All That May Become by Grundy

Celeborn woke with a start from sleep that had been less than restful.

He shouldn’t be sleeping anyway, not when the situation was so dire. What remained of his force – it had never been large enough to deserve the title of ‘army’ – was pinned down, with the river running high and fast on one side, the Mountains of Mist on the other, and Sauron’s horde to the south, with enemy numbers too great for them to hope to break through anywhere. If there was any realistic prospect of it, he’d make the attempt rather than sit here waiting to be killed.

He suspected he would come in for something particularly malicious. Sauron had long nursed a hatred for Galadriel, even before she saw through ‘Annatar’, and would no doubt have ideas on what to do with her mate. (Celeborn has resolved that if it comes to that, he will make sure he is not taken alive. He’s also considered asking one of his men to ensure his body is unrecognizable. He won’t be a banner or a trophy to taunt his mate, his kin, or his people.) 

Their saving grace so far had been the weather – the grim, stormy weather the foul maia had sent to dispirit the elves also hampered his own scouts and winged spies, so their enemy had no idea how few they were. Had he known, he would have crushed them by now.

He couldn’t find it in himself to regret the actions that had brought him here. Allowing Sauron to march into Eregion unopposed was unthinkable, and he had been the only one able to lead what was left of the elves there. The Noldor followed because of Galadriel and Celebrimbor; the Sindar followed because he was one of their few surviving princes.

They had begun harrying Sauron’s invasion as it came through the gap between the Ered Nimarais and the Hithaeglir, but it had quickly become obvious they could only hope to delay the Enemy, not defeat him. They’d slowed him as much as they could, but they hadn’t been able to keep him from Ost-in-Edhil. The price they’d paid for trying to protect the city long enough for those who had foolishly stayed despite Celebrimbor’s orders to evacuate had been high, and their retreat northward had narrowly missed turning into headlong flight.

They should have tried to cross the mountains further south, where they might have had some confidence that there were no orcs laying in wait for them, where their allies in Moria could have covered their escape. Once east of the mountains, they might have joined the strength of Lorinand or the Greenwood.

But Celeborn had misread Sauron’s intent, expecting him to continue his westward push once he had destroyed Ost-in-Edhil and captured Celebrimbor, and so led his retreat north instead of east. He hadn’t spotted his mistake until they had already outrun the furthest extent of Moria’s territory. So here they were, trapped in the narrowing land between Bruinen and the mountains. He couldn’t delude himself any help was coming. Sauron had already turned back what Gil-galad had been able to send out.

“Prince Celeborn?”

The whisper was barely audible – as was Celeborn’s answering sigh.

“I am no longer a prince,” he replied quietly.

It’s a form of loyalty, forgoing the title he’d held since before the rising of the sun. Nor was it easy – he was used to looking after his people, and his people were accustomed to calling him their prince. But if young Elrond was neither king nor prince, the eldest surviving nephew of Thingol wasn’t either.

Not that he’s had any conversations with his grandnephew about it. Elrond had rarely left Mithlond since Oropher returned him there in the four hundred forty-eighth year of the present Age; until war had broken out, Celeborn had spent most of his time in Hollin with his family.

“As you say, Prince Celeborn,” came the wry response.

“You came to wake me to argue about my title?” Celeborn asked wearily.

“Hardly. I’m too old to worry about how you style yourself these days.”

Orodlin had followed Elu Thingol west before Celeborn himself had been begotten, and though now wed to a Silvan lady of Lorinand, had not hesitated to follow Thingol’s nephew to battle.

“In your own good time, then,” Celeborn drawled.

“The outriders report there’s something coming from the north, but it’s moving too quiet to be orcs,” Orodlin said, offering his non-prince a hand up. “They’re not sure what it is. They decided somebody had to tell the man in charge.”

Celeborn snorted. Most of his men were young, many of them not begotten until the present Age, and rather more in awe of him than he’d like. He could easily imagine them drawing lots to determine which of them would have the unhappy task of waking their commander with bad news.

“Show me,” he ordered.

They crept away from his position just behind the line facing south, toward the enemy, through the ranks of those pulled back to rest, and eventually coming to the rear, where the wounded were sheltered as best they could contrive. (The wounded who were still well enough to keep up, that was – the worst injured they’d had to send to Badhron. Leaving them to Gorthaur’s ‘mercy’ was unthinkable.)

Beyond that, there was a line of healthy warriors keeping a northward watch, lest they be taken by surprise. Celeborn knew well enough that orcs could travel the mountains nearly as well as dwarves.

Laeghen, one of their best scouts, nodded toward the river, where a thick copse of willows stood.

“Whoever or whatever they are, they’re in there,” he murmured. “I did not like to send anyone to investigate without permission.”

Celeborn knew he ought to send someone instead of doing it himself, and yet…

“I will go,” he said softly. “Orodlin?”

“With you as always, my lord,” the man answered as stoutly as it was possible to be in a whisper.

