Footsteps in Time
By Keiliss
Title: Footsteps in Time
Author Name: Keiliss
Contact Email: scrapcat21@gmail.com
Beta Name: Ilye elf
Main Characters: Celeborn/Galadriel
Rating: PG-13
Genre(s): romance/adventure ?
Word Count: 11, 120
Summary: Celeborn and Galadriel, the early years: from Doriath to Balar.
Original Request: Celeborn/Galadriel
Items/Rating Requested = before and first years of marriage
Part One
Balar
The sea lay moondark under the stars, the ebb and flow of the waves
strongest on this the harbour side of Círdan's house. Galadriel
impatiently pushed her hair back behind her ears and stared out into the
darkness.
Nothing.
The night lay serene despite the low wind that seemed to blow
wherever one was on Balar. It was filled with ordinary sounds: frogs,
night-stirring creatures, the sea. Nothing to explain the instinct that
had driven her from sleep and sent her outdoors in search of fresh air
and answers.
She had woken like this before, to the footsteps of history marching
across her life. She had watched brothers suffer and die, felt the loss
of friends. There had been births, too, nameless but potent, some filled
with menace, one a small, bright star of hope. But this time there had
been nothing, just deep, nameless foreboding and a sense of events too
close, too harsh.
"Your wrap. Anyone abroad at this hour would be shocked to find
you dressed like this."
His voice was low and deep, melodic with laughter, at one with her
heartbeat, with the breath flowing in and out. She had felt him before
she heard him. Confident hands draped a light, woolen wrap around her
before moving to rest easily on her shoulders as Celeborn stood behind
her looking out towards the sleeping dark of the shore.
"What happened?" he asked finally as she kept silent. She
moved closer, and he brought his arms round to circle her waist. She
rested her hands on his forearms and leaned her head back against him
with a sigh.
"Don't know," she admitted. "It was - I woke as though
someone had called me."
"No faces?" he asked carefully. "No voices?"
Celeborn had held her more than once through the aftermath of faces and
voices. One such vision had been instrumental in bringing them here.
This, though, seemed different. He held her closer, resting his cheek
against her hair as Galadriel shook her head slowly.
"Nothing. Not like the other times, no." She had told him
about Fingon's death weeks before news reached them of the defeat that
had taken the High King's life and passed the crown to yet another of
her kin, this time an absentee king in a hidden city. She had passed the
days after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears calmly, but with sad, quiet
eyes; she had become accustomed to loss.
"I'll make you some tea if you like?" he offered, although
he made no move to release her. Mîrant's herbal tea usually helped her
to relax after one of those incidents when worlds met and time and space
entwined.
"Not yet." Her eyes were still on the shore, her face
lifted to the cool, salt air. Celeborn never tried to understand her
gift; it was outside of his terms of reference. He knew horses and
trees, how to listen, how to command. He had learned about swords as
well as bows, he could chart a path from the stars, he understood the
needs of the land. He had his strengths, she had hers. There was no more
need for him to understand her Sight than for her to determine the
tension of a bow.
So it had been from the day of their first meeting, a sense of
completion, unshakeable, undeniable.
Doriath
Rumour of the wonders of Menegroth, of gardens made from precious
gems and of coloured lights dancing on filigreed stone, were a constant
source of umbrage to newly-arrived Noldorin princes denied entry into
the Guarded Realm within the Great Mother's girdle of protection. The
insult was only exacerbated by Elu Thingol's demand that the Noldor
content themselves with the unpopulated portions of Beleriand. The King,
they were informed by his envoys, was lord of all the land, and his
people's needs came before those of the interlopers who had arrived
loudly, bringing the new sky-lights in their wake.
Of all those who had crossed the sea into Exile, both amongst the
followers of Feanor and of Fingolfin, he decreed that only his brother
Olwë's grandchildren were to be allowed entrance into his fabled domain
Awe-inspiring to look upon though it might be, living there was
probably another matter entirely as Artanis discovered on her very first
visit. The approach was through deep forest protected by a girdle of
shimmering, misty otherness that came and went on the corner of vision
as she and Finrod passed through it. Strange, hidden pathways led to a
great, stony hill beyond a swift-flowing river, where huge doors stood
wide and incongruous.
Within lay a world part fantasy, part nightmare to guests raised
under another sky in an open city amongst the pristine beauty of Aman.
