Chapter Text
If the thousands of hallways and arches of Menegroth had been designed for one thing, it was to catch and echo music throughout the hidden capital of Doriath, reaching even the farthest of caverns with the sounds of revelry.
Galadriel was in one such cavern now, a simple stone balcony overlooking a large dance floor far below. A crystal ceiling allowed moonlight to shine down waterfall-like into the city, caught and held by the quartz of the floor below. The white light danced with the elves, shining reflected off fountains, silver harps, and the dark hair of Lúthien Tinúviel as she danced with her brother Daeron.
The two shadowy figures were surrounded by a sea of other dancers, the silver-headed Teleri and darker kindred who had travelled to celebrate the Festival of Yestarë in the capital.
“It is not like you to shirk a party, my friend.”
Galadriel smiled but did not turn as her old friend and mentor leaned beside her on the balcony. “Have you abandoned dear Celeborn to his own devices down there?”
“He is with his family – I believe his brother overindulged and required some supervision.” Galadriel replied lightly, turning at last to face Melian.
The Queen of Doriath wore no crown, but was cloaked in deep blue and girt with silver. As ever, Galadriel felt laid entirely bare before her gaze.
And she hadn’t even withheld the truth of her family’s crimes this time. Although arguably, the secrets she carried now were far greater than those she had borne in her first life.
“Surely my daughter would rather have you for a partner than Daeron, then,” Melian prodded, smiling. “There is no need to lurk so, this is a night for song and dance. It wouldn’t do to ring in the new year with melancholy.”
“I don’t know that I was lurking,” Galadriel protested, smiling back at her friend. She could not argue against the rest. Especially now face-to-face with the Queen. Melian closely resembled her daughter, and the famed beauty of Lúthien had been passed down undiminished to her descendants. To think, in one life Galadriel had looked upon the grandson for glimpses of his foremother, and now in this second life she must do the opposite. “I only wanted a moment to think.”
“What about?” Galadriel hummed a little and allowed the stone balcony to bear a little more of her weight.
“The future, I suppose,” she said at last. “How best to prepare for it.”
“You sound as if you fear what this new year will bring us.” Galadriel made no response to this, but instead returned to watching Lúthien dance among her admirers. Melian sighed, her gaze also heavy on her daughter. “I confess that I too have felt a shadow growing in my mind. You are right to suspect that there are dark days before us.” the Queen took Galadriel’s hand in her own and studied her, assessing. “I feel also that you are more prepared than I know. Perhaps more than you know yourself. Come now. If there is trouble before us, then that is all the more reason to enjoy our blessings now.” Galadriel smiled back and allowed herself to be drawn away and back downwards to the party. Nenya, invisible as always, pulsed where her hand was enfolded in the Queen’s.
“Little sister!” Finrod had definitely had a little too much wine. His words slurred together as a heavy arm was laid over her shoulder. “Where have you been? Someone – there was a person looking for you!”
“Who?” Galadriel asked patiently, smiling. Melian had disappeared, likely gone to be with her husband. Finrod smiled back brightly.
“Huh?”
“Who was looking for me?”
“Someone is looking for you?”
“Nevermind,” Galadriel laughed, patting her elder brother’s hand. Angrod appeared from the crowd and sighed heavily.
“Really, háno. You’re going to choke Artanis like that.”
“I wouldn’t!” Finrod protested, even as Angrod detangled him from their sister. He immediately attached himself to his brother instead, and Angrod let out a little ‘oof’ as Finrod clung to him.
“There you are Finrod! I was wondering where you had run off to,” Aegnor called, approaching his siblings. Angrod let out a sound of protest as their youngest brother handed Finrod a chalice, which he took an eager draught of.
“It’s water,” Aegnor muttered to Galadriel, and she nodded approvingly.
“Look at us, all in one spot!” Finrod cheered once the cup was drained. “It’s been some time. Only Artanis ever comes to see my city.”
“She lives there,” Aegnor pointed out as Angrod simultaneously protested “I visited for three months not a year ago!”
“Angrod is there nearly more than you are,” Galadriel agreed. Finrod made an injured noise and whirled on her. Angrod grunted as he was also forcibly whirled.
“Artanis! Whose side are you on?”
