Chapter Text
“I think this expedition is an excellent idea, and I’m glad you’ve finally decided to do it,” said Finrod Felagund with kindly firmness.
It was a quiet, Moonless night in early summer, and the King of Nargothrond was entertaining his sister and marriage-brother, newly-arrived that morning from Tol Sirion.
From above (not that the Enemy’s bat-spies dared to fly so far south and west or so near to Doriath – Melian’s webs would catch them too, and the Marchwardens’ arrows did not miss), the King’s personal garden, like the others scattered among the crags above the Hidden City, would be invisible among the dells and wooded hills of the High Faroth. In this season under the starlight, it was green even in the dimness and sweet with fern and honeysuckle and lily-of-the valley. A tiny spring trickled quietly from under some rocks to fill a small pool before losing itself among moss and pebbles.
“My heart tells me that we must go,” Galadriel agreed unhappily, gazing at the dark water as if it were her mirror in Menegroth. The little pool was itself almost invisible, shaded from Sun and Moon and stars by thick stands of hemlock and enchanters’ nightshade, and long-blooming niphredil; that last had been a gift from Galadriel herself in happier years. Conveniently, it also housed several frogs, whose evening chorus nicely covered the sound of quiet conversation.
“The Siege will not hold forever.”
Finrod nodded. “Best not to have all the apples in the same barrel, as the Edain say.” The Sindarin of Nargothrond was less antique and formal than the Girdle-preserved tongue of Doriath, and the prosaic metaphor made his sister smile briefly. Sitting beside her on another judiciously-placed boulder (nothing so obvious as a circle), Celeborn dropped an arm about her shoulders.
The King of Nargothrond was hosting them in his city, as the first stop on their great journey to the East. It would have been easier for them to take the Dwarf Road directly from Doriath, and indeed the greater part of their following had already gone that way, across the green and fertile plains to the market town at Sarn Athrad, where Amrod and Amras, the youngest Sons of Fëanor, had a seat. They would accumulate provisions along the way and then wait for Celeborn and Galadriel and their escort to catch up. From Sarn Athrad everyone would travel as one group into Ossiriand and overwinter either there or, preferably, in the great Dwarf city of Nogrod on the other side of the mountains before descending into Eriador, as the land beyond the Blue Mountains was rather ominously known.
But it had never been conceivable that Galadriel could leave Beleriand without bidding farewell to her brothers, and so Angrod and Aegnor had left their fortresses in Dorthonion long enough to meet her and Orodreth for a few weeks in Tol Sirion. And then she and Celeborn and a handful of others had ridden south to the Crossings of Teiglin and thence across the Talath Dirnen to Nargothrond.
For she already knew that she and they would not meet again in this life, and when he heard her errand, so did Finrod. They two loved each other most dearly of all their family, and the parting was painful.
“We thought at first to go by ship instead,” Celeborn said quietly. “Cirdan’s people have small havens beyond the Ered Luin, along the coasts in the southeast, where the rivers come to the Sea. Some among the Nandor have come to dwell there, and there is trade. We might easily strike up from the coasts along one of the rivers, to see what we find.”
Galadriel took up his words seamlessly. “But the Falathrim do not go beyond the coasts, and Celeborn thought to visit his friends and kin in Ossiriand on the way, and I to visit the Dwarves. And both would have wider knowledge of matters inland and in the north.”
That was correct, and Finrod was glad that his wise little sister had chosen someone with the same common sense.
The woodland night was pleasantly cool, and away among the trees a nightingale was singing. He looked up. “Is that…”
Celeborn smiled, a quick gleam of white teeth in the shadows. “No, it is a common bird,” he said, “Busy about its own affairs. The Queen has given us her blessing, and all the gear that we might require, and great store of lembas made by her own hands, and even the seeds to grow the grain to make it, but she keeps to her borders and would not trespass upon yours.”
He did not, Finrod noted, mention the King.
“Well,” he said briskly, “I’m very glad you’re here, and you don’t need to hurry to leave. I think your choice of route is very sensible and I’m happy to help. I’m sure you’ve sent word ahead already, but a few additional letters of introduction won’t hurt. I have good friends in Ossiriand and in the Cities, who would welcome you.”
And Amon Ereb and Thargelion would have to be notified as well, but Finrod decided that there was no need to mention that to Celeborn just yet.
“We have some decent maps in the library, which I shall have copied, and the Sarn Athrad market is excellent and accustomed to provisioning the traders through the mountains. I’d suggest you get advice from the Dwarves and buy from them too if you can. Some of those here would be very interested in coming with you as well. Give Finduilas and me and our people a bit of time to get things moving, and we can talk about the arrangements tomorrow afternoon.”