The two of them made no pretense of not suspecting anything to be concealed in the trees, approaching with blades drawn and ready.

“I seem to remember someone older and more experienced in martial matters telling me in rather vehement terms a commander should not take point when expecting an ambush,” an amused voice said from the cover of the willows.

“Whoever it was, you clearly didn’t listen very well,” Orodlin sniffed. “Are you going to hid in those branches all evening, Lord Elrond, or did you come here to some purpose?”

Elrond dropped to the ground as gracefully as Luthien herself could have done.

“We heard you were hard pressed here, and came to help,” he said.

There were a dozen or so with him, elves all – if Gil-galad had received any reply from Numenor, it had clearly not been what he hoped for.

“With only this small handful of men?” Celeborn asked, appalled.

It could have been worse, he supposed – he could see that old stalwart Pelendur among them. The elf who had once been the Feanorions’ captain would cheerfully die before allowing Elrond to come to harm. He’d lay odds that Pelendur’s inclusion in this party had not been Elrond’s idea.

“Please, Uncle,” Elrond laughed. “I did learn something in that war, not to mention from my foster father.”

Celeborn did not ask which ‘father’ the boy was referring to, since he didn’t think particularly well of any son of Fëanor, but he suspected Elrond meant the eldest Fëanorion. The best he could say of Maedhros was that he had kept the twins safe and taught them well. The second best he could say of Maedhros was that he was dead.

“I have a larger force,” Elrond continued, “but we are still not enough to have any confidence of victory against the army to your south, or even reasonable odds. And there is another detachment of Sauron’s army to my west, cutting off any route to Mithlond.”

“You spoke of help, so I assume you brought some good news for me, Elrond?” Celeborn said, trying not to betray that if this was some foolish notion of bravery, he’d verbally tear the boy a new one before sending him right to wherever he’d come from. (He had a feeling Pelendur would be rather helpful in the matter.)

“I have found a good place to hold out against them,” Elrond said with a slight smile – a smile that was not Luthien’s, but Nimloth’s. “We came to lead you there.”

Celeborn sighed.

“Just how do you expect us to sneak away unobserved?” he asked. “Even orcs cannot fail to notice us disappearing.”

Elrond’s smile this time was not Nimloth’s, but Eärendil’s – the look he got before doing something he thought would be fun but knew his mother Idril would take a dim view of.

“I think we can contrive something,” he said confidently.

Though he generally tried to ignore the golodh to the greatest extent possible, Celeborn glanced at Pelendur. The captain gave a slight shrug, but didn’t look worried, so whatever his lord was planning, he must expect it to work.

“When?” was Celeborn’s only other question.

“The sooner, the better,” Elrond replied. “Count yourselves lucky this weather has helped you, but do not trust it to last much longer.”

Celeborn knew better than to argue with him about such matters. Both Elwing’s sons had shown over the course of the War of Wrath an uncanny ability to predict such things. Whether it was foresight or some odd inheritance from Melian that let them perceive the imminent actions of the enemy before other elves could, he wasn’t sure, but it was nearly always right.

He nodded at Orodlin, who slipped off to relay orders.

“Here, uncle,” Elrond murmured, passing him a flask that proved to contain a warmed version of the concoction the boy called miruvor. (Celeborn suspected the name was some private joke. He’ll ask eventually, but not right now.)

He wasn’t about to decline a swig of it.

“I want a look at that arm, as well,” Elrond added with a hint of sharpness in his voice, eyes on Celeborn’s wrapped left forearm.

Celeborn shot a glare at him, too well versed in his ways not to know the boy had deliberately waited until he had a mouthful.

“It will keep,” he replied as soon as he could. “If you’re minded to put your healing talents to use, there are a good many who need help more than I do.”

Elrond looked unconvinced, but didn’t argue.

Not for the first time, Celeborn wished he’d been present on Balar when Elrond and Elros had arrived. He suspected it had done grave damage to the once warm relationship he’d had with Elwing’s boys that they had not been met by any kin known to them, instead winning an audience with Gil-galad only after a tense standoff between their retainers and the king’s men.  But he and Galadriel had been away bearing warnings to the elves east of the mountains of the upheaval the War would bring.

“Get us to wherever this place is you have in mind is, and you can doctor my arm to your heart’s content,” Celeborn offered tiredly.

---

Elrond had known better than to expect his great-uncle to be visibly pleased at him showing up, even with the promise of a way out of the tight spot he found himself in.

Celeborn was too Sindarin to be happy at him putting himself into what looked like unnecessary danger. He clearly recalled the older elf’s appalled reaction the first time he’d heard the ballad of Maedhros’ rescue by Fingon. (He’d surely heard the story earlier – Galadriel must have known it – but not the Noldorin songs about the incident.)

The politest comment he and Elros had heard on the subject was ‘needless risk’. Most of the rest of the commentary had been liberally spiced with Sindarin expletives about the often terminal idiocy of the golodhrim.