Colour was everywhere. Twinkling lamps on delicate brackets lit mosaics
and jewelled copies of the birds, flowers and forest creatures of the
world beyond. Painted murals and carvings adorned the walls, the floors
were set with small white pebbles, while doorways hid behind gossamer
hangings woven in unlikely shades.
And there were people everywhere; Sindar, Silvan, staring, whispering
in their soft, bird-like tongue, smiling behind polite hands.
"Do they have nothing better to do?" Finrod had asked their
guide angrily on that first visit, resenting being stared at as though
he and his sister were some strangely exotic new species. The guide had
looked at him in amazement.
"They have not seen your like before," he had explained in
the careful Quenya he had learned in his dealings with Fëanor's sons.
"They wonder if your hair is dyed and if so with what - we do not
have its like here." He said this in a tone that suggested he had
his own questions on this matter. Brother and sister exchanged eloquent
glances and Artanis made a mental note to tie up her hair at the first
opportunity.
The King held court in his Pavilion, a structure that excelled for
bejeweled, brightly-hued extravagance. Courtiers lined the walls or
perched like birds on narrow stone benches, the hum of many voices
forming a backdrop that somehow complimented the surroundings. Elu
Thingol himself was a figure of imposing authority, tall and muscular,
with dark silver hair, grey eyes and an air of unquestioned importance.
He wore more jewellery than either of them had ever seen on one person.
When they bowed their heads in a manner suitable when greeting a kinsman
there was a low gasp from the assembled courtiers, and it occurred to
Artanis that there had been no-one before them to dispute his supremacy.
No-one but Morgoth.
They were greeted though not offered seats and had then to endure a
litany of questions: about their parents, their grandparents, about the
strange lights in the sky which had superceded the soft star-glow to
which the people of Beleriand were accustomed, about the Princes they
journeyed with and those who had arrived ahead of them with drawn swords
and a blazing hatred for the Dark One.
They were still making their careful answers when a sudden stir
amongst the courtiers followed by utter silence alerted them to the
arrival of the Maia. She moved like a shadow across the sun, small,
dark-haired, graceful as flowing water. She seemed to glide up the three
steps to Thingol's throne, where she took her place on the seat that had
stood conspicuously vacant beside his. The newcomers needed no-one to
tell them that this was Melian, Queen of Doriath.
She drew her mantle about her, settled folds of cloth, then looked at
them out of unlikely moss green eyes. "Far they come, yes,"
she said in a light, clear voice that seemed to move and dip on the air
of the cavern before falling away behind the stillness. "Far they
come and further still to go."
Brother and sister felt 'something' pass over them; a touch, light as
a child's finger to a butterfly wing, brushed the fire within. Finrod
jerked, startled, but Artanis kept still, permitting rather than
fighting the invasion. She had walked in forests with Yavanna and
recognised strength beyond her ability to resist. The touch withdrew,
then returned to her.
"New," the silvery voice said, etched bright with interest.
"Different to those born here. The light of the Great Ones has
shone on them. They smell Other."
Watching under her lashes, Artanis saw Thingol give the fey creature
a sidelong, almost uneasy look. So, she thought, there is one thing in
this kingdom over which he has no control. One person he cannot predict.
The green eyes returned to her as though she had spoken aloud.
Bird-curious, the exquisite head tilted to the side.
"You will stay," the Maia stated categorically. "We
will talk. You are not like our Children, you are Other. You will tell
me of the Undying lands, and of your king, and of the sky-lights you
brought here."
"Lady, those were not ours to bring," Finrod broke in,
concerned for his sister. "Those were set in the heavens by the
Mighty and are none of our doing."
The moss-hued eyes moved slowly to him and narrowed, and the siblings
instinctively drew closer together.
"It is the custom that the Queen be addressed as Daurnana,"
Thingol interrupted sharply. Turning to the Maia he said almost
placatingly, "They have told me the sky lights were signs from the
Shining Ones, a means to expose the works of the Enemy."
Melian looked up at him, her face warming into an adoring smile.
"The Night Walkers cannot come where we are, my King," she
said confidently. "We have no need of the Lights. Let them do what
they will, Doriath is safe. I have said it, and it is so."
-----
The sun rose and set; the years it measured turned. Melian, sensing
in Artanis the seeds of true power, was amused to take the Aman-born for
a student, teaching her how to look deep, how to spin webs of energy,
how to reach out to the fabric of Arda itself. In one thing only was
Melian constant; other than her near-obsession with Thingol her
attention waxed and waned, much like the moon for which she slowly
developed a grudging fondness. Sensing the Maia's interest was fey and
unpredictable, knowing that in time she would no longer retain it and
would find herself discarded, Artanis stayed and learned all she could.
