It was night and overhead the stars were pricking the velvet canopy. The chamber was lit only by the radiant moon and moonlight streaming through the arched window and the doors that opened onto the balcony. The sheets on the bed were cool, freshly laid, covers turned back. There was a glass of water on the nightstand for her comfort, towels upon the chair. Her trunks were unpacked and her clothes neatly stowed in the wardrobe: dresses hung up, shawls and drapes on hooks, shoes aligned in two neat rows. He had thought of everything. All that was necessary to make the night comfortable, all that could be needed – except himself.
She emerged from the bathroom, the thin muslin nightgown closely hugging her skin, its caresses making her flesh aware of itself: she felt strangely exposed. Her long hair fell in waves down her back, a heavy silver-gold curtain that warmed her shoulders yet made her head feel cool now that it was released from its intricate braids. Cool fingers of breeze explored the chamber. The balcony doors were open and Elrond stood upon the veranda, oblivious to the wind that ghosted the drapes inward. He was staring up at the stars, his features unreadable, his grey eyes distant. Was he as nervous as she? That, she realised, was not possible. She was not the first to share his bed. Why should the very thought of that make his stomach flutter like the wings of a trapped bird beating against closed drapes? Or make him wrap his arms around himself to add another layer to the clothes he was wearing? Or – no, he wouldn't feel this way.
She moved to the bed, setting aside her comb and sat upon the edge of the cool mattress. She was the daughter of Galadriel; she did not fear trivialities. Though this, she thought nervously, could hardly be called a triviality. Although in her mother's eyes it would be little more than a formality. Celebrían pouted and then bit her lower lip. Her mother had a tendency to overlook those things that most people considered important, for the world through Galadriel's eyes held more fearful things than pre-coital nerves and new locations. She was right, in her way, for there was more to fear from this world: the Shadow and its creator and a thousand other things that lay beneath the surface of the world, that lay ahead, that lay behind. But it was disconcerting for those who did not spend their lives looking through the mirror, outside the experience of the mundane and, Celebrían decided, she had every right to be nervous about this. Particularly considering the continued absence of her husband.
She was nervous; how then did he feel? She could not comprehend a situation that would induce him to confess. Perhaps if she asked… But he seemed so distant that she could not find the words. She did not even know how to ask him to come inside, or what his eyes sought in Varda's star-woven handiwork. What right is it of mine to enquire? she wondered uneasily. I am only his wife: a tool to seal an alliance, to weave the peace, to breed from. Aye, and if that is so, she chastised herself, he is only your husband, another part of an alliance pact, a breeding stallion. He could not be so diminished; beyond all else, he was her friend, as he ever had been before they came to be married.
She poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher; she would give him a few more minutes while she steadied her own nerves and then go to him. She took a sip from the glass, letting her eyes roam the chamber. In this room the big four-poster bed was the central feature, though from the fadedness of the drapes they spent much of their lifetime closed, probably only swept back to allow Elrond to fall into bed, and only held back tonight in her honour. The door that opened directly into the antechamber was opposite the bed, while on either side of the backing wall lay the balcony doors and the arched window that looked out across the valley of Imladris. To her right lay the door to the bathing chambers, to the right of that the dresser and the built-in wardrobe for her clothes. To her left in the corner by the door was a big wicker chair that her sewing box and the banner she had been making were set at the foot and upon the arm respectively. His wardrobe was beside that, his desk, as paper-piled as the one in his study to its right.
In the corner by the window, his armour stood upon its frame, its shining surface dulled in places, blacked across one shoulder as though some great heat had scorched its surface, scarred, dented, tarnished. The dark blue of Lindon's cape was patched and torn. Overhead the battered banner of Lindon, the banner of the high king Gil-galad under which most of the Alliance had so proudly marched, hung above the window. Celebrían swallowed down a sudden sting of pain in her throat. The high king was dead. It hardly seemed possible. Though she had not known him well, the courageous, powerful, proud elf-king had roused the elven world to war, united them and guided them forwards, a force of incredible allied nature beneath his command. Her mother's silent, weighted sadness at his passing told Celebrían more than any other's grief how greatly he would be missed. She herself was more shocked. It scarcely seemed possible that such a man could die at all.
