Chapter Text
Sins of Our Fathers
Chapter One: First Sight
Second Age 1358
Egladil in Lorinand, Kingdom of Amroth
The Mereth Nuin Giliath is too important for you to miss, or so Celebrian insisted, when she implored you to join her and Nimeithel at the feast that evening. You had stumbled through your attempts to decline her earnest invitation, aware that your standard excuses would not suffice on this occasion. For it was true that all the people of Lorinand were expected to gather and celebrate the autumn festival as a community, and withholding your attendance would be seen as terribly impolite towards your host. Lady Galadriel had been unceasingly kind and generous towards you since your unexpected arrival a fortnight ago. If her daughter truly wished for your company, obliging her would be but a small repayment.
By twilight, the sprawling green meadows of Egladil come alive with unnumbered revelers milling about the laden food tables and wine stations. The lively melodies of flute, lute, harp carry over the crowd’s voices to greet you as you arrive, walking just a few paces behind the cousins, two ethereally lovely maidens of silver hair and laughing eyes. Celebrian and Nimeithel draw the gazes of nearly every ellon they pass, gazes that you hope to avoid by keeping yours pinned to the ground.
But you catch yourself, steel your resolve to mind your manners, and rise above the impulse to hide away. The musicians on the central dais strike up a carola, and you are swept into a flurry of elves rushing together to form a circle. To your right, Nimeithel grabs your hand, and to your left, an ellon you have never met or seen before wraps his fingers around yours. His grip is gentle but sure, as bold and confident as the smile he flashes at you. At once the circle begins to turn, with every individual in it moving at the fast pace of the song, leaving you no time to think. This dance is not familiar to you, but you release your body to the music’s tempo, and your steps fall in sync with the rest of the group.
A few more songs later, you are flushed and out of breath, half from exertion and half a result of sheer mirth. A cup of wine is pressed into your hand and you join in the conversation with some new acquaintances. You forget to care who your friends might be introducing you as, and it seems no one cares to question your identity anyhow. You find it proven yet again that the Tawarwaith are exceedingly warm and unabashed in their exuberance, and furthermore have a gift for enticing the shyest of newcomers to join in their merriment.
“This is excellent wine!” proclaims Nimeithel, holding her empty cup aloft. Her fair cheeks have gone a telltale shade of pink. “But I’m afraid I cannot have another if I wish to stay on my feet for the rest of the evening!”
“It is stronger than any vintage I have ever been served,” Celebrian remarks. She had taken only a sip or two of hers before refusing the rest. “Is it from the King’s cellars?”
“I believe it came from Greenwood, my lady,” says the ellon named Lindir, the same one who had taken your hand at the carola and since then remained in your group’s company. “I saw wine barrels with King Oropher’s mark being delivered to the feasting hall this morning.”
“Ah!” exclaims Gwaerendir, one of the King’s kinsmen and--as revealed to you in hushed confidence--Nimeithel’s suitor. “I should have guessed. It is not Oropher’s way to send such a gift. This is his son’s doing.”
“Thranduil!” Nimeithel’s eyes widen. “Has he come to celebrate with us? Why did you not mention this sooner?”
“You know him as well as I do. It would be easier to give advance notice of a gale in a storm than of Thranduil’s comings and goings,” laughs Gwaerendir. “I know not for certain if he is here, but I would be shocked if he sent his best wine to a feast that he is not attending.”
While they continue their banter, Celebrian draws you aside to whisper, “Thranduil is King Oropher’s only son, the prince of Greenwood the Great. They were raised together in Menegroth--he, Nimeithel and Gwaerendir.”
The dreaded coldness washes over you at the mere mention of Thingol’s fallen fortress. The urge to run away from present company threatens to overwhelm you. Celebrian is quick to notice and slips her arm across your shoulders reassuringly.
“Remember my mother’s words, Maereth,” she says firmly. “You are among friends and have nothing to fear in Lorinand. You have our love and our discretion.”
You could not help but smile and draw courage from her stout declaration. “I have heard of the Prince of Greenwood, but did not realize he and Nimeithel were such old friends. Do you know him well?”
“He and his father lived in Harlindon for a time, before they migrated east. But I was just a child then, and those memories of him are few.” She links her arm through yours and steers you away from the rest of the group. “He would come to our home to visit my father. I watched them train with swords once, and when he disarmed Ada, it frightened me so much I cried.”
“How strange that I never encountered him then. It seems our paths should have crossed over so many years.”
Celebrian ponders this for a moment. “By the time you arrived from Mithlond, I believe Thranduil began to travel a lot, all across Eriador. I remember my parents talking about how King Oropher blamed Ada for influencing his son. But you heard Gwaerendir describe him--untamed like a storm’s wind.”
“Does he visit Lorinand often?”
“More often now that Nimeithel is here to complete the reunion of their trio.” Celebrian squeezes your arm in another effort to soothe your anxieties. “Do not let his trappings intimidate you. He is cut from the same cloth as Gwaerendir. I think you will enjoy his company. Or find it amusing, at the very least.”
But her well-intentioned statement only tightens the knot in your stomach. You cast a glance back in Gwaerendir’s direction, where he stands gesturing animatedly as he regales his friends with a tale. Handsome and charming and relentlessly cheerful, he has shown not a slight hint of the animosity many Sindar tend to harbor towards Noldor entering their lands. But you know his behavior is influenced in no small part by his devotion to Nimeithel. And he does not know the whole truth about you, a safeguard that can crumble with even a minor slip in conversation.