A little later, preparing for sleep in the handsome suite that they normally occupied in Nargothrond (Finrod had carved the shallow-relief decoration of the walls himself, elegant, stylised trees and flowers; inspired by Menegroth in theme perhaps, but their beauty was entirely their own), Celeborn said wryly to his wife, “I can see how your folk got across the Ice in such good order…”
She answered with unusual gravity,
“We could have survived without him, I think, but it would have been far worse for us. Melian has taught me much, and I am grateful for it, but of rule, of the duties of a leader… what I know I have chiefly learned from my brother.”
. . . . .
“You’ll be going east through the Aelin-uial I assume, since you have Captain Beleg with you, and thence above the Andram,” Finrod said several days later, running his finger along the new map of eastern Beleriand that had rapidly been copied for them.
Celeborn and Galadriel were with the King and his niece Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth and in the absence of a Queen the Lady of Nargothrond, in the King’s rooms, being briefed about the next stage of their journey. The captains of their escort, Beleg Strongbow and his lieutenant, were also in attendance (they would see the expedition to Ossiriand and the western foothills and then turn back, so were keen to get whatever intelligence they could along the way). More maps were being copied for them in Finrod’s scriptorium, and the City’s people were searching out what written accounts anyone might have about both the Blue Mountains and the lands beyond.
“After the marshes you could travel directly east across the plains to Sarn Athrad; Amrod and Amras’ folk would see you safely on your way. However.” Finrod paused delicately, not looking at the Doriathrim, “A stop at Amon Ereb would need a detour, but I do recommend it. Sigellas of the Laiquendi commands there, and she will have the news from Ossiriand and the Dwarf Cities, which you would find useful.”
Amon Ereb, the great hill where the last King of the Green-elves had fallen in battle against the servants of Morgoth before ever the Noldor returned to Beleriand, was now a fortress of the Sons of Fëanor, answering to Caranthir, Lord of Thargelion. That Denethor’s people had thrown in with the Kinslayers with such apparent ease had caused a bit of a stir in Menegroth. Thingol had not been pleased. Melian had looked enigmatic, and made a few remarks about how sharing both meals and enemies made friends. Celeborn, remembering conversations over the years with both the Marchwardens and the Sindar merchant trains visiting Doriath, had not been surprised, though he knew better than to say so openly. Estolad was now ruled by Amrod and Amras, the two youngest Sons of Fëanor, and it was kept safe not by the Girdle but by the wall of fortresses in the north built and held by their brothers and cousins.
He exchanged a quick thought with Galadriel, and said out loud, “That seems wise, if the Lady Sigellas is willing to aid us. We would wish to gather as much knowledge as we can before we essay the crossing of the mountains, and we know little of the customs of the...” a mental kick to the ankle had him hurriedly substituting for ‘the Naugrim’, “…the Cadhadrim”.
The Dwarves came to Doriath to trade as well, but they were extremely close-mouthed about their own affairs. After the King’s (and, regrettably, his own) rebarbative kinsman Eöl took himself off to sulk in the woods of Nan Elmoth, there was no-one in Doriath who could claim true knowledge of them, let alone friendship.
“Excellent!” Finrod said easily. “They call themselves the Khazad, by the way, or the Children of Mahal. And don’t worry about Sigellas, she’s a decent sort, she’ll be happy to help.“
“I know her,” said Beleg’s lieutenant, a tall, serious woman called Carangil, with the dark hair and grey eyes of most Doriathrim. “She was one of Denethor’s people at the battle where he died, under the stars before the Moon and Sun. Tindringil we named her then, she of the silent strike. I did not know that she had sworn to the Kinslayers.”
“Quite a while ago, as I understand it,” Finrod said amiably. “Almost as soon as our cousins offered alliance to the wandering companies of Ossiriand. That was just after Himring was built and Dorthonion and Aglon Pass were fortified and Maglor’s riders began patrolling the Gap. She was among the first to join Caranthir, when he and his people began work on the fortress at Mount Rerir.”
Finduilas said, before the silence that followed could stretch too obviously, “The word of your great venture is already abroad in the City, Aunt and Uncle, and there are many who wish to go with you, if you permit it. They will bring their own gear and tools and supplies, of course, you need not fear that they will be a burden.”