It had been a hard war. She, shielded from it by her gender and her station, the latter more poignantly so, witnessed it in those who returned from war, in those who did not. Elrond, she perceived, much like her father, had returned a thousand years aged. Shadowed eyes, "not now, Celebrian"s and sad, defeated smiles were born of the winless victories of the Last Alliance.
People were changed, changed beyond recognition, and Elrond was among them. Sometimes she was not sure she knew him now, the distant, empty-eyed lord of Imladris, quite different from the wry-humoured, kind, well-spoken herald of the high king. He seemed so very much older than she, something she had never noticed before, save in his tales of experience that she had gladly heard. Perhaps now more than ever he needs a friend, she suggested to herself. Setting her glass aside she rose and walked to the balcony, trying to suppress the wriggle of nervousness in the pit of her stomach at the inevitable outcome that stirring him from his solitary reverie would bring.
She paused at the balcony doors, watching him grip the rail, his face turned up to the stars. He bit his lip, closing his eyes and his hands tightened upon the wood. He lowered his head, swallowed, and sighed - then looked up sharply and turned, suddenly registering and startled by her presence. His expression of surprise turned to an apologetic smile and he moved to her.
"Celebrían, forgive me my preoccupations," he said kindly, touching her arm and rubbing his fingers over her skin. "It was thoughtless of me, you should have spoken." He moved back inside the chamber, latching the door closed as she followed. "Is this not meant to be your night?" He smiled, but it faltered and softly he corrected himself, "Our night."
She tried to mirror his smile, to appreciate his consideration, and ignore his failure to see himself as joined to her and as entitled to a night of love as she. Disquieted, she leaned her back against the dresser, very aware of her nakedness beneath her nightshift while he wore still his robes of state.
Sensing, it seemed, her vulnerability, he began to unfasten his cloak and slid it from his shoulders. She wanted to move to help him, but the dresser remained at her back and she couldn't convince her feet to stir. He disrobed himself slowly, neither watching her seductively, nor stripping off indifferently. It was as though he was as hesitant as she. She watched the outer layers fall away, astonished at the number of layers in which the male form was garbed, or at least, in which Elrond chose to clothe himself. She found herself wondering if each layer held some clue to his inner self, found herself gazing transfixed at the night light that bathed the muscles of his torso. She felt that the starlight illuminating his skin was a layer too; wondered if he could take off his skin, his bones too and reveal his heart and soul beneath.
Yet so beautiful were the layers that hid them she did not think she would want him to. He was not built quite like any of the other elves she had seen: sturdier in the shoulders and across the chest. She was startled to see a thin dark line of hair retreating from his navel into his breeches, and a scattering of dark hairs around the dusky peaks of his nipples. She reached out without thinking and traced the southward line of hair. His stomach contracted slightly as he tensed, and when she looked up there was something wary in his eyes. She withdrew her hand nervously, her fingertips tingling slightly from the touch of the hair – not unpleasant, but wiry and yet soft. She smiled a little and something about him relaxed.
The pause between them stretched out, the tiny distance between them feeling like a thousand leagues. She knew not what to touch, or where to look. It was his hand that reached for hers and he who led her to the bed. She followed, feeling like she was being led blindfolded through the woods at night, having to trust, yet not quite trusting the marchwardens and guardians of the forest to lead her well. But he smiled at her and shook his head.
"This is none too easy," he murmured, putting voice to her own disquiet. "One would think that the marriage itself would be a big enough step to satisfy the general public for one day."
She smiled a little, relaxing as she sat down on the bed. Elrond offered her a glass of water, taking one for himself when she refused. He drank half and then came to sit beside her on the pale quilt.
"White sheets," she said, touching them, trying to keep her voice light. "Is that supposed to prove I am…pure? Are you going to hang them out the window in the morning to reassure the public?"
"That is a particularly macabre Noldor custom and not one that I set any store by," Elrond replied, shaking his head. "Fear not, my lady, I am not so crass."
Celebrían felt a giggle slip past her lips. "I rather wonder what your advisors would think."