Distraction comes to the rescue in the form of Lindir, who politely interrupts to request a dance with you. The refined young elf-lord is easy company, and before long you find yourself alone with him, losing track of your friends after several turns on the dance floor. You mention feeling hungry, and at once he escorts you to the banquet.
Lindir exchanges familiar greetings with nearly every elf he encounters, and takes the extra step to introduce you as well. His gallant efforts to make you feel welcomed threaten to backfire as your anxiety blooms anew; calling attention to your presence is exactly what you sought to avoid. But as you take a seat at one of the long tables, you find most of the company are too preoccupied with their own enjoyment to pay close attention to a stranger in their midst. The Mereth Nuin Giliath draws visitors from as far as Imladris, making you just one among many new faces in the city. Your dining companions, with the exception of Lindir, interact with you very little, and seem more interested in their cups of the potent Greenwood wine than in asking you questions. Your nerves gradually settle and before long, you slip back into a state of relaxed, quiet enjoyment.
After partaking of the sumptuous bounty of dishes from King Amdir’s kitchens, you accept Lindir’s offer to take a stroll along the banks of the Celebrant. He is happy to continue doing most of the talking, and sates your curiosity with detailed answers to your queries about Lorinand, about his duties in the royal household, and every topic you use to divert the conversation from yourself.
Back towards the festivities, you hear distant voices rise together in a shared song. You stop to listen more closely, moved by the sweetness of the unfamiliar hymn. Suddenly an even more melodious voice graces your ears, as Lindir begins to follow along, first humming in a rich baritone before singing the lyric, which you then realize is in the Silvan tongue.
“You have a gift,” you murmur in shy but genuine admiration, for truthfully his was perhaps the single loveliest singing voice you had ever heard from an ellon.
He accepts the compliment with a gracious nod. “Do you speak Silvan, my lady?”
“Only a little, I’m afraid.”
He proceeds to translate the lyrics for you. The Iay narrates the romance between the embodiments of autumn and spring, of their tragic longing to be together, but their differences in nature would not allow it.
“Is that not a rather somber topic to sing about at a festival?”
“That may be so, but it is a tradition as old as the Mereth itself,” Lindir chuckled. “Many of us Tawarwaith learned the song from our cribs. And you will find that our people do not unnecessarily constrain ourselves with rules and convention. It is a beloved melody and so we will sing it no matter the occasion.”
You smile, knowing the implied comparison to the Noldor, your kin, who perhaps obsessed far too much about customs and propriety. “I will admit, that does sound liberating.”
Lindir tilts his head and studies you for a moment with an intent, but not ungentle, stare. “If I may,” he finally says. “Your eyes… I have never seen such colored eyes before. They are extraordinary.”
Startled by the compliment, you divert your gaze like a thief caught red-handed, even as you respond with a soft, “Thank you.” The way the hue of your eyes shift back and forth from green to gold is not within your control, but it is subtle enough that most people do not notice it, unless they have been staring at your face for a good while.
You did not realize Lindir had been looking at you that closely.
It is not the ellon’s interest that flusters you, however. It is the attention called to this very rare physical trait that, as far as you know, was bequeathed to you by your mother, and her mother before her. It linked you unequivocally to a lineage that you are in a constant battle to obfuscate.
"If I embarrassed you Lady Maereth, I do apologize," Lindir said to cut the awkward silence. "I am not usually so forward."
Before reassurances can leave your lips, your attention is redirected to Celebrant's flowing waters, where a distant shape materializes from behind the trees running along the curved bank, drifting lazily downstream in your direction.
Peals of silvery laughter rise above the river's steady babble, announcing the presence of passengers upon the approaching boat. As the vessel comes into clearer view, you see it is a work of art in itself, painted pure white and constructed in the shape of a swan.
The swanships of Alqualondë. Joy and grief clash in your heart to finally behold Lorinand's tribute to those fabled masterpieces of the Falmari shipwrights, mirroring the conflict between the two sides of your heritage.
You take a few steps back, your mind scrambling for an excuse to depart without hurting Lindir’s feelings.
But before you can turn away, you catch sight of him.
On the deck of the large boat are four passengers. Three giggling elleths cluster around the one ellon, upon whom your full attention has fallen. He stands tall with the proud, self-assured carriage only seen in lords of the highest status, his bearing further enhanced by the elegant make of his forest-green tunic. His silver hair falls to his waist, even longer and finer than Celebrian's, held in place by only a thin circlet. His face…
Suddenly, you find yourself looking straight into his eyes. Turning his face away from his companions and towards the river’s edge, he finds you. That gaze, greyish blue as a winter’s sky, locks onto yours, and traps it. You cannot move, helpless as those fierce eyes reach deep into you, probing with a curiosity that would not be denied. And as reticent as you have always been, and protective of your secrets, a small voice rose in your mind and echoed in your heart, calling for you to welcome him in, as though he belonged there.
No. You will not. Your will fights against this urging, this spell, or whatever magic the elf-prince Thranduil may be casting upon you, and you tear your gaze away. You catch just a glimpse of surprise, perhaps even frustration, on the Silvan royal’s face. You feel a swell of pride and triumph as you smooth the skirt of your dress and sniff as you physically turn away from Thranduil of Greenwood, and cast your smile at Lindir.
“I would love to listen to and learn more songs of the Tawarwaith, if you would honor me.”
Lindir beams as you slip your hand into the crook of his offered arm, and you let him lead you away from the riverbank, ignoring the furious stare that follows you in your departure.