Chapter Text
Lord Celeborn walked aimlessly among the trees, allowing their song to seep into his troubled fae. Things were changing at an almost unbelievable pace, and suddenly his peaceful corner of Middle-earth, east of the Ered Luin, had become the uttermost West. Beyond there, where once fair Beleriand had stood, now the mighty waves of the Great Sea roared proudly.
The elves from Arvernien and Balar, the Sindar and Wood-elves who used to roam freely in Ossiriand, and even those who had followed the remaining sons of Fëanor, all of them had crossed the mountains and now crowded the shores of Belegaer in the lands that had been known as Lindon of old.
The Edain, too, as well as many Naugrim, not to speak of birds and beasts, and even the mighty Onodrim, all had fled the destruction following Morgoth’s fall. Celeborn was still livid at the utter disregard the Valar had -once again- shown for his beloved Middle-earth.
He had been happy to meet many long-thought lost friends among the survivors; Círdan, for sure, and most of the Shipwright’s household as well. He had learned about the fate of his kinsowman, Elwing, and her children, and had seen the bright Silmaril crowning the brow of mighty Eärendil, Turgon’s heir...How it was that the doomed jewel had again found its way to a Noldorin master he could not fathom, but he had cringed to see it returned from Thingol’s house to Finwë’s, after all that had been lost.
About the fate of the other two, he could not care less.
He shook his head to discard angry thoughts. He was disturbed by this intrusion. For some sun-rounds now, before things had come to utter destruction, they had crossed the mountains -he and Galadriel- and dwelt in Nenuial, strengthening the land and learning of its peoples, mostly Sindar and Avari who forsook the Great March, but also Edain who had never crossed the Ered Luin.
They had been building a refuge for times to come and now, when the times had come indeed, he felt absurdly angered and resentful that his quiet existence had been disrupted by what he had been preparing to face. He had grudgingly left their stronghold in Nenuial and had moved to the new shores to greet –and help- those new arrivals.
He inhaled deeply and tried to atune his breathing to the wind on the leaves. He knew that he wasn’t being honest. It was not the arrival of such crowds, or the Silmaril, or the fate of Elwing’s children that had made him touchy and short-tempered.
The actual reason for his moodiness was other.
The Army of the West.
He had nothing to object to the help provided by the Valar and the mighty relatives from the Blessed Realm…except that one of those was King Finarfin himself, the High King of the Noldor, and, above all, his wife’s father.
Along the years, he had come to create a very friendly picture of said Elf in his mind. He would surely be someone who would resemble Finrod in his best moods: an easygoing, open, calm, peaceful and loving adar. He had been utterly shocked when confronted with the mighty Noldo, his piercing grey eyes alight with the fire Celeborn had almost forgotten that shone so bright in all those who had beheld the trees, not just in his wife. With his sword ready, his hair undone and matted, his mail shiny and blood-stained and his face stern and demanding, he was Galadriel, pardon, Artanis, in male, kingly version, and that thought almost made Celeborn's knees buckle again.
He had been stunned as a Naugrim in front of that mighty figure, speechless as a stone in front of the blond king of the Noldor -who droned in Quenya in his otherworldly voice and smiled kindly -but exactingly- down upon all those Moriquendi who surrounded his beautiful daughter.
And so, at a wave of the king’s elegant hand, Celeborn had stayed apart with the rest, feeling utterly inadequate, but, above all, utterly angered at himself and at the amused glance he had glimpsed in his wife’s face.
He had been properly introduced after that, but he had not yet managed to overcome the mixed feelings of awe and reluctance that overwhelmed him in the presence of the imposing king. It was only sensible then that he would strive to make himself scarce and avoid being in Finarfin’s presence, as well as in his wife’s. The actual battle was taking place between father and daughter, after all.
So he walked instead.
He had sensed some discordance in the tree song in the last days, thought he could not fault them. The din was terrible, what, with so many people making camp there, messengers coming and going, the mighty ships and the bright armies of the West, the bedraggled elves from Balar and Ossiriand, as well as the Edain, all searching for a place to call their own and deciding where to settle... Different voices and different languages must have, no doubt, disturbed and worried the trees.
They had been calm and content for a while, now, grateful for his presence, he decided. Hoping that his mood could too be improved by their song, he went in search of a secluded glade he had claimed as soon as he had discovered it upon arrival.
He felt a childish irritation at the sight of an elf, comfortably sprawled under an oak -Celeborn’s favourite- looking completely at home in *his* glade. The fact that this intruder was the young High King of the Noldor in Exile, or whatever he calls himself now that the actual king is around, Celeborn thought with wicked pleasure, did nothing to ease his mood.
“What are you doing here?” he glared not too kindly, right above the dozing elf who sat up in one fluid motion, fully alert and with his hand on the unadorned hilt of the dagger at his side.