"Glorfindel would no doubt make some utterly inappropriate while no doubt entertaining remark; Erestor I feel sure would click his tongue at me," Elrond replied, chuckling too. "Of your court, however, Thandronen I feel sure would approve."
Celebrían put a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. "Oh, he would! He is such a traditionalist!"
Elrond nodded. "However, I have no desire merely to please him and I suspect your father would have words to say about my abuse of your dignity. If you wish to make a banner or a display piece from our bed sheets you may do as you please, but I promise you that I shall not."
"Why thank you, my lord," she said with mock seriousness. "Perhaps," she added, unable to resist baiting him a little. "I shall steal them away before you wake so that you may never know yourself."
Elrond smiled, shaking his head. "They may tell me nothing anyway. It is not always the same for women: some bleed and some do not. If you have spent any time on horseback I feel sure it would serve as no useful indication of your virginity or lack of at all."
Celebrían felt herself tense. "And how would you know that?" she asked – and then bit her lip for the question had slipped past her lips before she considered that it might hurt him. She still did not know who his lost lover had been.
"I am a healer, Celebrían," he said gently. "I have heard this kind of nonsense about using bed sheets as indicators before. Amongst the traditionalists of Lindon's court there was much store set by it – strange how men only came when there was naught to show for their night, and yet did not consider the health of the lady when the test proved true."
Celebrían frowned, insulted on behalf of her sex, and Elrond smiled. "So," he said gently, "I would rather know than not. I do not wish to hurt you in any way and if I should I would not have you suffer your hurt in silence."
She tried to smile and squeezed the hand he laid upon hers. "I hope you won't hurt me," she tried to say lightly.
Elrond's eyes fleetingly showed uncertainty in the darkness. "So do I," he murmured.
The comment sounded strange, for he had had a lover before her, and she swallowed down her nervousness. Before she could think upon the remark, or change her mind, she leaned forward and kissed him. Lips and teeth collided in her clumsy uncertainty, but she felt his arms slip around her. He let her control the kiss, but his lips guided her for his mouth was familiar with the touch of another's.
And we will make a mockery of the rites of love.
Oh Elbereth Githoniel, come bless this wedding band,
But do not touch the hearts of each,
For we join not for love but for land.
The verses from a song she had often heard mockingly sung by the ladies of high society danced in her mind as he kissed her and she reached up to grasp his ebony braids, winding her fingers into the thick fall of his hair to banish the lyrics. His hands smoothed patterns on her back as he drew her down on top of him, stroking her skin through her night shift. She drew back from the kiss, focusing only upon him, as she knelt astride one of his legs, watching her fingers half-mesmerised as they traced the lines of his torso. He caught his breath as she negotiated the outline of his aureole and she played her fingertips cautiously over the tightening bud in its centre, her other hand toying with a lock of his soft dark hair that spilled over his shoulders. He let her explore, his hands resting upon her thighs, without complaint. He reached up to guide her back down into a kiss, then caressed her shoulders, sitting up to trail kisses down her neck to her collarbone, the warm hot line making her body tighten and a heat begin between her legs. Her skin wanted to shiver off her body, half in delight, half unnerved by the new sensations. The anticipation tingled all over her body, pleasant and yet at the same time almost too intimate to a body that had not yet known these touches. His hand slid from her shoulders to caress her breast and this time she pushed into his hand, gasping aloud at the sensations invoked.
Keep touching me and I could love you, she thought, and then almost laughed. Elrond caught her smile and hesitated, raising his eyebrows in a question.
"Nothing," she said somewhat breathlessly. "It feels nice."
"Tell me," he murmured. "Tell me where."
She felt her cheeks flush hotly and falteringly she asked him to continue his touches. He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, cooling her blush with his gentle smile.
Somehow, between whispered requests and exploring touches from her, from him, she found herself lying beneath him, a hot flush upon her skin. He leaned down to kiss her and she parted her lips to him, moving her hands to the lacings on his breeches. A shiver ran through her – she wanted to stop now, to lie close and hold him, and maybe another night to go further; but that prolonged the suspense, did not ease the heat inside her. She reached for the laces…
He tensed, hesitated, and then drew back, rolled off her suddenly - right to the edge of the bed - and for an instant she thought he would get up and leave. But he did not. He lay still, as though turned to stone, his words hanging between them in the air.
