Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings, Elrond, Celebrian, Rivendell, and Orcs are not at all mine. They belong to the Tolkien estate, and I make absolutely no bid for ownership. Please, don't sue me. I'm just having some fun - I'll return them all (for the most part) unscathed, promise!

Warnings: Violence, some graphic images. Nudity. No smut.

Time frame: 1405 of the Third Age, approximately a year and a half into the second siege of Imladris.

A/N: This was honestly rather unexpected. It's a piece I've been wanting to write for months (ever since I was forced to stand out in what was practically a gale for marching band), but I hadn't intended to actually write it for a while yet. I wanted to get through school (which is done now), my SAT (done), ACT (Saturday), and VBS (all this week), then update everything, and only then start working on oneshots again. But, well...obviously that plan got a wrench chucked at it.

I would love to hear what you think of the story - what you liked, what you didn't like, what you think I can do better. I'm always looking to improve, and the best way to do that is to hear what you think I could do better! Of course, praise never hurts either (*grins*). Most importantly, though, I hope you all enjoy the story!

Dedication: For Allonsy. A very happy birthday to you (even if it is a bit late)!

~Count the Cost~

Elrond limped down the long hallway that separated his and Celebrían's chambers from the door into his family's suite. The only sound that penetrated the chilled, brittle air was the faint clink of his armor, and behind that, the dull roar of the storm as it pounded the Valley – the howl of the wind as it parted about the eaves of the House, the drumming of the freezing rain as it lashed the windows.

A bandage was wrapped tightly about Elrond's right calf, the once-white linen stained with crimson and splattered with long streaks of mud. His armor was in little better condition. Blood, both crimson and foul black, was splattered across his breastplate, and there was mud drying onto his boots all of the way up to his face, where there was a smear his cheek and small splatters on his chin. The left side of his chest plate had been bashed inward, two of the metal ribs bending awkwardly around each other, and there were seven small holes punched through the thick armor. He kept his left arm cradled against his side, his jaw set in a stiff line as he tried to ignore the feel of broken bone grating as his ribs shifted. A shallow gash marred Elrond's right cheek, his lower lip was split and his chin bruised, and the small holes torn through the long, thick sleeves of his heavy winter tunic revealed a myriad of small abrasions and livid bruises. He carried his cloak over one arm and his sword in the other hand, both of which were so heavily soiled and stained that the original color was nearly indistinguishable.

Elrond's exhaustion was evident, both in the limping roll of his gait, and in the slump of his shoulders. He had not slept in two days, and there was a haggard look on his face and in his eyes that bespoke of a weariness far deeper beyond that of mere physical. He felt utterly drained, mentally and emotionally. He was heartsick, the images of his men dying – an arrow through an eye; throat a single gaping, gushing wound; a spear wrenching its way out of a back, the barbed tip dripping crimson – seared into his mind. He felt weary down to the bone, and for a just a moment, he considered simply dropping his things and dropping down to and curling up on the floor where he stood.

He was also drenched, and very cold. Water dripped from Elrond's hair – which was plastered to his forehead and neck – and down his face, washing away the blood that still oozed lethargically from the cut on his cheek. Tiny droplets of ice continued to cling to the long strands of his hair and to the edges of his armor, although they were melting slowly. He seemed to not even notice, the water running down his face, however, except for when he blinked or gave a slight shake of his head when the water would drip into his eyes. His lips were tinted with blue and his fingers, while having been protected by thick gloves, were painfully white.

Elrond fumbled with the latch on the door that stood between the hall and his and Celebrían's rooms, his numbed fingers coupled with his full arms making it nigh impossible to manage the normally very simple mechanism. After an agonizing moment of failed attempts, he finally managed to press the lever down at the proper angle and, shifting his weight onto his uninjured left foot, Elrond nudged the door open with his right toe. He ignored the burning pain of the wound in his calf, and hobbled through the door, pushing it closed with his shoulder as he passed into the small sitting room.