“You startled me, Lord Celeborn,” the young Noldo said politely, looking up at the angry-looking elf. “Is anything the matter?" he added worriedly. “Is Círdan looking for me?”
“Not that I know...Should he, for any particular reason?” Celeborn inquired, amused in spite of himself.
“I think not,” the young king seemed a bit discouraged. “But it seems as if there is always something else that I should be doing these days…”
“Shouldn’t you be down there, then?” Celeborn suggested, trying -and failing- to conceal his eagerness. “Maybe he needs you now.”
“He knows how to find me,” the youngster said with maddening confidence, settling back comfortably against the tree trunk.
"King he may be," Celeborn thought accusingly, "but subtlety is not to be mentioned among his traits."
“Would you like to take a seat?”
Although he is well-mannered, at least I can grant Círdan that, Celeborn acknowledged grudgingly, sitting down with a tired sigh and closing his eyes in the hopes that it would discourage further conversation.
“How do you find these lands, Lord Celeborn?” the question came after a stretch of blessed silence.
“Adequate,” was the noncommittal answer.
“Adequate... for... all of us?”
The tone was carefully neutral, yet the question itself was not innocent, so Celeborn opened his eyes and looked briefly at the other’s face. The grey eyes were curious, but there was a subtle shadow within -worry, wariness, he could not tell.
“I would think so. If I remember well the tales of the Great March, it took our ancestors many a year to cross the lands from Cuiviénen to Western Beleriand. I am sure there is plenty of room for all of us, if that’s what worries you, King Gil-galad,” he answered pointedly, stressing the name that had spread across camp as of late.
He regretted his words almost immediately, though, as he saw the flickering of a wince in the young king’s face at his mocking tone, but he decided that offering his apologies would make the whole thing worse.
“I would say that is your lady wife’s father’s main concern, rather than mine,” the Noldo retorted, letting his annoyance flow freely with his words, “but surely you would know better.”
“Why do you say that?” Celeborn was now plainly exasperated.
“Well, he is asking questions…” the youngster observed, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“Surely not to you,” Celeborn retorted sharply, “if he expects to gain some reliable knowledge of those lands.”
“No, not to me,” the Noldo agreed amiably. ”I am still awaiting his summons concerning…my…interpretation of his orders during the last campaign,” he grimaced.
Celeborn nodded at that. He had heard the tale, everybody had, of how the elves of Middle-earth had been commanded to stay behind, and how the king’s troops had not followed Eonwë’s counsel -or rather Finarfin’s orders, as it seemed the case now, the young king was braver than he had ever suspected- and had reinforced and protected the rearguard of the army from Valinor, while defending and evacuating eelven and edain settlements that were harassed by stray orc parties or fleeing enemies. He offered a sympathetic look at the troubled king.
“I heard you did a good job…”
“We did as much as we could. Nobody wanted to be left behind, and there was much to do before departing Beleriand,” he said flatly. “I am far more concerned with the future, now. I guess your lady wife is with her father presently?”
Something in the undertone told Celeborn that this was a serious conversation and that his condescending attitude was not a good idea.
“She is. How do you know?”
“Well, you seem to run out of sight whenever the two of them meet," the young king joked. “Not that I fault you,” he added hurriedly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I find your father-in-law a bit…intimidating,” the Noldo offered hesitantly.
“To put it mildly,” Celeborn agreed with a small smile. He waited patiently for the younger elf to reach his point.
“He is asking questions about who is returning to the Blessed Realm,” the other finally let go in a hurried flow. ”You know, the Valar have lifted the ban upon the exiles and have opened the road to the West for all the Eldar lingering in Middle-earth. There are many who are heeding the summons, but I suppose he must have expected greater numbers…”
Celeborn turned slightly to gain a better sight of the Noldo’s face. A small frown was marring his brow as he absentmindedly toyed with a piece of bark between his fingers, long and unexpectedly calloused despite his young age -surely from too much sword and spear and bow wielding.
“I believe he worries that these lands are not safe or suitable for those staying behind and…I wondered...you would have let me know if such were the case, wouldn’t you?” he asked openly, lifting questioning eyes to Celeborn.
Celeborn met his gaze calmly. He and Galadriel had been there when the first refugees arrived. They had met the leaders of Sirion, and Círdan’s counsellors, and Edain chieftains, and they had learnt much of their counsels and worries. But they had yet to meet formally with the young king of the exiles, who had arrived only three days ago with the bulk of his troops, while those of the High King of the Noldor had come in earlier their mighty ships, completely overwhelming the little harbour.
Meeting Finarfin and overcoming his scrutiny had been more than enough for Celeborn, and he did not particularly relish the idea of having to entertain yet another Noldorin king.
“You intend to build up a kingdom here?” he asked abruptly, arching an eyebrow.
