it

I-hiril celeb e gant im... - the silver lady lies captive...

barad dín ban, - her fortress a prison

dan i-vaith lintad an chûn dín naegrad. - but the danger is a balm to her aching heart.

Natho dín - save her

Iell nín - my daughter

Hiril nín, - my lady

Hir nín - my lord

Leithio i philinn - fire! (arrows)

An Eldar! - For the Elves!

Baw! - No!

Melethril nín! - my beloved!

Eregion, anim! - Eregion, to me!

idh - peace

Idh melethril. - peace my love

Diheno nín - forgive me

E gwann - he is gone

No e - let him go.

No e, Celynen - Let him go, my Celyn.

Enedhen - my heart

Elen - my star