But Elrond had seen no sure way to move Celeborn’s forces to the hidden valley he’d stumbled upon without his presence. He was the only one who could manipulate the river, or the clouds, or raise a mist. The waters wouldn’t answer to anyone else.

He didn’t intend to have that discussion publicly, though. Pelendur, who had known him since he was six years old, knew perfectly well what he could do, but most who followed him didn’t, and he preferred to keep it that way.

There was something to be said for the Sindarin habit of keeping things to oneself. Not all knowledge was meant to be shared with the world.

Besides, behaving slightly more Sindarin than normal might make things a bit easier with some of Celeborn’s people. Orodlin wasn’t the only one who put an emphasis on Lord when speaking to him, a pointed reminder that some of Thingol’s folk still felt he had shirked his duty.

He’s never been able to figure out if Celeborn was one of them.

Oropher certainly wasn’t, and so far as Elrond could tell, the only thing about him that irks Thranduil is that his habits are so very Noldor. (That one thing had provoked several rip-roaring fights over the years, though most of those had been while Elros was still around.)

It’s a bit silly, really, this need of his to have what little kin he still has on these shores think well of him.

As Celeborn prepared his people to move out, Elrond moved quietly among the wounded, heeding the triage priorities of the healers already among them. It did not take him long to determine that while they might be in pain, few were in danger of succumbing to their injuries.

He’s seen enough of war to realize the reason for that, and couldn’t help but wonder how many they’d had to leave behind. He dearly hoped this would be his last war – he hated having to entertain such thoughts. If they defeated Sauron, there would be a lasting peace.

But first they have to survive the winter, and hold out long enough for Gil-galad to organize a relief expedition. He’d known when he set out from Mithlond that it was going to be a tough, close-run thing, but even so the situation had been fairly desperate before they’d lucked out and found the hidden valley.

Looking at it as a commander, he knew it would make an excellent stronghold – hard to find, hard to besiege, and easy for defenders to hold for years at a time if need be. It had its own water, and land enough that if carefully managed, it could feed an army.

Looking at it as someone who had spent his childhood building imaginary castles and towns with his brother, he suspected it could be something more. Not now, of course. But in time…

“This is no time for daydreaming,” a voice cut into his thoughts.

Celeborn had joined him.

“If you’re happy the wounded are ready, we are ready to get underway,” the older elf said briskly.

Elrond nodded.

The healers were finishing with the last of their patients, making sure that each one had a healthy ‘buddy’ assigned to them, ensuring that none would fall behind or go missing during the march.

“Very well,” he replied. “My scouts can show you the way.”

Celeborn’s raised eyebrow demanded to know more.

“I will be providing cover here,” Elrond told him reluctantly. “I will join you shortly.”

“I’ve a better idea, Elrond,” Celeborn said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Your golodh bodyguard can lead the way north, and I’ll take over from him for a spell.”

Elrond tried not to let his consternation show. Pelendur was not going to like that idea at all – Celeborn’s term bodyguard was in truth not far off from what his loyal captain viewed himself as – and the last thing he needed was another round of Noldor-Sindar squabbling.

“Very well,” he agreed, trying his best to give in with good grace. “But only because I don’t wish to waste time arguing the point with you.”

Pelendur, at least, would stop arguing once told this was an order from his lord – albeit probably with a few dire words for the Sindarin prince taking his place.

To his surprise, though, there was no argument, simply a surprisingly polite bow in Celeborn’s direction and then Pelendur turned to Celeborn’s deputy Orodlin.

Celeborn waited until there was no one left near them to turn expectantly to Elrond.

“I am interested to see what you have in mind,” he said conversationally.

Elrond smirked.

No matter how much the older elf may have seen, he’ll wager he hasn’t seen something like this before.

He reached out with his feä, feeling for the water – it’s all around them, from the river swollen with storm runoff, to the damp grass, to the clouds above. It doesn’t need much encouragement from him to hide them, for the water likes Sauron and his foul creatures no better than anything else in Eregion does.

The clouds thickened, and a mist rose from the ground. Soon it was hard for even elven eyes to see more than a few yards ahead. It’s more than enough to cover their furtive retreat, but Elrond intended to remain in the rear until they reached the safety of his hidden valley. He had another trick up his sleeve if need be…

Glancing sideways at Celeborn, he was pleased to see him looking impressed.

I take it this is the part where we move out as well?

Elrond jumped, startled.

He wasn’t used to anyone speaking silently to him these days except occasionally Gil-galad. He didn’t like to think on the time when it had been as natural to him as breathing. So he had quite forgotten that Celeborn was nearly as adept at it as Galadriel.

Yes, he replied. We will be the tail.

To flick off annoying flies should they trouble us? I like it.

That hadn’t been quite what Elrond was thinking, but he supposed it would do.

By the time they approached Elrond’s promised safety four days later, Celeborn suspected the lad was on the brink of collapse.