“I worry that your lady wife may tell her father something about these lands that I –or Círdan- should have been made aware of,” he said without actually answering, Celeborn noted with suspicion.
”There are many people here, Lord Celeborn; people who lived in Balar and in Sirion, surviors from Hithlum, Gondolin, Nargothrond, Doriath, as well as the Laiquendi from Ossiriand, all have lost their homelands and are now looking for new places to settle down,” the young king continued evenly. “While Círdan is helping build the fleet that shall take the Edain west, I am charged with advancing plans for the settling down of those who would remain. Since you seem not inclined to give me a plain answer, I shall take it that you haven’t reached very far eastwards, and that you deem the lands safe and suitable, as far as you have reached.”
“That would be a good assumption.”
“I am glad to hear that,” the Noldo answered, a hint of sarcasm in his calm voice. “I won’t disturb your rest anymore, my lord,” he added, reclining his head against the tree trunk and closing his eyes.
*****
The High King of the Noldor walked under the trees with his beautiful daughter by his side. If he did not pay much attention to his surroundings he could almost believe he was back in Aman, walking under familiar forests outside Tirion, enjoying a pleasant stroll while listening to her soft voice offering some witty reasoning or some piece of amusing family gossip.
“I have already told you, Atar, I will not return only to be kept as unwanted company in that forsaken island!”
Almost, he thought regretfully, for neither the subject nor the angered tone of voice fitted in his wishful thinking. She is as stubborn as Olwë, he thought tiredly, but no Teleri king has ever been more stubborn than a Finwion. After all, he had married Eärwen in the end. “Honestly, Artanis,” he said patiently, “I cannot understand why you insist on staying! There is very little for you to do here, and these lands seem quite wild and dangerous to me…”
“Galadriel.”
“What’s wrong with Artanis?” Her insistence that the called her by that name was pulling at his nerves. “It’s a wonderful name, which suits you perfectly, and, casually, it was me who gave it to you,” he added, a bit petulantly, he had to admit.
“I know Ata...” she answered in a mellow tone, changing tactics, “but he who gave this name to me is my beloved and my rightful husband, and that’s the name that sounds sweetest to me…”
“Rightful...” he groaned. That stung, still. “I cannot believe that your brother allowed that!”
“He…it…wasn’t easy...” she offered hesitantly. “But I won in the end!” She smiled brightly then, and her father knew that she was not telling the whole story. Most probably, watching her determined frown and her glare when she informed him that she intended to marry that obscure and distant relative of Thingol's, his wise eldest son had simply decided that the battle was a lost one from the very beginning and caved in with a graceful nod.
“I know you did,” he remarked dryly. “Now, tell me about your court in that distant part... Nenuial, you called it? Is it safe there?”
“It depends. It is full of Moriquendi…” she grinned playfully.
“Artanis…” The scorching look she threw his way made the trick. “Galadriel,” he conceded with the utmost reluctance. “I am being serious, now. I can yet decide to have my guards lock you in my ship, you know...”
“You wouldn’t do that, Atto… would you?” she focused all her baby-daughter charm on him. Finarfin sighed, shaking his head. She had always known how to win him over.
“No. But I could do it. Now tell me, my daughter, I want to know exactly about the safety of your court, and the strength of your army, and how safe are those lands to the East…”
“Oh!” she was squirming now, trying to escape her father’s piercing gaze, “you better ask Celeborn, Atar… he’s more versed than I am in such things…”
“Galadriel….”
“I... wouldn’t speak of such thing as…a court, though,” she kept on airily. ”You know…green elves don’t use terms such as court… or kingdom…and they would never have a Noldorin queen…” se admitted with the greatest reluctance.
“But that’s… outrageous!"
“Well, yes, for them it would be, so we have to be very careful not to let our intentions be confounded with political ambitions…”
“I mean for you,” Finarfin snapped. “No child of mine shall be shunned in such manner! On the other side…maybe you would be safer in Ereinion’s court?” He winced at her scowl, conceding the point. Court wasn’t an appropriate word for whatever style of ruling his nephew’s son pretended to be exercising over his mixed, unmanageable and fiercely independent subjects, not to speak of his army.
They walked in silence for a while, listening to the contented song of the trees.
“I wished that you considered other options, child," he sighed softly, “if only for your naneth’s sake…”
“What good it would do to her to have me in the Lonely Isle, forever pinning for the lands of my childhood?” she answered thoughtfully, entwining her hand with her father’s as she had done so many years ago when they used to go together for long strolls and she would listen in awe to every word that dropped from her idolized atar’s lips.
“Is there the slightest chance that you would reconsider?” he asked after a long silence.