Finrod said, “We have had word from Estolad. Your people are well on their way, and should have no lack of guides through the mountains. There are parties of traders crossing often now that the weather is good and the passes are clear, and you could accompany one of them through the mountains and get to Nogrod before autumn ends. They will be glad of more company.”
Beleg’s attention sharpened. “Orcs?”
“And wargs and trolls, and perhaps even Men,” Finrod said. Finduilas brought over another map, which he unrolled and weighted flat on top of the first. This showed the region of the mountains through which the Dwarf Road ran to their great Cities on the eastern side. “The Enemy has many folk in His service, willingly or not, and we must assume that they are active on the other side of the mountains, at least in the north; how else may Angband be resupplied? We keep his minions from Lothlann and Ard-galen, and they cannot eat iron ore. You will not be entering a wholly peaceful land, sister.”
Celeborn and Galadriel exchanged a look of open perturbation; she said cautiously, “I…had not thought to establish another March, brother. Our followers are not so many, even with those who may join us from here, and most are not warriors, or have not been for a long time.” Everyone who had made the Great Journey or dwelt in Beleriand under the stars had known how to use knife and spear and bow and slingshot, for both hunting and defence, but that had been long before the Girdle was raised.
“Not yet.” Finrod’s gaze was suddenly both piercing and very far away. “But they will be. Both followers and warriors. You will have them in many lands, in time to come. You will rule them and guard them, and teach them. And endure when all others have fallen, and hold fast to the very end.”
. . . . .
From his private conversations with his sister, while Celeborn and Beleg conferred with Finduilas and Finrod’s Steward Lord Edrahil over maps and supplies, Finrod learned something of what had finally driven her from Doriath. Her position in Menegroth had always been precarious, as she balanced her place as Melian’s pupil, Thingol’s kinswoman by both blood and marriage (Celeborn was his great-nephew, the grandson of Thingol’s brother) and ambassador in all but name of the High King of the Noldor. But Thingol’s mistrust of all things and peoples outside his borders had been growing, even with the lands at peace behind the line of the Siege.
I do not know why, Galadriel confessed one evening, as they walked together through the halls, and he showed off the marvels his people’s Arts had devised since her last visit. There was a new interior garden that he was particularly proud of, lit by cunningly-directed light-pipes during the day, and at night by an extraordinary collection of specially-bred, many-hued, luminous mushrooms. It was the City’s regular dinner hour, so they were alone, but even so, they spoke only with ósanwë. Having a large population living at such close quarters meant that there was always someone around, even if one did not see them.
Out loud Galadriel offered the expected and deserved praise and interest, and continued thought to thought,
And Melian will not tell me. But he has been becoming more and more, she considered and said at last, reluctantly, …wary of all those who come from outside Doriath. Close to her in heart as he was, Finrod nonetheless heard what she did not convey in words, even by thought, More and more fearful. Even of the Sindar from Estolad, whom he has known since before the Girdle was raised. Even of the Laiquendi; some have kin in Doriath, and now that there is peace they come to visit. But more and more my heart tells me that Doriath is a cage, and one that I will die in, if I stay. That we will die in. I might run the risk for myself, for the sake of what I lose by leaving, but never for Celeborn.
Finrod said out loud, “The Dwarves grow mushrooms for food, but I think they would be interested in our new noctilucent varieties as well. We’ll pack up some spawn of the tougher kinds for you, as your guest-gift to them, and some drawings of the others. If they’re interested it would be a useful addition to our trade.”
As they left the garden he added, “How is Cousin Lúthien? I was thinking of inviting her to visit. She hasn’t been here since we all moved in, and they might appreciate the mushrooms in Menegroth too.”
Even as her mouth responded with banalities, Galadriel answered, She is worried too. She thinks my fears foresighted, and agreed that we should go as soon as we could. I invited her to ride with us as far as here, and Thingol refused to let her pass the Girdle, even with my assurance that you would provide her with an escort back together with her own.
That startled him. But she used to travel freely! I remember Cirdan telling me stories about going fishing with her at the Falas, under the stars, long before the Girdle was raised…
Elu is different now, even from how he was when we first came to these shores. He may be foresighted too, or perhaps only unhappy at the changes that have come to Beleriand under the Sun, but whatever the cause he is afraid and it makes him angry.
“I’ll ask Beleg to drop in on his way back, then,” Finrod said out loud. “And I can give him some of the spawn and a sheet of pictures as a present for Lúthien. I’m sure she’d like them. Even if Melian doesn’t want them inside the Thousand Caves, they’d look lovely out in the woods.”
. . . . .
