Daughter Of Lórien || Book 1||

Ch 38 ~ The Shadow of Sorrow

Night has fallen on the forest of Mirkwood, dousing the world in shadow and silence.

I sit at the chair in my room, facing the mirror, as I slowly undo the plait I had so precisely knit into my hair this morning, now fraying and come loose in some areas. Despite the hours I had spent tearing at it in wild despair, the golden waves are still sleek and soft. They fall gently around my face and over the neckline of my white nightgown, whispering against the silken fabric.

The chilled air pricks at the bare skin of my forearms but I hardly register the slight discomfort. My mind is as silent as the forest outside. The hours spent in denial and grief as I re-read Arwen's letter until my eyes grew sore have now queited into a blissful hollowness within my chest.

Gone.

The word seems to echo in my too-quiet head. It fades into nothingness before it sounds again, a renewed ringing, a timeless loop rotating in my mind. My eyes are directed at the mirror in front of me but I barely register the face that stares back.

She left this morning.

The words interrupt the loop in my mind, reverberating dully before sinking like a stone and sending a ripple across that hollow calm within my chest.

My image in the mirror sharpens into focus, the empty eyes and pale face that greets me so uncharacteristic of the usual reflection. My thoughts wander as I study the face in the mirror, image aligning with memory, like recognizing like. The tilt of the eyes. The slope of the cheekbones. The curve of the lips.

My chest tightens.

The features are nearly identical. Characteristic to all the daughters of Galadriel's line.

Once a blessed resemblance.

Now only a hateful reminder.

With a guttural cry, I launch myself at the
mirror, slamming my palm into the cruel reflection. Pain slices up my arm at the glass that shatters underneath my hand. It is a welcome sting against the numbness of my mind. I don't notice the tears streaming down my cheeks until I taste their salt on my lips. Heavy sighs wrack my body as I stagger back, the shards of glass that have scattered across the lush carpet now nicking at my feet. I collapse, shivering and exhausted, onto the glass littered floor, blood streaming freely down my arm, the droplets soaking into the hem of my silken sleeves. I lie there, listening to my own pounding heart as I try to calm myself down.

When I finally raise my head, the blood leaking from my hand has clotted, but not before leaving trailing stains of glorious red against the snow-white of my gown. I look down at my palm. It is a mess of cut-up flesh, deep gashes snaking their way down to my wrists. No doubt it will scar. A part of me finds some momentary satisfaction in that fact but a twinge releases in my chest, scattering that twisted sense of triumph as I feel my mothers hands, those healing hands, gently holding mine. Those hands that were never the experienced hands my father was blessed with, but hands that fiercely protected her children all the same.

Her kind face and soft voice flicker in my memories as I lay back down, embracing the blissful, empty silence that now gives my mind some peace.

You are strong, my daughter.

So strong.

Her voice echoes in the stillness of my head, fluttering lightly against the pain coiled tightly in my chest as if to try and soothe it.

But even the strong need others to help them along. Even the strong can seek help.

I fight against the ache, the numbness, gripping at my heart.

Go to him.

~~~

Hours later I rise, pushing my hair back from my face, one hand still covered in dry blood. Though my mind is still in a haze, I find myself stepping across the room and into the cool hall, guided by some instinctive force. My bare feet are silent as they lead me through the deserted halls, gliding along a phantom wind, finally coming to a stop in front of a door. Through the numbness of my mind I manage to knock gently, barely registering the pain the action sends sparking up my forearm. Not even a heartbeat passes before it opens.

Legolas looks out at me in mild confusion, chest bare, hair undone. His eyes flicker in surprise as he recognizes me, then darken.

"Celé, what are you-"

His question is cut short as his gaze snags on the red coating my hand and nightgown. Those pale eyes widen, followed by a sharp inhale.

"What did you do?"

His voice has dropped, the hint of a growl in it sending an answering shiver down my spine, despite the emptiness I feel. The tone of his voice tells me he already knows everything.

Taking me into his room, he seats me on the edge of his bed and tying back his hair, I watch silently as he sets to work cleaning my cuts. The tremors that usually electrify my body when his skin touches mine are dulled by the hollowness in my chest. He works quickly but with surprising gentleness as he bandages my palm, my hand resting upturned in his own.

Tucking the last wrap into place, he lifts his gaze to mine. Only sorrow taints his eyes. I avoid his gaze, wondering if he notices the emptiness in my own eyes. As if in response to my silent question, he gently raises my palm to his lips, placing a feather-light kiss against the bindings there. Although I hardly feel it through the linens, a flicker of warmth sputters in my chest.

It must show in my eyes because his lips upturn in a sad smile and rising, he takes a seat next to me on the bed. Slowly, as if in hesitation, he leans in, his breath warm against my skin before he touches his lips faintly to my cheekbone in another gentle kiss.

At that touch, the numbness melts away. I feel the prick of tears in the corners of my eyes as I finally turn my gaze to him, the grief and pain and realization cresting over me like a wave.

"Celé-" he starts softly, but trails off, reaching out to brush away the tear that slips down my cheek. My body subconsciously leans into his touch, responding to it.

"Hold me." My voice trembles.

A flicker passes across his eyes but then his arms are pulling me in, letting my head rest against his chest. His touch is soothing and solid, a shield against everything else as the silent tears slip down my face.

"Celé," he whispers, his voice breaking just slightly. "Come on. You can sleep here tonight."

I nod and let him carry me into his bed. We lay in the silence, my body still wrapped tightly in his arms. Eventually, enveloped in his warmth and listening to the steady drum of his heart, I drift off.