Elrond unceremoniously dumped his cloak and his sword onto the small table that stood just inside the doorway. He would have to care for them both properly in the morning, but he found that he could not even care that he was getting the table covered in mud, blood, and freezing water. He was simply too exhausted to be concerned at the moment. His gloves and his sword belt followed a moment after, his belt pouch thunking heavily as it landed on the wooden surface.

For a long moment, Elrond did not move. He leaned against the table, his breathing labored, and his body tingling as it began to lose some of the numbness that had been a product spending four days out in below freezing temperatures.

Elrond thought of Celebrían. She had not met the returning patrol as was her wont, if she was able. Elrond supposed that she was sleeping, for it was already well after midnight – indeed, he refused to think of what the reason may be that could have kept her from meeting him if she was not sleeping. If that was the case, however, Elrond was loath to awaken her. This last year and a half had been trying for all, and whatever chance one had to sleep was a blessing. All the same…

She will be fretful, a treacherous voice whispered in Elrond's mind. I was supposed to have returned by midafternoon at the latest – she will be worried. Elrond sighed, before pushing himself away from the table.

Awakening to find me covered in blood will do little to ease her worry, a second voice countered. Quite the opposite, in fact. It would be far better to let her sleep – so long as she is indeed sleeping.

"I know," Elrond muttered quietly, effectively silencing his thoughts on the matter. He already knew what he was going to do, despite whatever he may have wished on the contrary.

As quietly as he could, Elrond opened the door to his and Celebrían's bedroom, and nudged it just wide enough that he could peer inside. A faint smile tugged at his lips at the sight of Celebrían lying snuggled beneath the blankets piled on their bed, a book lying face-down on the pillow beside her, and a low burning lamp shedding a faint light throughout the room. For an instant the desire to go to his wife was nearly overwhelming, but then Elrond turned away.

Limping slowly, Elrond made his way down the hall to the bathing room. He opened the door carefully, his tingling fingers and hands feeling as if he was pressing down on needles every time he touched something hard, and then nudged the door open with his shoulder. A waft of warm air rushed out into the hall, enveloping him and warming his chilled nose and cheeks. He shivered as the air cooled an instant later, and then gratefully stepping into the bathing room.

The bathing chamber was sectioned off into two partitions. The front half of the room housed a number of cabinets built into the left-hand wall, while to the right stood a low long, low table, the top scattered with an assortment of brushes, combs, and the like, and above which hung a mirror. A bench stood against the screen that served as the partition, and a chest and a small, clear table was pushed up against the nearest wall, to the right of the door. A wash basin stood on a stand just inside the door.

Elrond crossed the room, thankful that someone had thought to leave the candles lit – most likely Celebrían – so that he would not have to trust his lethargic instincts to guide him across the floor in the dark, and neither would he have to attempt to light them himself. Carefully, he folded back the screen that served as the partition between the two halves of the room.

The bath itself filled the back portion of the room. Three smooth steps cut into the stone led down into the water, which flowed gently in from one grate set into the left wall and out of a similar grate on the right wall. Steam clung to the top of the water, forming a faint haze in the air. Soaps and scrubbing sand sat on a small shelf built into the far wall, just to the side of the low bench hollowed out just beneath the water's surface.

The water came from a naturally heated spring deep beneath the Valley's floor. Indeed, that very spring was one of the main reasons that Elrond had chosen to found his refuge in this particular valley, for most of the House's water, running or otherwise, stemmed from that spring.

The next few moments would forever remain a blur in Elrond's memory. He could recall the burn of his fingers as he unbuckled his breastplate, and the muted fire in his side as he pulled the dented metal away from his body. The feel of the jagged edges pulling free from his flesh would remain firmly rooted in his memory, even as the next minute would forever be a blank slate. The next thing he could remember was sagging against the wall, his right leg giving out. His clothing lay in a sodden pile beside his armor, with the soiled bandage that had been wrapped about his calf on top the wad of cloth that was his breeches.

He was shivering violently, the warmth of the air no longer strong enough to offset the drastically reduced temperature of his body, and for a moment, the fog of exhaustion that had claimed his mind was driven away by the chill.