The pursuit – for pursuit there was, despite their stealth – was drawing closer. Not close enough to draw swords just yet, or even nock arrows, but to elven ears the noise of the glamhoth in such numbers was audible from miles away. Having it as a constant accompaniment was grating to the nerves, and he suspected that was doing the boy no favors either.

Elrond had found it easy enough to conceal them in mist and cloud that first night, but Celeborn hadn’t failed to notice that the trick grew less easy as they went, requiring more effort and energy each time Elrond hid them. Clever and determined as Luthien’s great-grandson might be, he was still at a disadvantage in a contest of power against a maia. And clearly Sauron had realized his prey was slipping away.

At least they were mounted now. Though Elrond had forbidden his full host to come forth from his secret sanctuary, a small party had come to meet them the evening before, bringing what horses they still had.

It wasn’t enough for all Celeborn’s force, but it did allow them to arrange themselves so that they could move quicker. With Elrond’s people leading the way and providing protection, the wounded could be sent ahead, and the guard in the rear increased.

Elrond had been inclined to reserve the horses strictly for the use of the wounded. But Pelendur had commandeered three without asking Elrond’s opinion on the matter, much less his permission, and flat out informed him they would be riding.

Celeborn had grudgingly resigned himself to Pelendur’s presence, for even aside from the matter of the horses the golodh was proving useful. He knew his lord’s habits better than Celeborn and could spot when to hand Elrond food, insist he take a swig of miruvor, or badger him about having done enough for now.

Celeborn might have been nettled by that, but he suspected he was about to have plenty of time to get to know Elrond the grown ellon as opposed to Elrond the boy he remembered in Sirion. The way he’s spoken about this hidden valley, they’ll be able to keep Sauron’s forces out of it – but they’re also unlikely to leave it until Gil-galad can muster a force sufficient to present a threat to their enemy.

Celeborn tried his best to keep it ‘until’ in his mind rather than the slightly more realistic ‘unless’ he suspected was more accurate. If Numenor did not send aid, the Noldaran would likely not be able to muster sufficient strength. Not when so many in Lindon – Noldor, Sindar, and even Silvan alike – would choose to sail rather than to face another war. He wondered how much thought Elrond and his lieutenants had given to feeding everyone…

“Nearly there, my lord,” Pelendur murmured. “Just one more effort, and then you can rest.”

To Celeborn’s surprise, Pelendur turned a steely gaze on him, and added, “both of you.”

Celeborn wondered where under the stars that had come from. He’s never had the impression the Noldo cared any more for him than he did for Pelendur.

“Now is not a good time for quarrels,” Elrond said, sounding rather less present than either of the elves at his side liked.

The two older elves’ eyes met in silent agreement behind his back.

“For my part, I’ll defer the quarrel until after Sauron is dealt with,” Pelendur replied equably.

“I have no quarrel with anyone helping my people,” Celeborn shrugged, keeping his voice even.

It was true enough; while he might dislike the golodh, this was not the time. (It would also be churlish to complain about the man looking out for him, annoying though it might be.)

“Here it is,” Elrond announced.

There was a note of pride in his voice despite his exhaustion.

Celeborn looked dubiously at the barely visible path leading through a narrow gap in the rocks.

“You’ll want to lead the horse for this next bit,” Pelendur warned.

He and Elrond were both dismounting, so Celeborn followed suit.

“Wait,” Elrond told them. “Before we seal the entrance, I want to do one more thing.”

Pelendur started to protest, but Elrond simply braced himself and did whatever it was he’d intended before either of them could stop him, not that Celeborn could see how they would have.

It was as well Elrond had given them warning. Whatever he had done this time left him too weak to stand, and it was only Celeborn’s quick reflexes that kept him from ending up in heap on the ground.

Celeborn raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll ‘splain later,” Elrond wheezed, sounding as if he’d just run for days.

“Much later, I think,” Celeborn said drily.

Turning to the golodh, he added, “You said something about leading the horses, I believe?”

Pelendur snorted.

“I was going to say you’d hit your head on some of these low arches riding, but if we sling him over one of them…”

“I can walk,” Elrond protested.

At the pair of skeptical looks that greeted that pronouncement, he sighed.

“Let the horses go on ahead. They know the way.”

So it was that Elrond ended up being walked into his hidden valley with Celeborn supporting him on one side and Pelendur on the other.

Past the first rock arch, which could easily have been the entrance to a cave, there were defenders waiting in niches.

“Seal it,” Pelendur ordered the guards as they passed. “No one will be going out again anytime soon.”

Glancing back, Celeborn saw them moving sizable rocks into place, blocking the passage – and probably concealing it entirely from anyone who did not already know it was there.

“You’ll want to keep your eyes on where we’re going, not where we’ve been, Lord Celeborn,” Pelendur suggested tactfully.