“The side of the people of Nargothrond, who desire for their king to remain within city limits for two consecutive months.” Finrod slumped heavily into Angrod, who stumbled and then set his legs squarely apart to bear the extra weight.
“I travel less, now,” he said, more sullen elfling than legendary Noldor King.
“Very true. A good thing, too – I think there was talk once or twice of crowning Galadriel your regent, brother,” Aegnor said mischievously. Galadriel shuddered. Strong-arming Finrod into cutting his adventures with his humans (and Turgon. And Maedhros. And Maglor.) short had been nearly as much in her own interest as her brother’s – she had no desire to rule a kingdom through the onslaught Morgoth was about to unleash upon them.
Finrod was eyeing her consideringly.
“No.” She said out loud, just so that was clear. He huffed.
“You would be good at it. The people adore you, and you were the one to broker peace with our Sindar kin. You have a hand for politics, nésa.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Yes, I don’t think Lord Celeborn would appreciate that either. Would cut down on the time you two can spend here in Doriath,” Aegnor agreed.
“I wouldn’t appreciate what?” Celeborn asked, appearing as if summoned. He was holding two glasses of wine, one of which he pressed into Galadriel’s hands. “Melleth nín! There you are, I have been searching for you for nearly an hour. Her Majesty told me she caught you brooding.”
“Isn’t she always?” Finrod complained to Aegnor’s boots. He was ignored. Galadriel snorted a little, feeling steadier as her husband leaned into her side.
“I wasn’t brooding! Merely taking a moment of quiet. We are three days into the festival, I don’t know how any of you manage,”
“With wine!” Finrod cheered, draped as he was over his brother’s shoulder.
“A moment of quiet might be just the thing,” Angrod grumbled, shuffling Finrod away from his ear.
“To answer your question my friend, you just missed Finrod trying to crown our dear Artanis Lord Regent of Nargothrond,” Aegnor said amiably.
“Oh, again?” Celeborn said brightly. “It has been some time since the last offer. Unfortunately my Lord, your sister and I are far too occupied to lighten your burdens.” He said, bowing grandly to Finrod.
“Occupied with what, sightseeing? I swear you two spend more time on the road than I ever did.” Finrod said, and reached for Angrod’s cup. His hand was swatted away.
“Sightseeing, meeting new people,” Celeborn agreed. “It’s important to keep in touch with even the smallest of towns, you know. It’s good to understand our neighbors’ cultures.”
Particularly those of the dark-elves and green-elves. Many of whom had watched Morgoth’s reign of terror grow in Middle-earth long before the Noldor ever arrived. Celeborn snaked an arm around her waist, following her thought.
“And what about you, Angrod? I haven’t seen Eldalótë since the beginning of the feast,” Celeborn changed the subject smoothly.
“She is putting Orodreth to bed, all of the dancing and music got to him,” he replied. “She’ll return soon – we never get the chance to speak to so many of our kindred in the highlands, nor to rest so thoroughly. Actually,” he hesitated for a moment and shot a quick look at his brother. “We’ve been discussing moving back to Nargothrond. Nothing final, yet, but–”
“Please do! I always prefer you lot close,” Finrod interrupted eagerly. Aegnor nodded grimly.
“Understandable. I’ve heard that the roads have grown even more perilous lately – Artanis, Celeborn, will you be doing any more ‘sightseeing’ soon? Settling in Nargothrond or Doriath might be a good idea for you as well.”
“We have just one more stop,” Celeborn promised easily. “You are right about the roads.”
“Aegnor, you should consider moving back to Nargothrond as well,” Galadriel said. It was an old argument, and one she already knew she’d lose. Aegnor was shaking his head and smiling before she finished speaking.
“And leave Dorthonion unguarded? No, I cannot, and would not even if I could. I’m afraid I’m utterly taken with the highlands even if Angrod wearies of them,” he said. Galadriel smiled back, and Celeborn’s arm tightened around her middle.
“Sorry to interrupt the family reunion!” A melodic voice chirped. Daeron pushed his way into the circle of blondes, hair plastered to his forehead from the exertion of dancing nearly three days straight. “Lady Galadriel, my sister has been asking for you – there was an arrangement on the harp she wished for you to play?”
“Oh, right,” Finrod muttered. Galadriel shot him a look.
“Of course, please lead the way,” she said, and Celeborn graciously took the glass from her hand.