Arms wrapped around his torso, chest burning, blood running freely down his left side and his right calf, Elrond hobbled to the edge of the bath. Knowing his leg would never be able to bear all of his weight at once, Elrond passed by the steps, and went straight to the edge of the steaming water. Elrond crouched down, his injuries complaining violently, and slid into the water.

The warmth struck him with an almost physical blow. For a second, Elrond thought he was going to be sick, even as his skin screamed as if it were on fire. He grit his teeth and held his breath, and after a few seconds the raging nerves quieted, easing as his body began to adjust to, and absorb, the warmth.

Elrond exhaled slowly, then quickly dunked his head beneath the water. The feeling of overwhelming heat struck him again, and he resurfaced quickly. The water that streamed from his plaited hair and face were dark with filth and tinged pink with blood.

With quick and nimble fingers, Elrond pulled his hair free from the braids holding the long strands away from his face. Placing the ties on the edge of the pool, he then pushed farther out into the water, and sank beneath the lapping waves a second time.

This time the heat was welcome, and Elrond closed his eyes, allowing himself to simply relax in the warm water for a long moment. When he at last surfaced, he took in a deep breath, and then began to work his fingers through the worst of the tangles in his hair – the heated water had dissolved most of the gore and grime crusted in the raven locks.

Half swimming, half hobbling, Elrond pushed himself over to the far side of the bath, where the shelf holding the soaps and cleansing sand was bolted to the wall. Pulling himself up part of the way out of the water, Elrond perched on the bench cut into the wall a few handbreadths beneath the water, and began to wash the mud and grime from his body.

Elrond took special care of his side and his leg, for he knew he could not use the scrubbing sand without risking getting granules caught in the wounds or, worse, tearing the already damaged skin further. He cleansed each of the puncture wounds in his side individually, using a small bottle of athelas-infused soap to wash the bloody pock marks. By the time he was finished with his ministrations, the lesions had ceased bleeding and pained him only if he stretched too far one way.

His leg was more difficult to tend to. A large chunk of flesh had been hacked from his calf, leaving a bloody mess in the scimitar's wake. While it was not truly a grave injury, it was a messy one, and it was difficult to cleanse entirely. Elrond's hands were covered in blood, and the water in the bath was tinged pink by the time he deemed the wound cleaned well enough, and he felt weak and lightheaded.

Cursing himself half-heartedly for not thinking ahead, Elrond returned to the other side of the pool, and hauled himself out of the water. Hopping awkwardly so as not to put any weight on his right leg, Elrond crossed to one of the cabinets and, still dripping wet, he sifted through the small towels and linens stacked therein until he found one that would suit his purpose.

Shivering slightly in the chill air, Elrond returned to the bath. Before he slipped back into the water, however, he sat down at the edge and, stretching his right leg out in front of him, bound his leg carefully. Then he returned to the water to wash his hair.

He settled on the bench once more, and leaned his head back against the wall. His eyes drifted shut, and Elrond felt his exhaustion creeping up over him once more, dragging him down into a numbing fog. Unlike before, however, he did little to fight it. The warmth, and the soothing lap of the water against his chest lulled Elrond, and he sank farther into oblivion.

The freezing rain, so unusual for so late in the spring, hammered the earth with driving force, hammering the hard-packed earth and forming small pock marks in the frozen mud. Visibility was almost null, and as Elrond urged Avasath along the treacherous ridge, he could only hope that his men were close enough behind that they would be able to follow the nearly-invisible path that Elrond was leading them on. The howl of the wind as it tore through the Valley covered all but the most piercing of sounds, including any commands that Elrond might have given. So instead, the Elves were forced to rely on instinct and their faith in the lord as they navigated the treacherous paths.

A grinding crack cut through the keening of the wind, and Elrond glanced upward. Avasath danced, her hooves just barely skimming above the ground, and she threw her head. Elrond froze for just an instant as his mind frantically tried to comprehend what the earth and the wind were telling him.

