Work Text:
“Shall I wrestle you for it?” Thranduil asks, with that silvery grin of his, and Celeborn throws his head back and laughs with an ease he has not felt in an Age. His cousin is in fine form tonight; the wine is a smooth, red Dorwinion; and they are free to tease and reminisce with no disasters looming, no Orcs beating down the metaphorical door. The rain on their faces is soft and sweet, here in this wood whose apportionment they are debating. What a delightful and unfamiliar feeling.
He recalls the last time they carved up a territory, chuckling again at the memory of Galadriel’s rage when Thranduil pinned her and claimed the victory. It was centuries before she forgave Celeborn his poorly-concealed amusement, and she will still mention the loss of her imaginary portion of Doriath when she feels he is not being suitably supportive. Oh, he misses her, his golden falcon, his fierce, bright hawk. Whatever division of the Greenwood they agree to will not last long, he knows: he will follow her, wherever she goes. Even to Valinor, of all unlikely places.
Perhaps he should try to persuade Thranduil to travel with him. Sweet, keen Legolas will be carrying his inner bruises West soon, it is clear, and Gimli will go with him. Why not take the King along to round out the company? The thought sets Celeborn off into laughter again, imagining Galadriel’s face as they all disembark on the other side of the Sea. Delight would war with outrage, resolving into mirth. She would laugh, in the end, and welcome them. She has ever been light underneath, even when most intentionally severe.
Her feud with Thranduil isn’t one, really – their distance is a grudging acknowledgement of her own imperfections, and a reluctant nod to Celeborn's cousin's considerable, if differing, strengths. Thranduil was ever a favorite of Melian, when they were young; that was the rub. His gifts with trees and earth and stewardship of wild things stood in contrast to Galadriel’s greater affinity for craft and the workings of her own and others’ minds. What she wished to learn from Melian came more easily to him, as did the Lady’s favor. Galadriel had had to work for both – and had acquired them, as she did with everything else she wanted.
Legolas’ mother used to tease them all about it: Noldor and Sindar alike needing to learn from a Maia what was bred into her own Laiquendi blood, her wild bones. The Wood was the World, to her people; they had no need of magic rings or other works of art or hand to understand and care for it. Crowning Oropher was a practical gesture: they let him deal with the tall eager cousins from the West and their perennial wars, while the Laegrim attended, as they had always done, to the Music of the wilds. Thranduil had won her by abandoning any search for power, only to have it descend on him unexpectedly in the welter of his father’s blood. They had loved each other fiercely, always, and worked in tandem for the wellbeing of the Wood, but she never forgave him for the crown, the throne.
Celeborn studies his cousin more closely in the light of the fire. The crown is gone tonight, in fact, and Thranduil has netted his braids with leaves and berries in an ancient pattern first woven under the stars. His edges have fissured, a little; the Wood winds through him more obviously than ever before. This last war has cut him deeply, but he is rooting himself again. Celeborn doubts he will ever convince him to make the journey to the Sea.
Well, then. Let them take this time together, without wives or children or courtiers clamoring for the resolution of subtle and innumerable griefs. It has been too long since they shared a fire and a meal. The wine and the music and their own good company will wind time backward and ease their lingering wounds. There are not many like them left, after all, to remember the nightingales, the stars on the water, the faint breath of the Girdle whispering through the trees.
An odd combination of pain and wonder tightens Celeborn’s throat as Thranduil refills his goblet with the rich, dark wine. They have somehow survived it, all of it, he and his infuriating, incomparable cousin. If they must be parted, let it be peacefully. This will be a temporary guardianship; a last, slow farewell. He will take whatever portion of the forest Thranduil is willing to share.