"I'm sorry. I can't."
The words took some minutes to make sense, and each moment he seemed to grow stiller, further away, as though he had retreated to a place deep inside him. His flesh formed a barrier through which she could not pass. She lay still, her head spinning a little, the surprise beginning to wear off. Slowly she sat, reaching across to touch his shoulder.
"Elrond?" she whispered, for the room was suddenly as quiet as a tomb.
He did not move. Her heart that had slowed its dizzying beat began to jump uneasily in her breast. It's me. The bed felt huge around her as she lay there, the canopy a thousand miles above her, the drapes enormous wings, the bed itself transcending the chamber in size. She lay within it, feeling small and inadequate. It's me. He doesn't want to touch me. He doesn't want to be with me. He wants to be with her, whoever she was. We are married, but it doesn't make any difference. We can be lord and lady of Imladris and not really be together. We don't ever have to do this – we don't even have to have children. Her throat tightened at the thought. She needed a child, this child of Luthien her mother had foreseen. She *wanted* a child, – something to love as her mother could not have loved her, something from this marriage that would make it real. Something that was a part of her, something she could watch and love, and admire with her father, and… Oh Elbereth, do not deprive me of this. I willingly married him for he is a kind and good man and it was my duty to my family and to this world to bring what peace I can – but please don't let me be alone. Don't let this come to nothing.
She bit her lip, the tears welling behind her eyes, but she stubbornly forced them back.
"Elrond," she whispered again, more urgently. He did not move. He was tense beneath her hand, the lines of his muscles standing out taut and hard. His skin was hot, as though he was embarrassed, and she started at her own selfishness.
"Oh Elrond, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I can't be her-" she broke off, for it did not sound right, though why she could not decide. He remained motionless, caught in his own world despite the trigger. "For you."
Elrond tensed, then answered, his voice harsh and strained.
"You can't be, Celebrían; you will never be… I don't even want you to be." He sighed, a ragged exhale of breath. "Oh Elbereth, I am sorry. It isn't fair to you for you to have to try to be." He rolled over to face her, his grey eyes filled with more hurt than she could stand to witness, let alone imagine how to feel. "I am so sorry."
He took her hand in his and stroked it, their fingers the focus of his attention as he considered his words, his lips drawn tight and his features lined with strain. He looked up, his eyes pools of guilt.
"I am sorry," he repeated. "Celebrían, this isn't your fault, please don't think that it is. I am just…" He shook his head. "I am sorry to cause you pain."
"Shh," she whispered, pressing her fingers to his lips. She stared at him in concern, stroking his cheek. "Who was it, Elrond? Do you want to talk?"
He closed his eyes, the pain that crossed his features so raw she regretted her question even as he shook his head and swallowed so hard it had to hurt. For a moment he could not open his eyes and when he did, it was with a shuddering sigh that drew down the façade curtains of self-control.
"No," he said finally, his voice little more than a whisper. "I want…" he faltered, as though he could not voice what he really wanted, and then continued with a brave attempt to convince her that he was finishing his sentence, not filling the gap left by what was unsaid. "What I want is to spend this night with you, and for you to light the path to a future. I cannot live in the past and it is beyond unfair to expect you to."
She leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek. "Then shall we not look to the light of the stars?" she whispered. "The light of Earendil shines brightly above."
"The light of Earendil from the Silmaril shines," Elrond said, his voice taking on some of the wry humour she had often loved about him. "That was an accursed stone – no lady, light a candle, the stars lead me nowhere kindly tonight."
"Then consider the match struck," she said, trying to smile.
It was he, as it had to be, who brought their lips together once more, saying softly, "Then I will follow the light."
This time, there was no difficulty, nor, she was surprised to find, pain. He focused so carefully upon her pleasure, while she worked to find his, their minds and hands seemed to move in tandem. But as they lay back at last, spent and weary, she knew even then that his heart was far from where she lay.
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