"Move!" Elrond screamed, whirling Avasath and kicking her straight into a gallop. "Go, hurry," he bellowed, pulling his mare up short just long enough to gesture for those who could see him to move forward – and fast. As soon as they understood, Elrond nudged Avasath forward again, repeating his message again and again as he swept down the line.

An earth-grinding rumble, and then Avasath was rearing, screaming as she danced backwards, mane flying. She turned and bolted back the way they had come, but not before Elrond had caught a glimpse of cascading stone and seen a boulder the size of a small dragon smash into Tarthiel's gelding and send them both over the edge of the precipice with a scream and a faint mist of blood.

Wild howls that were all at once so similar and yet so conflicting with the howling of the wind, and a hundred loathsome shapes cavorting in the darkness of the rain. But no, the rain was no longer water – it was dark and sticky, and it gleamed crimson in the light of the flames that flickered wildly in the rain as it hammered down. And the blood ran, ran down faces, dripped from hair. The blood poured from eyes, from mouths, from the gaping holes that is all that is left. The blood ran in rivers beneath the hooves, beneath the rain. And all about, the wild, hideous screams, and the leering grins.

An arrow through the eye, the crude, barbed tip just barely visible out the back of the skull, blood dribbling down from the hole bored through bone. Throat slit, blood streaming down the chest, over the breastplate, even as the head lolls back at an impossible angle. Gut split wide open, and the scream of agony as hands try to hold the skin together, the innards in.

The screams. Terror. Agony. Rage.

"Elrond!"

Elrond jerked awake. He sat up, eyes flying open even as he automatically reached for a weapon. His hand hit only water. He floundered, his mind disoriented and his thoughts still caught in the fading throes of his nightmare, unsure of what was happening, even of where he was.

Something brushed against his shoulder. Vaguely, he could hear someone speaking, calling his name – someone he knew. Someone he loved. Elrond looked down.

Celebrían.

She was standing there, relief blazing in her pale blue eyes, the water lapping at her chest as she stood before him, one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching for his cheek. Her nightgown was soaked through, the thin material clinging to her body, and the ends of her hair were dripping.

"Celebrían?" Elrond asked tentatively, standing and turning, reaching out for her. His voice came out hoarse and raspy, and Elrond winced slightly as his throat seized. As if through a thin mist, he could dimly recall shouting until his voice gave out, fighting to be heard above the roar of the storm to give commands to his men.

"Elrond…" Celebrían all but collapsed into Elrond's arms, burying her head against his bare chest. Elrond held her close, confusion and worry replacing the momentary spike of joy and peace he had felt at her touch.

Without warning, Celebrían pulled away, and there was an odd expression on her face. If Elrond had been in a more lucid state of mind, he would have described it as fury.

"Never do that again," Celebrían hissed, her eyes flashing.

Elrond frowned, more confused than ever. "What? Meleth… Never do what?" he asked dazedly.

"I thought…" Celebrían trailed off. She looked up, her eyes meeting Elrond's squarely. It was only then that Elrond was able to truly understand what he saw – he saw fear. "Your eyes were closed," Celebrían said quietly, although with no less force, "and you weren't moving. And the blood in the water…"

"Oh, Celebrían," Elrond murmured, understanding dawning. He gathered her into his arms, holding her close, and stroking her hair. "I am here, beloved; I am well," he promised. "I am not going to leave you any time soon." Celebrían's arms tightened around his chest, and Elrond winced ever so slightly as his broken ribs screamed.

"I am sorry," Celebrían gasped, pulling back as she felt him wince. "I did not mean to…Elrond, you are hurt."

Elrond shook his head, brushing off Celebrían's worry. "Nay, Celebrían, I am sorry," he said, tenderly tucking a strand of silver hair behind her ear, ignoring the last part of what she had said. "I did not mean to frighten you so."

"I would hope not," Celebrían retorted, but there was no acid to her tone, all of her anger seeming to have bled out. "What is past is past, and you are not… You are, however, injured. Why are you not in the healing wing?" she asked pointedly, and fixed her husband with a stern look.

