Galadriel looked up at the tall winding staircase, not daring yet to ascend. There were so very few times she had been afraid of anything. Now her fear was second only to her grief. Celebdreth was watching her intently. As he shifted his weight, she heard a soft whimper of pain, and knew how hard Haldir was trying not to worry anyone.
Hands placed themselves upon her shoulders and her tears began to fall. “We can’t get him into the tree and the healers have all been sent to Rohan with the soldiers.” Celeborn nodded to her words, then silently moved to his grandson. Crouching down, he quickly examined the damage that had been caused.
“Take him to the garden. We can not manage him up all of these stairs, but you will be able to carry him down there.” Celebdreth nodded and walked away. Celeborn looked around the area beneath the tree, and when he could not see who he was looking for, called out, “Rumil!”
Rumil was down from his perch in the tree in an instant. “Go with your son, Rumil. Build a fire, not too large or high. Go.” Rumil flew toward the garden as Celeborn turned to Orophin who was soundlessly tending to his own injury. “Fetch from the wine cellar two bottles of the strongest drink you can find. Be sure one of them is as pure as we have, and it must be clear.” Orophin went to the side of the Great Mallorn, wiped the blood from his nose on his sleeve, and uncovered the hidden cellar. Jumping down into the tunnel, it was the only time he would never complain about the spiders that resided in the passage.
Celeborn took hold of Galadriel’s fidgeting hands. “I need you to get something for me.”
“Anything. Name it and it shall be retrieved.”
“I need you to get your sword.”
Galadriel stepped back. “Celeborn, no! We can save him, we may not be the best healers, but we can try. We must try, please, we have to try.” He words were sobbed to him as he drew her against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
“Galadriel, I shall do all I can for him, this you know. I do not plan to use your sword to kill but to heal. I cannot use mine, nor his, for there are inscriptions upon the blades. Yours is clean, and has not seen battle in many long years,” explained Celeborn to her softly.
“The Valar may not approve,” was her answer. “It is the blade of a kinslayer.” The last word was spat from her mouth, as if it was something of the black speech. Celeborn smoothed back her long golden hair, trying to soothe her.
“Have you ever thought to ask them? Have you ever told them you were sorry?” Now didn’t seem the most appropriate time to bring up the subject, for he knew it was always the one taboo topic, Galadriel’s pride saw to that. Now the words flowed from him easily, questions he had always wished to ask her and never had.
She pulled back from him. Perhaps if it had been any other day she may have stormed off, become angry, and even have thought to raise her voice to him to explain that it just didn’t work that way. Instead, she folded her hands, bowed her head, and quietly began to speak an apology she had long thought to say though never had spoken. When she finished, she waited.
Celeborn tilted his head as he watched her, standing perfectly still with her eyes closed. She appeared to be listening to something or someone. Suddenly she gasped, and her eyes flew open as she fell to her knees. Celeborn hit the ground the same time she did, enfolding her within his arms.
“They bid me come to the West,” she sobbed. “They have forgiven me.”
“That is good news. Now, I need you to bring me your sword.” Celeborn helped his wife to stand, and she nodded to him. He led her to the stairway, firmly but gently keeping her steady, her strength renewed with each step. She gave his hand a tender squeeze as she gathered up the fabric of her dress so as not to let it hinder her and began running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Orophin had reemerged by now, and Celeborn motioned for him to follow. “Come. There is work to be done.”