As the path wound on, Celeborn understood why he’d said it. There were twists and turns, and in some places the way was nearly too narrow for their trio, with the drop beyond more than enough to injure or even kill anyone who stumbled over.

“The valley itself might have been designed with our need in mind,” Pelendur continued. “There’s only a few ways in, all easy enough to guard, and most can be sealed entirely even without this one doing his special tricks.”

“Just around this bend,” Elrond managed to say, though he still sounded and felt as though he might keel over the second they let go of him.

“Hush, you,” Celeborn ordered gruffly. “You may tell me all about your valley after you’ve eaten and slept.”

A suppressed snicker from Elrond’s other side suggested he was saying what Pelendur couldn’t – or perhaps wouldn’t in front of anyone else.

As they came around a curve and he could finally see the whole valley, Celeborn understood the note of pride in Elrond’s voice earlier.

Even hosting two armies, one of them only just arriving in disarray, the valley was beautiful. (That was true no matter which people’s standards one measured it by.) A number of waterfalls cascaded down the mountains, while a river ran the length of it. Even now, with winter coming on, there was still plenty of green, and despite the elevation, it was warmer in the valley than it had been outside of it.

Elrond was smiling fondly at the sight.

With such a fair foundation to build on, elves could make themselves a beautiful haven indeed. Glancing at the younger elf slung between him and the Noldo captain, Celeborn couldn’t quite suppress a grin as he recalled cities of sand on the beaches of Sirion. Elros hadn’t been the only one who liked to build.

Despite the stunning view, it was slow going until they reached the valley floor, as Elrond inched ever closer to ‘dead weight’ despite his protestations. For a trained (and rather talented) healer, he was abysmal at recognizing his own limits or diagnosing his own condition.

It didn’t take long once they were finally on level ground for Celeborn to spot another familiar face.

“Overdone it again, has he?” Gildor asked with an air of long-suffering patience.

“What are you doing here?” Celeborn demanded, wondering if he should expect any more of his younger kin to turn up.

Gil-galad he could probably rule out – the king of the Noldor had best be in Lindon where he belonged – but it would be like Thranduil to have run off to get a peek at the war before it could come to the Greenwood.

“I’m glad to see you too, uncle,” the younger elf replied with a lopsided smile reminiscent of his father. “As for what I’m doing here, looking after this one, of course.”

“Not very well, obviously,” Celeborn snorted. “We caught him sneaking out. Besides, if you’re here, who does that leave to look after your king?”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself on that score,” Finrod’s foster son responded blithely. “Erestor’s still in Mithlond, not to mention Cirdan. They’ll keep Gil on an even keel, not that he really needs it. He remembers the last dust-up well enough not to come running headlong into an obvious trap.”

Celeborn rather doubted that – Elrond and his brother weren’t the only ones who’d heard lectures on the subject of not putting himself into unnecessary danger in ‘the last dust-up’.

“Is auntie with you?” Gildor asked hopefully. “Watching Elrond is a full-time job, and she’s better suited for it. She also has a considerable advantage, since he actually listens to her.”

“Unfortunately for you, but probably lucky for this one, she and Celebrían are in Lorinand as Amroth’s guests,” Celeborn told him, not hiding what a relief it was to know them safe.

“Amroth’s guests?” Gildor chuckled. “Auntie will end up running the place if she stays there any length of time. Amroth’s too easy going to be in charge during a crisis. Amdir will come back from the war to find she’s taken over without even meaning to.”

Gildor made to change places with Celeborn as a support for Elrond.

“I can walk,” Elrond informed them, sounding rather tetchy.

“Really?” Gildor asked, looking him up and down dubiously. “All right then, let him go.”

Celeborn did. Pelendur didn’t. Even so, the would-be lord of the valley stumbled and ended up on his knees before deciding that sitting down voluntarily might salvage some slight measure of his dignity.

“Yes, I can see how well you can walk,” Gildor told him conversationally while Elrond glared at him as fiercely as someone on the verge of unconsciousness could manage. “You can shout at me when you wake up. Whenever that may be.”

Whatever Elrond might have said was cut off by him finally losing the battle to stay awake.

“Oh, good, carrying him will be much easier now,” Gildor said cheerfully.

He hoisted Elrond onto his shoulders and set off, whistling a jaunty tune as he went.

Pelendur shook his head as he watched them go.

“Are we sure he’s adopted?” he muttered to Celeborn.

---

When Elrond woke up, it was to a splitting headache and a mouth that felt like sandpaper.

“How long-” he began.

“Three days,” came the rather amused response from somewhere to his left. “Here. Drink.”

He turned his head to find Celeborn sitting in a chair, his feet propped up on a chest, holding out a glass of water with an expression that suggested no argument would be accepted.

As a healer, Elrond knew perfectly well drinking was only sense. His headache was probably due to dehydration as much as anything. But as a patient, it was still annoying to be just awake and already being ordered around.