Elrond smiled gently and shook his head, attempting to minimize Celebrían's worry. The effect was lost an instant later as he abruptly sank down to the bench, a wave of dizziness overtaking his senses and causing his body to throb mercilessly.

"I am fine," Elrond tried assured Celebrían from his seat. "It is little more than a flesh wound, and there were others with far more grievous injuries than I. My leg can wait until the morning to be tended to."

Celebrían's eyebrows rose. "Let me be the judge of that," she decided, shrugging off her nightgown and setting it up on the edge of the bath before sitting down next to her husband. "Let me see your leg."

Far too tired to argue, and knowing that he would lose the debate if he tried, Elrond sat back and pulled his leg up. He bent the knee until the sodden and blood-soaked, makeshift bandage was above the water, and then he leaned back against the wall.

Celebrían deftly unwrapped the bandage, and then pulled it stickily away from Elrond's leg. With gentle fingers, she examined the wound, noting the jagged cut that trailed haphazardly around his leg, from the back of his calf to nearly the front of his shin, and the way the skin had been torn away. She was no stranger to battle wounds, but the sight of this one made her mildly queasy, not least of all because the one it marred was her husband.

"It looks worse than it is," Elrond put in weakly.

Celebrían shook her head stoutly, then began rewrapping the wound, making sure to hold closed the edges of the skin and apply as much pressure as she could. "What happened?" she asked, her eyes flicking up to Elrond's.

"An Orc scimitar," Elrond told her with a sigh. "In all honesty, I was lucky. If it weren't for Avasath, the Orc may have taken my leg. She pulled away just in time, before I had even fully registered what had happened."

"That horse is truly a gift from the Valar," Celebrían said with a wondering shake of her head.

Elrond grinned lopsidedly in return. "You used to think she was a curse from Morgoth himself," he reminded her.

Celebrían chuckled. "She has changed my mind many times over since then. There," Celebrían said, tucking the end of the bandage back into place.

Looking up, her hand still hovering over the bloody bandage, Celebrían fixed Elrond with a hard look. "Elrond, this needs stitches, and as soon as possible. You have already lost a good deal of blood. Just look at the water around you," she added in exasperation when she realized that Elrond was about to argue again.

"Celebrían…no," Elrond said softly, but with a savage undercurrent to his tone. "Not now."

"Elrond, what makes you think that your health is not important?" Celebrían cried out. "Any one of the healers would be more than willing to aid you – you are their lord, Elrond, and they love you and care for you. Not one of them would refuse you."

"That is just the point," Elrond hissed, leaning forward, one hand latching around Celebrían's right shoulder. "That is precisely why I cannot go to get this treated – not now, not tonight."

"That does not make sense," Celebrían retorted, shaking her head. "Tell me plainly, Elrond. Why?"

The stretchers carrying the wounded were placed carefully down on the flagstones in the courtyard. He dismounted quickly, only to have to grab for Avasath's saddle as his leg seared with pain and buckled, and his broken ribs grated. Breathing heavily, he leaned against his mare, burying his forehead in her coal black, dripping mane. She craned her neck around, whickering worriedly, and gently lipped at his hair, nudging his head gently.

He pushed her head away gently, then straightened. There was no time for weakness – there were others who needed aid far more than he. Limping heavily, so as not to put any undue weight on his leg, he hobbled toward the stretchers, his eyes sweeping over the wounded.

There were nearly a dozen stretchers. A few of the Elves were unconscious, their heads lolling against the blood-stained cloaks that served as the makeshift bed, arms lying limply over their chests or hanging over the crudely hacked branches that held the cloaks taught. More were conscious than unconscious, however, and their piteous groans were audible in the sheltered courtyard. His heart twisted painfully at the sound – like cornered, dying animals.

The healers were already rushing to the wounded, kneeling down on the soaked flagstones, opening their satchels to pull out bandages to press against bleeding wounds, vials with pain medicine, and thick blankets which would help to keep off the rain and stave off the chill of shock, at least for long enough for the wounded to be transported.