The caverns of Menegroth were works of wonder, but Artanis had been
born in a place of open spaces, cool breezes, clear skies. The weight of
rock above her head oppressed. Some days the sense of confinement was
almost more than she could bear, but for a guest to walk alone in the
forest was frowned upon. Melian gave her tinkling laugh and said she
might wander off and become lost, whereas Thingol, more blunt and to the
point, stated that in the absence of her brothers she was his
responsibility, and as such she would remain where he could be certain
of her welfare.
Outside, below the walkway to the bridge, she found a flat rock that
overlooked the rushing river. There she went to sit when the walls of
Menegroth seemed to be squeezing closed around her. She had no friends
amongst the courtiers; Menegroth was a conservative and inward-looking
society - as, she supposed, had been parts of Tirion - and she sat in
their midst like a rare exotic bird with her golden plumage. Feeling
isolated, she sought her own company at those times when there was no
need for her to dance attendance on Melian. She soon learnt to revel in
private space away from the incessant twittering of voices pitched
higher than was the norm to her ears.
"Like a garland of light."
The voice wrapped around her with the soft warmth of the cloak Aegnor
had sent her, woven by Nandor from the fleece of small black and white
creatures that grazed on the hills about his new holding. She turned her
head slowly, and it was as though she knew what she would see before she
saw him. Hair like polished silver, a confident smile, a cloak of forest
green edged with sea-blue. And tall - she was tall herself and therefore
valued this. Their eyes met, and it was as though they had always known
one another.
"Your hair," he explained. "It looks as though someone
wove it from sunlight."
From anyone else it would have been hyperbole, but she knew it was no
more than his thought and smiled. He approached and she made space for
him. He sat down beside her on her rock and looked around.
"Caves are new to you," he said, knowing. "You miss
the forest."
"And the water," she admitted. "There was water
flowing beneath my bedroom window at home. I miss its voice."
"Tell me of home," he insisted. "Is it very different
to here? Are you sorry you left?"
She smiled at him, at the silver hair, the blue eyes, the strength,
at the aura of calm that surrounded him, so unlike her; a balance to her
lack of inner order. "Home is behind me," she told him.
"I came here to make a new one."
"Not in Menegroth though," he observed, reaching a cautious
finger to touch a tress more lightly than the Maia had touched her fea.
"But we can begin here. My name is Celeborn, Elu Thingol is my
grandfather's brother."
"Hello, Celeborn the Wise," she responded nodding, her
smile in her eyes. "Yes, we begin here."
-----
Time passed, but not as before. Life became full, almost complete.
Artanis studied what and when Melian chose to teach her, and the rest of
her time was spent with Celeborn. Kin to the King and a distant cousin
to Artanis herself, there could be no objection to her exploring the
forest beyond the confines of Menegroth in his company, and explore they
did.
He showed her trickling streams dancing over steps of natural stone,
led her down secret paths to the groves and thickets dear to his heart.
She met those of his friends and kindred who lived above ground, secure
within the Great Mother's girdle. They rode, he taught her to climb
trees so that he could show her Doriath from on high, they swam in cool,
rushing water. There were kisses, and more than kisses; heated, hungry
embraces, release offered by willing fingers, hands and mouths. They
abstained only from the last, the final union; it would happen in its
own time, when the tide of their loving drew them to the next wave's
crest. This final joining was sacred, entwining hrondo and fea and not
to be approached lightly.
Her brothers visited often, keeping watch over her welfare, uncertain
of this Sindarin Prince from whom she seemed inseparable. Then came the
final visit, with Elu Thingol demanding to know the truth of rumours
brought to him by Círdan of the Falas of the true reasons for the
return of the Noldor. Angrod it was who answered him, offering the full
tale which Artanis had avoided when Melian had casually asked why the
New Elves had chosen to leave the Undying Lands for the imperfections of
Ennor. Melian lacked curiosity to pursue the topic, her dragonfly favour
easily diverted elsewhere, but Thingol was not so easily turned aside
from matters relating to his brother's welfare. When the truth finally
lay exposed his rage was immense, causing even Melian to quail at its
force.
The upshot was clear and uncompromising: the tongue of the Exiles
would be heard no more within the boundaries of Beleriand, and none of
the Aman-born, including his blood kin, would ever again set foot within
Doriath for fear that the blood-lust of the Noldor might contaminate his
people.