“Perhaps you and I should retire for a little while after?” Celeborn asked quietly. Galadriel took a breath and shot her husband a look of deep appreciation.
“Please.”
Every Yestarë had been a little overwhelming even in her first life, without being surrounded by the ghosts of her loved ones. Her and Celeborn’s marriage was fairly recent, so courtesy dictated they stay far longer than was their wont.
Galadriel took her seat in one of the main pavilions, awash with white light from above. A gleaming silver harp was prepared for her, and she plucked a few strings experimentally to test the quality. The notes rang out pure and perfectly in tune. A few meters away, Lúthien beamed at her from the dance floor before drawing herself up in a long arabesque, the first position of the choreograph the two had worked out.
The halls of Menegroth were never silent, and certainly not during a holiday. Something very near silence still fell as Lúthien moved, shadow and starlight made flesh as she spun across the dance floor.
Galadriel’s gift to Doriath this Yestarë was a set of newly composed arrangements on the harp, one of which her friend had overheard and immediately begged to collaborate on.
At the very front of the crowd, Celeborn made eye contact with Galadriel, a small sad smile stretched across his face. Hopefully, on a sunny day thousands of years from now, their daughter would share her first dance as a married elleth to this very song.
Galadriel’s fingers danced across the strings, drawing the melody upwards into a crescendo as Lúthien leaped into the air.
Celebrian and Elrond would still dance when the time came, she swore to herself. In the meantime, their parents would do everything possible to make Middle-earth safe for them. Galadriel would see to it, if she had to drag the rest of her kin kicking and screaming into line. At the very least, she had her husband at her side to scheme with her. And, she supposed as her song drew to a close, dear Tyelpé, who they would see very soon. He evidently had some business of his own to see through before the three ringbearers could reconvene.
Celebrimbor wanted to dig a hole and die in it.
He had practically lived on horseback for a year and a half, and for weeks now the normally fair weather of Himlad had turned violently cold and stormy. The thunder had died down, at least, but buckets of frozen water were still being dumped from the sky to soak through his travelling-cloak and straight down his back. He tugged his hood further over his eyes, for all the good that did him, and urged his horse forward to continue trotting down the road. Hisiëroc nickered her displeasure to him, but trotted forwards at a sedate pace.
“I know, girl, I know,” he sighed, patting sodden fir with a gloved hand. She deserved a year of frolicking with his Uncle Maglor’s herds and eating the best apples he could find after all of this work. His father had been loth to let him leave with the weather turning so violent, and as much as Celebrimbor hated to admit it perhaps he had been a little hasty in leaving. Time was of the essence for this particular mission, but perhaps waiting in one safe location would have been the better decision to this endless patrolling of the roads.
He sighed again, even more heavily, as Hisiëroc trotted up to a large stone arch that the road passed through. They had sheltered here some days ago, and Celebrimbor resigned himself to doing so again. At least there should be some wood left over from his previous attempts at a fire.
The horse and elf both had just stepped out of the pouring rain when Celebrimbor heard the distant sounds of thundering not from the sky but from the road in front of them. He froze, half out of his saddle with one foot still in a stirrup.
Wheeling sharply around the corner of the stony pass, two elves astride a dark horse were galloping straight for him like all of Angband was on their heels.
The taller rider reigned in their dark horse mere paces from where Celebrimbor sat.
“Is this your road, stranger? If not, let us pass!” A female voice shouted harshly over the rain. Celebrimbor started.
“...Aunt Írissë?” He called, unsure. A beat of silence passed, and then the grey rider urged her horse forwards, throwing her hood back.
“Tyelperinquar?!” Aredhel asked incredulously. “Is that really you?”
“It’s me!” Celebrimbor grinned, drawing back his own hood and dismounting hastily. Aredhel sprang from her horse and rushed to throw her arms around him.
“You’ve grown so tall! Eru, how much time has it been? You were so tiny!” Celebrimbor ducked his head bashfully.
“Sorry, I wanted to come visit. Atar kept me busy, and then Turgon sent word that you had left Gondolin a while ago.”