“You can listen to me, or I can let Gildor and Pelendur at you,” Celeborn shrugged. “Your choice, but I suspect I’m the milder option. I can’t say about Pelendur, but you know as well as I do Gildor won’t worry about sparing your dignity or ego in front of me.”

“Pick my poison, then?” Elrond muttered, taking the glass to drink.

He really didn’t feel up to it, or do doing more than drinking and possibly eating if they meant to feed him anytime soon. They probably would. Food was also indicated.

“I’ve never considered ‘common sense’ poison,” Celeborn snorted. “Though I will be the first to admit that I don’t seem to see the world in quite the same way you do.”

Elrond was still too fragile to miss that Celeborn had only just restrained himself from mentioning Elros.

He hated being in this state. It made it so hard to avoid hearing things people hadn’t meant to share. And hearing such things just made him feel worse when what he heard was a reminder of what he’d lost.

It was just as easy to feel the disapproval radiating from Celeborn of his actions – even if he wasn’t entirely sure what exactly those actions were.

At least it came from a place of care. It was somewhat comforting to know that. Elrond hadn’t always been sure. There were times during the war when he’d had the impression that Celeborn was more annoyed with them than anything – him in particular, being the one whose Noldorin habits were more obvious than his brother’s. He’d occasionally wished they could have the jolly uncle of their childhood back.

But as irritated as Celeborn was about the whole thing, it wasn’t as if Elrond had had any better options. Had he let anyone else attempt the rescue mission, they would have failed, dying to no purpose. Even with his ‘tricks’, it had been a very near thing.

“Enough, Elrond. Worrying can wait until after you’ve eaten.”

Celeborn’s voice was gentle, but it was still plain he meant what he said.

“And don’t try saying you aren’t hungry, either,” came another voice.

Pelendur deposited a tray. The food was plain, but hearty – a bit of lembas, some soup, and a small chunk of cheese.

“Gildor wanted to bring it, but we agreed you should get some food in you before yelling at him.”

By which Elrond understood Pelendur had banned Gildor from the tent until he was satisfied Elrond was well enough that he could afford to waste energy complaining.

He sighed and began to nibble obediently at the bread, wondering in exasperation just how old an elf had to be before they could finally be considered an adult.

Oh, you’re an adult now, Celeborn assured him. But it doesn’t matter how old you get, I’ll always be older. And unfortunately for you, so will Gildor.

Elrond was relieved that Gildor didn’t appear immediately after he finished eating. He supposed it was just possible that Celeborn had managed to find some errand to keep him busy. (He knew better than to hope it would last very long. Gildor was as adept at getting out of tasks he didn’t particularly want to do as Elros had ever been.)

But the small reprieve did leave him some time to think in peace. There hadn’t been any alternative to trying to save what he could of Celeborn’s force. To let them be wiped out – or worse, captured – was unthinkable for several reasons, not all of them military. Success was a relief, but it also made the situation in the valley a bit worrying.

They might well have a problem. Winter was coming on, and Elrond was not sure how long the newly combined host could hold out under full siege – and he had no doubt that they now were properly besieged. He had been able to slip out with small parties before, but now that he’d tweaked Sauron’s nose, it would be foolhardy to think the net around the valley hadn’t been drawn too tightly for any more such forays. They could also expect this winter to be as harsh as their Enemy could render it.

He had no idea what Celeborn’s supply situation looked like, but he couldn’t imagine it was good. Unlike his host, which had set out from Lindon fully aware of the danger and prepared for the possibility of being cut off, Celeborn’s army had been chased headlong from Eregion in what was less a retreat than a rout.

They had doubtless lost quite a bit along the way, even before their last gasp dash to the safety of his hidden valley. Given that they’d already had to make the hard decision to leave the worst of their wounded, Elrond didn’t doubt they’d also left supplies behind – or more likely, destroyed them. No one fed orcs voluntarily. It was bad enough to leave the dead.

His own force had enough food stockpiled to see themselves through the winter. If they had to feed the newly arrived as well with no added supplies, it should last for the next ten weeks, perhaps one or two longer if they stretched it. But that wouldn’t see them all the way through to the next harvest season.

He should send parties to scout the valley for any caches of nuts or late grains they may borrow from. (It would do the birds and small animals of the area no favors, but if the elven population ran short on food, they would be the next casualties anyway.)

But after that… His abilities did not extend to charming plants from the earth in the wrong season or singing game animals into being. He might be able to keep the river from freezing, or the snows from being as deep or as fierce, but he couldn’t count on that. Not when even a fool could see he’d be directly opposing Sauron for it. As a descendant of Melian on the one side and a family favored by Ulmo on the other, he had a bit more ability than most elves, but he couldn’t expect to defeat a full maia in a head-on confrontation.

They had to hold out until spring somehow, to make it to the growing season and the renewal of edibles in the valley – wild onions and garlics, the early greens. And preferably without eating all the seed they could plant or the livestock animals that had come with the refugees they had taken into their train. Those they’ll need those to stock the storehouses they haven’t built yet for next winter unless the siege could be lifted much more swiftly than he expected.

