Elrond/Celebrían; Elrond/Gil-galad.
Disclaimer: Stolen! Pilfered from J.R.R. Tolkien right out from under New Line's nose: characters, world, and history. Plot is mine – bwah hah hah!!! Ahem. Sorry Tolkien.
Summary: The story aims to track a slash relationship through a het one, Celebrian's marriage to Elrond and her subsequent discovery of his previous relationship.
WARNING: Mixture of Het and Slash; please, use your discretion, if you don't like one or the other enough to take issue with it, don't waste your time or mine reading it. Everyone else – are you sitting comfortably? Let me begin...

It was strange, Elrond reflected, as he gathered together the correspondances that had passed between the remaining Elven kingdoms since the beginning of the Third Age, how an alliance forged by the great kings of Men and Elves and Dwarves alike could have, in the culmination of its task, resulted in such disunity. There had been no communication from the Dwarves since the ending of the war, and the breaking of the Last Alliance. The sturdy miners had retreated back into their mountain abodes and closed the door to the fragments of shadow that still lingered in dark corners of the land, and to their allies. Since Ohtar brought the shards of Narsil into Imladris following the death of Isildur, contact with the human kingdoms too had waned. Elrond, folding the letters into a drawer, found he could not raise much sorrow for that. His anger at Isildur had darkened into a lingering disappointment with the race of Men; the Numenorean line had fallen a long way since the days of his brother, Elros, founder of that line.

It was the limited communications with the Elven realms that troubled him and, as he scanned over the few letters he held, he wondered why Glorfindel had not thought to bring it to his attention before. Fine lord of Imladris you have made and a fine start to this Age, where the weight of the world is yours to bear, he reprimanded himself, glowering at the letters, and found in their minimalism his own failings reflected back at him. But, he added, trying to repress the twist of pain low in his gut as he did so, The past cannot be changed, and dwelling on it will put you right back where you started this Age: some unreachable haunt in the realm of despair. Gil-galad would be furious with you. As much as that thought hurt, it straightened his back, and he returned his attention to the letters with new concentration set upon determining what, if anything, had passed between the realms and what, if anything, could be done to improve matters.

The first of the letters was from Cirdan. Elrond did not look beyond the seal before he laid it aside. It was one of his few clear memories from the tumult of obligations, shattered dreams, and fallen stars that had comprised the beginning of the Age and rocked the sanctuaries of Middle-earth beyond the imaginings of their founders, and the intent of the Last Alliance. That they had chosen to summon down the upheaval before it was forced upon them was little consolation.

Without the Alliance, Sauron would have destroyed the disunited kingdoms one by one; joining together and marching upon his gate, bringing the fight to him, had resulted in a victory of sorts. Sauron's essence was scattered, his forces diminished, by the brave hand of Isildur, heir of Elendil and the line of Elros; though that same hand, Elrond reflected sourly, had claimed in weregild the very object which would have destroyed Sauron utterly. Instead, the man had bought the abrupt end to his own life with his dubious victory some years later, and left the Elves to endure the return of the darkness. A fine end to their alliance.

But endure they must, though how Elrond was not sure he knew. Of the four founders of the Last Alliance: Elendil, king of Men; Gil-galad, high king of the Noldor in the West; Durin of the Dwarves; and Oropher, king of the Sindar and Sylvan in the East, none had returned. Nor had Amdir, king of Lothlórien, nor had... Elrond stopped himself. The bitter-taste the list left in his mouth would only increase with the thousands of names he could recall, and thousands more he could not. Victory, of a kind, brought defeat of a kind in itself. Rebuilding the Elven realms to even half of their former standing was a task beyond acomplishment; but a nod to it was essential and would have to suffice. And that task was left to the kingdoms heirs: Thranduil son of the Greenwood; Amroth of Lothlórien, assisted by lady Galadriel and lord Celeborn, whose prolongued stays in the forest had earned them a place among the Galadhrim and counted alongside its leader; himself, Gil-galad's herald and unofficially named heir; and Cirdan, the one remaining founder of the Elven kingdoms.

Cirdan, shipwright and lord of the Grey Havens in what remained of the kingdom of Lindon, had written only once. Glorfindel sent, with each new party of elves who headed to the Havens from Imladris seeking the West and Valinor over their Middle-earth homes, some small message, and had apparently kept him updated on the changes Imladris was undergoing. But if Cirdan had replied, Elrond had not seen evidence of it. The single letter Cirdan had sent to him had broached the subject of Ereinion, and Elrond could not bring himself to speak of his fallen king. Perhaps Cirdan, Ereinion's foster-father, friend, and ally, had needed to talk to someone in the absence left behind by the king's death; but it would not be to him, Elrond had stated. He had since heard rumours that the shipwright was contemplating leaving Middle-earth for the West himself, and the outflux to the Grey Havens was increasing in fear of losing the passage the shipwright co-ordinated across the straight-road. It was time, he acknowledged, that he renewed connections with Cirdan. But not just yet.

From the Greenwood in the East, there had been not a word. Thranduil had closed his doors more tightly than the Dwarves he claimed to despise; his father's death had come as a hard blow, and the population of the Greenwood had limped home at scarcely a third of its former size. Yet that channel too would have to be reopened, if they were to rebuild the kingdoms. Had as much as a century passed already? Elrond wondered, half incredulous. Had as little?

Only from Lorien had communication not ceased. The first letters from its Lady, Galadriel, and Lord Celeborn, had come in the early days of the new Age; Elrond did not and did not wish to remember the details. It was only recently, the last thirty or so years that they had tentatively reminded him of the marriage proposals begun during Gil-galad's reign, and initially publicly proposed to be between the high king and Lorien's daughter. Elrond had chosen not to answer them, but some ten years ago something had changed.