The departure from Nargothrond was relatively smooth, despite the sudden increase in the size of their party. Some people were just taking the chance to visit friends and relatives in Eastern Beleriand, but a surprising number of the Nargothrondrim were keen to pack up and accompany their King’s sister (Celeborn had no illusions that he was the leader they were choosing to follow, even the Sindar) across the mountains into the unknown.
Celeborn was impressed by how efficient Nargothrond was about incorporating the would-be new additions into his and Galadriel’s plans; he made copious notes, to Lord Edrahil’s approbation, and received from him a beautifully-made blank codex and set of pencils for the purpose. Lord Edrahil’s personal Arts in Valinor, it turned out, (he had only discovered his gift for logistics on the Ice) had been the making of paper, pens, pencils, brushes, inks and paints, book-binding, and the practice of calligraphy.
This was a serious settlement project, the King and Lady Finduilas emphasised, not a pleasure jaunt across the countryside; they were to expect danger and uncertainty on the other side of the mountains. Lord Edrahil was strict about applicants’ age (adults only!), Arts and baggage; not a few of the newcomers whom he accepted were skilled younger artisans, on the verge of or just past formal mastery, and keen to establish themselves independently. Tools and materials had priority, together with coin, gemstones, cloth, and lightweight but valuable trade items (medicines and remedies, and the fine tools for carpentry and sewing, chirurgy and metalwork were always in demand among Men and even among smaller Elvish settlements). Books of instruction as well, and writing materials, and even a few breeding pairs of the messenger birds that Nargothrond used.
“I expect regular word once you’re settled”, said the King.
Lady Finduilas and her women augmented Queen Melian’s gift of lembas with more from their own baking, and gave freely of their own seedstock.
“I’m sure it’s not the same as the Queen’s or Princess Luthien’s,” Finduilas said when she gave the packets to them. “But take it anyway, with our goodwill, dear Aunt and Uncle. You never know when some extra will come in useful.”
Galadriel hugged her hard. “My dear, my dear. Never think little of a gift made in love. We will be glad of your handiwork along the way, that I can promise. Be careful, be well. I will send word, don’t worry.”
She could not say, “We will meet again,” and hoped that Finduilas did not notice.
Nargothrond lent packhorses and carts to get everything to the fenlands of the Aelin-uial, which the Marchwardens would help them cross by boat; after that the newcomers would have to procure their own transport in Estolad. Even this had been organised. The King had sent word personally to the Sons of Fëanor, who had informed the local carters, carpenters and horse-traders of the imminent market opportunity; prices had been promised to be fair in light of Estolad’s ongoing good relations with Nargothrond and Doriath.
The train set off at dawn, with Celeborn and Beleg in the lead. Once across the deep gorge of the Narog, the road ran under the cover of woodland for most of the way to the Aelin-uial, and there was no hurry. Galadriel and her escort would catch up with them, after she had said her final farewells to her brother. Her Doriathrin escort waited patiently on the other side of the slim wooden bridge that was the only way across, wrapped in their cloaks of shadow-grey; but for their horses, the Marchwardens would have been invisible even to Elven eyes. After Galadriel crossed, the boards of the bridge would be taken up until the next party of visitors was escorted in, and the doors of the City would be closed; Dwarves had made them, and when they were shut, they could not be seen from the outside.
She and Finrod had spoken long and late the night before, but they felt the same deep reluctance to part now.
“We can’t stave off Doom forever,” Finrod said at last, “But we can damned well give it our best shot.” He grinned at her, fierce and fey as ever he had been on the Ice, spending his own fire to warm and hearten their people in the darkness and the killing cold. Galadriel smiled back, with the grim humour that had been her own inheritance from the Ice.
“We can,” she agreed. “Try not to die too soon, brother.”
“I will certainly do my best,” he said cheerfully, but when she only looked at him, he let fall the mask of Nargothrond’s merry-hearted King. “I will not run to meet my Doom before I must. And then it will count, I will make it count. This I promise you, little sister. And we will meet again. I promise that too.”
It would be a long time, with Darkness in between, and both of them in that moment of shared foresight knew it. But the end of their separate roads lay still in the future and in the here and now of Beleriand, they embraced one last time, and then Galadriel turned away and walked across the bridge.
She looked back once before the trees blocked her sight, and saw Finrod lift his hand in farewell. The serpent and flower device of his ring gleamed even in the thin light of dawn; their father’s own, given to Finrod on the other side of the Ice when Arafinwë’s children chose to defy Valar and Doom alike, and follow Nolofinwë to Middle-earth over the Ice.
. . . . .