“Yes,” Aredhel agreed, her smile becoming rather fixed. “Yes, I did… Maeglin, come here.” The other rider, who had been hanging awkwardly back and holding the bridle of their horse, came closer at her urging. Celebrimbor tried not to react to the name, and looked with curiosity at the young elf. He was skinny and tall for his age, with bone-white skin and dark hooded eyes. “Tyelpé, this is my son Maeglin. Maeglin, this is Prince Tyeperinquar Curufinwë, your cousin – do you remember from the stories?”
“I remember,” Maeglin said quietly, but gazed at Celebrimbor with open wonder.
“Your son?” Celebrimbor questioned and broke into a grin, drawing both Aredhel and Maeglin into a crushing hug. “That’s wonderful! Congratulations!”
“Yes, thank you. Tyelpé, is your father near? Or any of your uncles? I am delighted beyond words to see you, but my business is urgent.”
“Of course,” Celebrimbor replied, releasing them both. “Atar has a camp not far from here, he was there when I left and should be still. Are you being pursued? Are we in danger?”
“We are,” Maeglin said, and his mother frowned at him.
“It is complicated. Please take me to your father, I have much to discuss with him – and neither of us are injured before you ask, only tired and soaked to the bone with rain.”
“All the more reason to make haste,” Celebrimbor agreed, and swung himself back up onto Hisiëroc. “We will be leaving the road shortly ahead, follow me closely. The hills can be treacherous here.”
Himlad was more sparsely wooded than the surrounding regions, but it made up for it in rocky hills shaped by the cold wind. The grey of the ground and the storm ran together, and Celebrimbor made sure to lead slowly despite the urgency of the situation. The rain eventually relented a little, slowing from a downpour to a steady shower, and he pressed them forwards faster as the day wore on and their path grew straight.
Every few hours, he called back to see if his companions needed food or rest, but they both anxiously refused each time.
As the day’s light was beginning to dim, Celebrimbor breathed a sigh of relief as the first walls of his father’s encampment came into sight. Many of these stone settlements were scattered throughout Himlad, some interconnected by stone tunnels through and under the hills. This one as fairly recent and close to the border of their territory, he had been a little worried that he would lose the way in this storm.
“Who goes there!” A voice called from the wall, and Celebrimbor squinted through the rain to see the guards above the gate. “You are in the land of Prince Curufin, identify yourself and your business at this late hour!”
“It’s his son, Tyelperinquar,” Celebrimbor called back, pitching his voice above the rain. “Please send for him immediately and bar the gate behind us!” They were let in promptly at that, the large wooden doors thrown open and guards to catch their horses and usher them inside.
“Are we under attack?” The gatekeeper asked as he was led in.
“Not at present, but double the watch. Where is Atar?” Celebrimbor asked, dismounting and offering Aredhel a hand off her horse. She remained silent as she and Maeglin clustered close behind him.
“He is in the main hall – we sent a guard ahead to alert him. We will see to your horses, my prince.”
“Thank you,” Celebrimbor said distractedly, and handed off Hisiëroc’s reins. “Take good care of them, they’ve worked hard. Follow me,” He said, and Aredhel and Maeglin followed closely on his heels as Celebrimbor moved swiftly through the cold rain.
Curufin was alone in the main hall, pacing in front of a roaring fire. Celebrimbor heaved a sigh of relief for the warmth, and wasted no time peeling off his cloak and tossing it over the back of a chair as his father rushed to him.
“What happened?” He asked curtly, sweeping Celebrimbor for any obvious injury and then eying his two guests suspiciously.
“Atar you’ll never guess who I found on the road,” Celebrimbor said, and Aredhel drew her hood back and stepped forward into the light of the fire.
Aredhel had seen Curufin after the Helcaraxë, of course, but only in passing at formal events. In her heart she still hadn’t fully forgiven her Fëanorian family for their betrayal, and whatever conversation they had was stilted and formal as it had never been between them.
A few words shared over centuries. Aredhel’s anger could burn hot and long, but now she just missed her friend.
It was rare for Curufin to show much emotion, and the only evidence that he was surprised was in his eyebrows raising a fraction.
“Lady Aredhel Ar-Feiniel,” He said formally. “This is a surprise. You are welcome, of course, to Himlad – you and…?”
Maeglin was still shyly hanging back, eyes darting between Tyelpé and this new arrival. Aredhel steered him in front of her and rested her hands on his shoulders.