In the first demonstration of her heightened power, Galadriel had dispensed with letters entirely. Elrond, sitting on the window seat of his bedchamber his eyes upon the stars of Varda as they faded with the coming of daylight, had been startled by the opening of his door.

"My lord," Glorfindel had stepped back to allow an emissary to enter, garbed in the raiment of Lothlórien. "The White Lady wishes your council."

Turning with raised eyebrows at the insistence, Elrond had found himself uneasily confronted by a hooded stranger who made no move to uncloak.

"Lord Elrond," the voice was light, yet indefinable as female or male."You stand upon the sidelines when you are a partner of the dance."

"I stand because I am alone," Elrond replied, keeping his voice neutral despite the bitter taste in his mouth and the blaze of pain that irrupted in his heart. "I will play the music, but I have no wish to dance."

"Yet the music and the dance are wrought by a composer who is not yourself; you must lead the dance, lord Elrond. And you do not stand alone.

"Pray indulge me," Elrond said with careful politeness, "Let us cease this cryptic web of words; what would you have with me?"

"I ask nothing beyond your capabilities, heir of Earendil," came the quiet reply. "I ask that you remember as one door closes, another opens; open your eyes, your ears and your heart and you will find your place, and come to cherish that which lies within the box of memory."

Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but the unidentified stranger held up a hand. "You are a loremaster, and a healer, child of the First and Second born." The messenger held out a book and, taking it, Elrond recognised the Lay of Luthien. "Do not read the text alone, but seek the story beneath; none find themselves alone in a story's pages."

With that last inexplicable statement, the figure stepped back and, with a bow, and departed from the room.

Elrond was left, staring at the closed door with a frown. "Ai, Galadriel," he muttered, somewhat irritated by the bewildering exchange. "What mean you by that?" With a shake of his head he turned to face the window, which opened out in the direction of Lorien and the Misty Mountains, wondering which poor message-rider had been sent with such a perplexing task and who would now surely have to return home.

He lifted a hand to rub his aching forehead and watched a star arc from the canopy of night to fall in a last brilliant display of brightness into the void. For each star that falls, another is crafted in its place. Idly he scanned the heavens for evidence. Vilya, worn carefully upon a chain about his neck instead of upon his finger, which would have permitted entry into his mind via the completion of the circle, hung heavily against his chest, a reminder of his burden for the coming Age. He lifted a hand to touch it through his shirt, and almost cried out as the ring burned. The power contained within the ring was heavily warded, yet still he could scarcely stand the touch of her. The defence of Imladris, however, so weakened by the war had necessitated her employment not only in veiling the kingdom from other's sight, but in slackening the effects of time and the weariness of the world, all of which had threatened to overwhelm the Elves in the wake of the Last Alliance. Exactly as Celebrimbor had promised.

Wondering if he had imagined it, Elrond touched Vilya again, cautiously, and again the ring flared against his hand, sending a pulsing wave through his body. Gasping, he reached for the shields to draw them down around her more closely. As one door closes, another opens. The voice of the messenger stirred unexpectedly, and Elrond stared at the ring, glowing fiercely in his palm. He closed his eyes, seeking solidity in the earth, in the rivers, in the fire that burned in the grate before he opened himself to the raw energy carried in the ring of Air. For a moment all he could hear was the roar of a gale in his ears, then slowly, it slackened, to the low whisper of the breeze around the branches of trees in winter. The muted rustle teased him with indecipherable words, like the whisper of Eru's music in the wind.

But as he listened, he could gradually make out a voice. Reaching again to touch with his mind earth, water and fire, Elrond let the magic of the Air surround him.

The voice that spoke was low, becoming stronger, becoming recognisable.

Bleak is this Age that has fallen upon the land, like a starless nightfall in winter. Galadriel said, And we wander lost in the shadows seeking lights that have faded from this world; are we then to fade, Elrond? We of the First Born, before our task is done?

The question bypassed him in the shock that jarred through him like the collision of two swords. How in the name of the Lady...?

...did I come to speak with you thusly? Galadriel finished. Beware your thoughts here, lord Elrond, for I hear your mind and not your voice. Celebrimbor told me of this detail when Nenya was first given to me; yet before now it has not been safe to use it.

Since Celebrimbor had passed the remaining two elven rings to Gil-galad, who was not known to possess the crafts the witch who was Lorien's lady commanded, it was little wonder that Elrond knew nothing of this. Scanning the swirling white mists that filled his vision, Elrond focused upon the silver-white glow emanating from somewhere in their depths and felt, as though he stood beside her, the presence of Galadriel. He had not become guardian of Vilya in Gil-galad's place merely by default of his position in the court.

Have you dispensed with letters entirely?

Since you seem little inclined to respond to them, and my need was great.

Perhaps, Elrond suggested. Your emissaries should be more adequately provided with the means to form a coherent discussion; I would not turn away a messenger, and your letters have not been ignored.

Surprise flickered through Galadriel. My messenger? Her thoughts distorted briefly and he could not discern them. I see. Then the purpose of my contact has reached you. Elrond, listen to me...

He had watched then as the race of the Elves had ended, passing into the West or fading in the forgotten kingdoms. Before the passage of a millenium, the Elves were but a fable in the realms of men. << Together we may stand against the might of Sauron; alone he will destroy us one by one. >> The high king's remembered voice echoed through the mind-to-mind connection. All that was left when Galadriel finally broke the connection, was the knowledge of how two ancient lines could unite to bring about the security of Middle-earth.

TBC...