“Absolutely not.” Her voice had an edge of determination that her father knew only too well. “Just ask Lord Eonwë about my reasons when you have a chance,” she challenged. Finarfin cringed at the memory of a ruffled and annoyed Herald cursing Finwë’s line’s stubbornness after a meeting with her.
“I trust your word, child,” he said resignedly. “Even if I did not, I am sure I would like not what he would have to say, after all…”
***
Celeborn studied the younger elf carefully. He remembered the prince as a lanky child, back in the Havens, big grey eyes and a sharp tongue that matched an equally sharp wit. He had been a child, then, but the sadness had already been there. He looked older than his years, and it was no wonder, Celeborn thought with an unexpected surge of sympathy, for he seemed to take his duties quite seriously despite his young age. “He’s never been a child,” he remembered Círdan saying of his young ward back at that time.
He was king, now, at hardly an ennin, at the age at which most elves were still considered youngsters and given minor responsibilities. Feeling acutely aware of one’s shortcomings in front of Finarfin was too easy, even for one with long years of court experience, and Celeborn could picture only too clearly how inadequate this young king of a bedraggled host of the once mighty Noldor must have felt in front of his powerful uncle from beyond the sea.
“What are you doing here?” he asked suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, “What are you doing here?” Since you interrupted my musings, I thought it was only fair that I did the same to you…” Celeborn prodded playfully.
The Noldo cast a suspicious glance at him but answered willingly. “I was hoping to find a respite away from duties and prying eyes,” he stabbed back masterfully, Celeborn had to admit. He then shrugged in an unassuming manner. “I came across this glade the other day…but then... the trees were so restless by our presence… that I thought I might just sit here and ... let them become used to me,” he said thoughtfully. “What?” he added sharply, at the astonished look in Celeborn’s face.
“My apologies,” the amazed sindarin lord managed. “Only it was...startling to hear such statement coming from…you,” he tried to avoid fully disgracing himself.
“You meaning one of those disgraced, exiled, doomed, cursed, stone-loving Golodhrim, I suppose?” the young king said lightly, although the hurt deep in his eyes was unmistakable.
There was no point in denying the evidence. “Yes, I suppose you are right,” Celeborn acknowledged mildly.
They remained in silence for a moment, and then the Noldo spoke in a soft voice.
“My father was born in Valinor, Lord Celeborn, as was your lady wife.”
He had rested his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes, the ghost of a wistful smile crossing his tired features. Celeborn awaited in silence, berating himself for his careless words.
“He grew up among the Powers. He learnt to track wild beasts with Oromë's host, and take only what the forest would grant and be duly grateful for that. The Vala himself taught him the language and ways every kelvar. He, too, learnt to listen to the voice of the olvar with Yavanna. All the elves learnt such things in the Blessed Realm. My first memories are of my grandfather and my father teaching me to listen to the voice of every living thing.” He stopped there, his voice unsteady, and he lowered his eyes for a moment, not ready to meet Celeborn’s gaze.
“We, Noldorin people, may have better ear for the song of the stones, Lord Celeborn,” he kept on hoarsely, “but... I know enough to hear Ossë’s voice in the waves, and to feel the distress in this forest. And I can still hear the lament of the forests that were drowned in Beleriand, but also of its stones; the mighty tower of Barad Eithel, the beautiful terraces of Vinyamar, and the carved walls of the Havens.” He lifted his face then, and pierced Celeborn with his grey eyes. ”We who were born in Beleriand will mourn its loss till Arda is remade,” he added softly.
Celeborn accepted the rebuke in silence, shocked by the yearning and vulnerability in that weary face.
“By your leave,” the young Noldo said, standing up with a graceful movement. “I can hear too that Círdan is looking for me,” he joked lamely, managing a brave smile as he bowed courteously and departed.
Celeborn was not surprised, then, to feel the trees around him spread their pity as a canopy fire, straining to comfort the retreating elf.
At least, I can now enjoy the silence, he shrugged; and snuggling comfortably against the oak he let his thoughts drift away in harmony with the song of Arda, ready to enjoy a peaceful time.
“Oh, Atar! Look who's here!” an only too familiar voice sounded too close for comfort.
“My lady wife, my lord Finarfin,” he smiled resignedly, standing and bowing to his wife and her Atar as they emerged from the other side of the clearing, mentally rolling his eyes at the Valar and their wicked sense of poetic justice.
TBC
Notes:
Nenuial One of the many re-writings of the History of Celeborn and Galadriel says that they crossed the mountains some time around the fall of Morgoth and dwelt in Eriador, around lake Nenuial, (lake Evendim) with a host of followers formed by grey elves and wood Elves. (Unfinished Tales, The History of Celeborn and Galadriel).
Golodh: Sindarin less than polite way of referring to the Noldor. It fell out of use among those friendly to the Noldor. (HoME 11, “Quendi and Eldar”)
I stick to Ereinion being Fingon’s son.