"My lord?" It was Aelbreg, one of the older healers who had served under him ever since Eregion. The tall ellon hurried to his side, worry flickering across his fair features. "My lord, you are injured," Aelbreg exclaimed, noting the blood-soaked bandage on his leg, the long gash on his cheek, and the caved armor.

"Not now, Aelbreg," he countered, brushing aside the healer's concern. "My wounds can wait. There are others who cannot."

Aelbreg turned, albeit reluctantly, and then hurried to a nearby stretcher. The healer shot one last, worried glance over his shoulder at his lord, before turning his attention to the Elf with a broken spear shaft protruding from his stomach.

"There are others, Celebrían," Elrond explained, head bowed, "others who are far more grievously injured than I. Should one of them die, just so that I may be afforded ease and comfort?" Elrond shook his head. "The healers are already nearly overwhelmed as it is, Celebrían. Eleven – eleven were so grievously injured that we had to carry them home on stretchers. I do not think three of them will live out the night, and I cannot hazard a guess as to the fates of the remaining eight. Two others were able to ride, but they will need surgery before the night is out if they are to keep their arms. Four more were carried by another rider. That is seventeen, Celebrían, seventeen men wounded so badly that, if they do not receive treatment tonight, they will die, or be forever maimed. That is more than a quarter of the patrol. Thirteen lie dead out there, and we were not even able to bear their bodies home. We left them to rot with the Orcs, for the carrion eaters. A cut in the leg and four broken ribs – that is the extent of my injuries. I should be among the healers, tending the wounded, not seeking treatment myself."

A shudder wracked Elrond's body as the images of the dead and the maimed imposed themselves in his mind's eye. He had seen death, witnessed carnage beyond imagining, even been the cause once or twice. But even so, it still affected him, still caused him to shudder, to awake in the night in a cold sweat.

Warm lips pressed against his, drawing him out of the fragmented memories. He felt a hand thread through his hair, and another gently wrap around his neck. He permitted himself to be pulled closer, and for a long moment he allowed himself to simply relax, drinking in her taste, her scent, the feel of her skin against his.

"You are not weak, Elrond," Celebrían murmured, her lips just barely brushing his. He shuddered again, his eyes closing as he battled with the sudden surge of emotion. "The fact that you are still perturbed shows only that you have not hardened your heart to death and pain. Tell, me, how is that weakness?"

Elrond shook his head, and took a deep breath, ignoring the pain that flared dully in his chest from the action. Somehow, she always knew precisely how to address his doubts and fears whenever they would surface. "I am sorry," he whispered.

"Whatever for?" Celebrían queried, her lips still brushing his skin, one hand still in his hair.

"You always seem to be picking up my broken pieces and putting them back together," Elrond answered.

Celebrían laughed, and only then did she draw back. "That is not true, beloved," she said lightly. "And even if it were, you do the same for me. You have carried me farther than anyone, save perhaps my father, ever has. This is what we do," Celebrían reminded him softly, "as husband and wife. I carry you, and you carry me." Celebrían leaned in and kissed Elrond again.

Elrond kissed her firmly in return, his arms wrapping around her waist, his hands dancing down her back. He pulled her closer, until she was all but sitting in his lap, her own arms twined about his neck.

When at last they parted, breathing heavily, Elrond leaned his forehead against Celebrían's, and looked steadily into her pale eyes. "I love you," he said firmly.

"And I love you," Celebrían replied without hesitation, her eyes ablaze. She reached up and planted a quick kiss on his lips, before pulling away, out of reach. "Even though your hair is still filthy," she teased.

Elrond groaned, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thunk. While washing his hair was not the most arduous task, it did take time, especially when it was as tangled as it surely was at the moment.

Celebrían easily slid from Elrond's lap, and settled onto the bench, crossing her legs. "Lay back," she ordered her husband. Elrond obeyed, allowing Celebrían to guide his head until it was resting on her shins.

And carefully, lovingly, Celebrían began to wash Elrond's hair, pulling free the tangles, working free the knots, and rinsing free the mud and blood caked amid the strands.