Gil wasn’t free to march to their immediate relief. Not when he still had to protect Lindon. Particularly not when Elrond had foolishly brought the best of Lindon’s scouts with him, meaning Gil would have to move slower and cautiously whenever he did march. And it would be Gil-galad himself who led that expedition.

Elrond knew that all Gil’s advisors remaining in Mithlond would deplore the idea - he wasn’t a great fan of it himself, and he was the one in need of aid, for Nienna’s sake! But also he knew perfectly well the Noldaran would insist on leading any such expedition himself. Elrond could practically hear him. “No King of the Noldor has ever led from behind!”

That was true. However, it was also true that the Noldor had lost a fair number of kings in Beleriand due to their habit of not leading from behind. (Half a dozen, if he recalled correctly – Fëanaro, Nelyafinwë, Nolofinwë, Findekano, Finderato, and Artaresto. In deference to Elros, he did not include Turukano in the list, given that their great-grandfather had not died marching out to meet an enemy. It probably counted as progress that he could smile at the memory of that particular argument. Though a case could certainly be made for what Men termed ‘gallows humor’ as well…)

Maybe this would be the time Erestor finally followed through on his oft repeated threat to knock Gil-galad down and sit on him to keep him from doing anything foolish.

“I can practically hear you brooding from outside.”

Pelendur slipped in, securing the tent flaps behind him.

“I’m not brooding,” Elrond shot back.

“Fretting, then,” Pelendur shrugged. “You can go back to it in a moment, but I would have a word with you first. I won’t argue that you had little choice but to go for Celeborn, but was it really necessary to play the stubborn boy about needing help once we were safely past the perimeter?”

Elrond sighed, but it was more of relief than irritation.

Pelendur might be the captain of his guard now. But he’d been sworn to the service of others long before Elrond had been born, and had known Elrond since he was six. Elrond had the sneaking suspicion that no matter what titles or responsibilities he might have acquired since, deep down he was still the young boy getting into mischief between lessons to Pelendur. And as Maedhros wasn’t here to scold…

Fortunately, scoldings had never lasted long from either of his foster fathers, which meant it wouldn’t from Pelendur, either.

“I dislike appearing a needy child with Celeborn’s shadow Orodlin about,” Elrond muttered.

Actually, he hated showing weakness in front of any of the Sindar who were old enough to remember Doriath – and resented him not taking up the title of king as Thingol’s heir. But he wasn’t about to say that when he had no idea who else might be listening just outside.

“Celeborn is your elder kinsman, and was ready to tear strips out of the rest of us for treating you so cavalierly,” Pelendur replied sternly. “Orodlin is hardly fool enough to open his mouth on the subject if there was a chance Celeborn would hear him. Besides, truth be told, I think the sight of you being carried in unconscious worried him as well. Resenting your decision not to take up Thingol’s office does not mean they wish to see you dead.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t do it again,” Elrond sighed, knowing perfectly well what words were required from him.

“You won’t do exactly that again, you mean,” Pelendur said wryly. “I’ve heard that phrase often enough to know beyond doubt I’ll hear it again.”

Elrond chanced a light brush against Pelendur’s mind and found the silent addendum and not just from you. Pelendur didn’t just remember Elrond. He also remembered Elros. (And Celegorm, who had apparently been worse than either of them, or possibly both of them. Not that Pelendur ever had or would say so out loud, least of all to Dior’s grandson.)

“I don’t think I’ll have the opportunity to do it again anyway,” Elrond said ruefully. “I suspect we’re all stuck here for a while.”

“A few seasons at the least,” Pelendur agreed, tidying away the tray and dishes. “So what were you fretting about?”

Elrond sighed.

“The supply situation,” he began.

Pelendur raised a hand before he could get any further.

“The able-bodied among the Sindar, and even quite a few of the wounded, were sensible enough to hang onto their haversacks,” he said. “If forced to choose, most left their arms before they left their vittles. It’s not as if elven-made arrows or blades are of much use to orcs. So things are not quite as dire as you may have been imagining. We’ll make it to the new year well enough, though tuilë may find us impatient for the first fruits.”

Elrond realized to his amusement he’d been growing so used to hearing bad news that good news came as something of a shock.

“Clothing, however, may be more of a problem,” Pelendur continued. “I’ll let Gildor run down the full list of what we do and don’t have – he probably knows better than I do at this point anyway. But I’d advise you to take good care of your footwear, my prince. Should you ruin those boots, you may have little choice but to start imitating your lady grandmother and going shoeless.”

“I daresay that would please the Sindar,” Elrond snorted. “What happened to my extra pair?”

“I took the liberty of donating them to your uncle. His were scorched through in several places. I’m amazed they didn’t fall apart sooner.”

“Is he the only one in need?”

