All That May Become by Grundy

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All That May Become

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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.

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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.