“My son, Maeglin.” She paused here, at a loss for words, as Curufin processed this and greeted the boy. How to move forward now? Curufin would help them, estranged as they were, but it was a complicated thing to explain without giving anyone dangerously incorrect ideas. And with the children right here…
Little Tyelpé, Valar bless him, seemed to guess at her thoughts as an awkward silence fell.
“I’ll get Maeglin and I washed up and in some dry clothes,” he said, clapping a hand gently to her son’s shoulder. “If that’s alright? I assume you two will at least stay a night?”
“We shall,” Aredhel agreed, relieved as Celebrimbor began guiding her son to a side door.
“We’ll have to go back in the rain for a moment, but it will be quick,” Celebrimbor said apologetically to Maeglin. Her son stuttered a quiet “It’s no problem,” and shot her a wide-eyed look as the two disappeared from the room.
Only the crackling of the fire and the thudding of the rain on the roof filled the silence as the two elves faced each other. Aredhel grasped desperately for where to start her tale. Only there was so much, and all of it feelings and intangible things instead of actions to describe, and she was so cold and tired…
“Curvo, I’ve been so stupid,” She said finally, and was appalled to feel hot tears stinging at her eyes. Gratifyingly, Curufin looked equally horrified.
“Here, come here close to the fire, I can call for some tea?” He said like it was a question, and drew her by the hand to sit on one of the chairs facing the hearth. As Aredhel struggled to control herself, a heavy blanket was settled over her shoulders and a steaming ceramic mug was pressed into numb hands. “Just take your time, there’s no rush,” Curufin said awkwardly.
“No, there really is,” Aredhel disagreed, sniffling. “Forgive me, I’ll try and start at the beginning. You know all about Turgon and I arguing, and my departure from Gondolin I suppose.”
“Yes, he has sent word many times. Your brother seemed to be under the impression you were coming here,” Curufin said, and paused before adding tentatively “I was hoping you were also.”
“I meant to,” Aredhel said truthfully. “How long has it been since you and I and Tyelko hunted together like we once did? I know so much has changed, and I was so angry at you both, but I’m not anymore. I’ve missed you.”
“We have missed you too,” Curufin responded quietly, and took her hand in his. He was wearing his thick forge-gloves, Aredhel noted fondly. He must have forgotten to take them off in the chaos of their arrival. They were leaving dark charcoal smudges on her skin.
“That’s where it really started, I suppose,” She said. “I missed you and Tyelko, and I was shut up in Gondolin with Turukáno – you know how the two of us can get.”
“I recall,” Curufin said drily.
“Well, it’s worse now that he’s king. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I left to find you and Tyelko. I thought if the three of us were still angry with each other then we at least could be angry on the level and know where we stood.” Aredhel’s lips thinned. “Only, I lost my way in the forest. I spent sometime wandering in Nan Elmoth, and I met someone there who was willing to take me in.”
“Maeglin’s father,” Curufin guessed, and although his face didn’t change his voice was cold. Aredhel dropped his hand and leaned back with a sigh.
“Yes. Although it’s nothing like you must be thinking Curvo. The two of us got along wonderfully first, and he wanted nothing in return for his help – he was just so different, calm and perfectly in control of himself and his lands, and I liked that I suppose. Especially with how turbulent everything has been… but you don’t want to hear all this, I'm getting off track.”
“Say whatever you need to.”
“Right. His name is Eöl. He’s a blacksmith too, Curvo, and a wonderfully talented one, and although he refuses to speak of it I think he might be Sindar by descent. Anyways. We married in secret – I was still so angry with both my brothers, and cousin Artanis was married recently enough that I didn’t wish to be rude – and I had a wonderful few years exploring his lands. We had our arguments, certainly, and almost always one or both of us would ride away for a week or two before we made up, but it really was a happy time. We know so little about this land, I forget that sometimes when I’m surrounded by our kindred in these new cities.”
“What changed?” Curufin prompted as Aredhel took a fortifying sip of her tea. She grimaced.
“Nothing changed. That was the problem. It’s always the problem, Turukáno always said so. I wanted to keep exploring, but Maeglin was born by then and he was too small. I’ll admit that I started lashing out. Like I used to at Ammë. And Eöl… he doesn’t like any of our family, Curvo. Any of the Noldor at all, really. He was fine with me going where I would but he was clear that he would not be joining me and our son would not either, so I stayed and we argued and it just got worse and worse every time he refused to let us leave. It got to the point where he would lock us in whenever he left, and poor Maeglin just couldn’t take it anymore. I took us out the window and left on horseback.”