“Far from it, but we’ve been as generous as we can manage under the circumstances. There’s very few spare pairs left, generally only in the smallest or largest sizes not as much wanted.”

Elrond frowned. They were months at the least from being able to replace anything leather, and even then they would not be capable of production in any quantity.

He meant to ask what else was high on the present list of concerns, but was stopped short at the sight – and accompanying chill wind – of Gildor stalking into the tent.

“Excellent, he’s rested and fed enough to hear what an ass he was, trying to walk when he could barely keep his eyes open,” he announced with all the finesse of a charging balrog.

“Out, Inglorion!” Pelendur snapped.

“I’m afraid I must decline. Add it to that ever-growing list of things you’re going to tell my father about whenever you see him,” Gildor suggested with a frown. “Though last I checked, I was a prince of the Noldor, not a captain, so I’m not sure what you’ll rightly be complaining to him about in this instance. You can’t very well call it insubordination when orders are meant to go in the other direction.”

The two glared at each other, their standoff broken only by Elrond’s sigh.

“As fascinating as it would be to watch the two of you fight, I’m in no mood to deal with either of you after, so perhaps it could wait?”

“It can wait easily enough. Besides, I doubt it’ll be me he ends up fighting with,” Pelendur said with the sharp grin that tended to remind people he had been a Fëanorion loyalist.

Gildor was one of the rare people who didn’t care about such things. Normally the attempt at intimidation would have gotten a chuckle out of him. Today it didn’t even rate a smile.

“I’ll leave you to it, my prince,” Pelendur said with a bow that was pointedly only directed toward Elrond. “Inglorion, if you tire him, it won’t be your father who hears about it in some blessed hereafter, it will be your uncle – who happens to be right at hand here and now.”

Elrond blinked as Pelendur left, once again taking care with the tent flaps.

“Pelendur and Celeborn are…getting along?” he asked cautiously.

Gildor tossed himself into the chair the captain had just vacated and propped his wet feet up in front of the brazier.

“Getting along might be going a little too far, but they are being surprisingly civil to each other. And before you ask, you’re not the only one questioning whether that’s a sign of Sauron’s influence or possibly a warning of the end of days,” he said darkly.

“If they’re getting along, what under the stars has you in such a foul mood?” Elrond asked, still turning over this wholly unexpected wrinkle in his mind. If there’s been one constant in his life to date, it was that the surviving Iathrim and the few Fëanorion followers still left cordially detested each other.

As far as he could tell, the dislike between Celeborn and Pelendur in particular was long-standing, and rather implacable on Celeborn’s side. He’d always found it best not to ask. There was only so much he could do to smooth over the circumstances of his childhood and youth.

“Too much Sindarin nonsense,” Gildor admitted. “I heartily thank whatever Vala cares to listen that neither Thranduil nor Oropher are here. But Orodlin’s on fine form and doing his best to make up for their absence. Worse, he doesn’t have the sense to keep to Uncle’s section of the camp with his ‘all Noldor are kinslayers’ attitude. Even Thranduil recognizes that there are limits! Also, it’s bloody cold out there, and I’ve been as sharing as anyone else with my extra clothes.”

“You don’t have to share if they’re annoying you that badly,” Elrond pointed out, wondering if it would bring the wrath of basically everyone down on him if he tried to coax the fire into putting out a bit more warmth than usual.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gildor sniffed. “Just because some of the Sindar are a pain in the rear doesn’t mean I’m going to let anyone wander around in filthy rags.”

“Take some of mine,” Elrond said, confident that while they might have given away his boots while he slept, no one would have touched his clothes. On rare occasions, having everyone so insistent he was a prince was useful.

“I’d take you up on that, except some idiot would see your colors, assume I’m you, and start expecting me to do still more to get this valley of yours in order,” Gildor said wryly. “I’ll settle for just thawing out in here for a while and making you listen to me grouse.”

“Why not warm up in your own tent?” Elrond asked. “And if Orodlin is being such an annoyance, I give you leave to avoid him, not that I’ve ever known you to need my leave for anything.”

That did get a wry smile out of Gildor.

“You know, I might take up pointedly asking your permission for things. I bet it would really irritate the Iathrim. Particularly those puffed up cockerels who don’t realize that I know Doriathrin, seeing as that’s the dialect Father taught me first!”

He snagged an extra blanket from on top of the chest at the foot of Elrond’s camp bed.

“As for why I don’t warm up in my own tent, it’s not at all warm. It’s a waste of kindling to heat empty tents, and I’ve been out and about all day. My tent will be marginally less cold than outside. But yours is nice and toasty! Besides, I know perfectly well they won’t have told you much about what’s been going on, which means you’ve got a list of questions by now, and your temper won’t improve any waiting on answers. One of us grumpy is quite enough.”

“Indeed. What say you start with the supplies, as we were already speaking of clothing?”

Gildor sighed and obligingly began running down the list of what they did have, and the much lengthier tally of what they lacked.