“He will follow?” Curufin asked quietly. Aredhel pressed her lips together and stared at the fire.
“...I don’t know. Maeglin also argued with him before we left – He is going to be so, so angry, Curvo. I don’t know if he will come after us or not.” Curufin stood abruptly, going to stoke the fire. “He’s my husband,” Aredhel added a little helplessly. “This isn’t his fault. No more than it is mine – it’s our fault, I don’t want you or anyone thinking him some terrible villain.”
“He wed a princess of the Noldor without leave and concealed your whereabouts from your kin,” Curufin said darkly. “Terrible villain or no, he has much to answer for.”
“I concealed my location from my kin.” Aredhel said impatiently. “I was wrong to do so as I’ve already said, but we don’t need to pin all the blame on my husband.” Curufin let out a sharp exhalation of air and studied her for a moment.
“You are planning to take your son to Gondolin? I could have a small force escort us to my city deeper in Himlad, there is no need to return to either your husband or your brother if you are not willing. And Tyelko will be very sorry to miss you,” He added at the end shamelessly. Aredhel shook her head.
“No. It is well past time for me to return to Gondolin and present my son to his king. I, too, have much to answer for.” Curufin sighed but inclined he head in agreement.
“Then at least agree to an escort. I know your brother will not allow me or any of my brothers within a league of his secret city, but surely an armed guard could take you most of the way.” Aredhel considered, tilting her head to the side. “Please, Írissë.” Curufin pushed, crossing his arms. “Looking after you and your son is the least I can do after you protected mine when I could not. Two of my captains, at least.”
“...The way is secret, to Gondolin. Turgon wouldn’t allow strangers to even start on the path,” Aredhel said, looking into her cup.
“Don’t I have a standing invite?” Celebrimbor chimed from the doorway. Aredhel jumped, and hissed as hot water stung her hands. “Oops, sorry about that. Maeglin is fast asleep, he must have been pretty tired – I put him in my room Atar, I hope that’s okay?” Curufin made an impatient gesture with his hand. “But yes, Queen Elenwë keeps writing and asking me to come, so it should be fine for me to go with you. I was meaning to ask anyway, I’ve wanted to see Idril and everyone again.”
Aredhel studied the elf carefully. He had grown several inches past her own height since the last time she saw him, and truly filled out the lanky limbs of the elfling she remembered from the Helcaraxë. Although he was in plainclothes, an ornate sword – clearly his father’s work – was strapped at his side, and it was scuffed as if it had seen combat. She was no stranger to either the bow or the sword, but she had grabbed neither in her haste, and with Maeglin to think of…
“Of course you are welcome. We would be grateful to have you – with your Atar’s permission.”
“You have it,” Curufin said, tilting his head in a distinctly pleased manner. Aredhel suddenly had a suspicion that this is what he had been aiming for all along.
“We will leave at first light, then.” Aredhel said, drinking deeply from her cup. “You have my thanks, both of you. I cannot tell you what a relief it is seeing you both.”
“I will make sure a meal is prepared before you leave,” Curufin deferred. “Tyelpé, show your cousin…”
“Aunt,” Aredhel and Tyelpé interrupted.
“Your Aunt then, to her quarters. There should be a hot bath waiting for you,” Curufin said, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Thank you,” Aredhel said again, and got to her feet. “And Curvo… If I might make one last request?”
“You may make it.”
“Don’t harm my husband if you see him. We only need a little time and space to talk things out.”
“You are asking me to allow some Dark elf to hunt my son and kindred in my own lands?” Curufin said, curling his lip.
“My husband,” Aredhel corrected. “You don’t have to allow it, or even tell him you saw us.” Curufin scoffed, but under Aredhel’s glare eventually relented.
“Fine. You have my word that he won’t find any conflict that he does not bring himself.”
“That’s all that I ask,” Aredhel said, and then stepped forward to wrap her favorite cousin in a tight hug. Curufin froze, and then patted her stiffly on the back.
“Sleep well, Irissë. We will handle everything tomorrow.”