"We can go to Finrod," Celeborn told Artanis as she began
packing her few possessions. "Nargothrond is an easy ride from
Doriath and anyway, he is the one nearest to your heart. He has his
doubts about me, but in time he will see that our place is
together."
"He is delving a cavern home to rival this one," she told
him, carefully wrapping a collection of tiny glass figurines - a gift
from Luthien to mark Thingol's latest festival, the turning of the year.
"Aegnor would be the better choice - high lands, a wide sky, the
scent of growing things on the air."
There was no discussion; if she had to leave, so would he. Had their
situations been reversed, she would have done the same.
"It is a hard thing, to be told to give up your mother
tongue," she said quietly, folding delicate cloth with careful
hands. "Even our names reflect its use. What would he have us do?
Take new names, cast off those gifted by our parents?"
"Nerwen, Man-maiden," Celeborn responded teasingly,
collecting slippers in pairs and placing them in a woven bag.
"Over-tall though quite attractive in a very Noldorin way." He
ducked the threatened blow, laughing. "Alatáriel is who you have
been to me since we met. Or Galadriel, as my niece Nimloth calls you. It
fits you, I think - gives you dignity."
She snorted and elbowed him inelegantly. The last born, the only girl
in a tribe of boys, dignity was still a thing she needed to remind
herself of.
-----
Despite the ban, Artanis was not required to leave Menegroth. Her
interests threatened, Melian waited until Elu Thingol's rage had
subsided and then, with sweet words and tender looks, pleaded to be
allowed to keep her student. With a practicality normally foreign to
her, she pointed out that Eärwen's children had taken no part in the
shedding of inappropriate blood. Furthermore, had they borne arms at all
it would have been in defense of their mother's people. Her reasoning
was unusually clear and succinct, including a reminder that, as a
female, Artanis would have been unarmed. Melian had no idea if this held
true for the New Elves from beyond the sea, but it was a telling
argument and she pressed it home ruthlessly, all loving smiles and
sensual touches.
Predictably, Elu Thingol relented. After a long night of searing
eroticism, he emerged from his chambers to declare that Artanis,
daughter of Finarfin, would after all be permitted to remain in Doriath.
Later that day his great-nephew pleased him by offering the news that,
to honour his decree, the Noldor Princess had decided that henceforth
she would be known by a new, Sindarin name: Galadriel.
-----
While the years passed calmly under the trees, beyond Doriath the
world continued in turmoil. The great dragon Glaurung came forth with
fire and terror, but he was still young, weak enough to be driven back
to Angband to heal and grow. An uneasy peace ensued, giving the Noldor
time for pursuits other than warfare. For Galadriel life went on as
before, although she now travelled regularly beyond the boundaries of
Doriath to visit with her forbidden kin. Celeborn seldom shared these
excursions, not wishing to intrude on time shared with her brothers and
old friends. When she returned, bearing small, cunningly crafted gifts
for his family and the convoluted gossip of the Noldorin factions, it
was notable that it took several days before her grasp on Sindarin was
once more fluent. Celeborn, who knew that amongst the Noldor Princes the
High Tongue was spoken freely, ached for her need to cast off something
so much a part of who she was.
Once Finrod settled in Nargothrond, a short journey from Doriath, her
visits became frequent. In truth she exchanged one cave dwelling for
another, but the ride exhilarated her and the wind blew in her face
unhindered by trees. Also, those dwelling in Nargothrond were more
Noldor than Sindar, and many were old acquaintances, allowing her to
take her ease and be once more the Artanis of childhood. The adventure
she had craved and had thought to find on the far shore had proved
illusory; she was more confined than she had ever been in the years in
Tirion.
After one such visit she retuned full of excitement at a tale her
brother had told her and which she had at first dismissed as Finrod
teasing her as had been his wont when they were children.
"Long haired, bearded, with speech that is strange to the ear.
Their bodies are covered with fine hairs, he said," she told
Celeborn, her eyes shining. "We heard talk of how one day there
would be a new race, the Secondborn, short lived and fragile but dear to
the One. This must surely be them."
"Where will they live? And who will care for them? Their needs
are outside of our knowledge - how could we guide such beings?"
Celeborn asked with the typical Sindarin urge to nurture young, growing
things.
She blinked. "I imagine they will care for one another? As to
where they will live - he wants them to settle hereabouts - they will be
safer than in the wild." As ever, she was the final word in Noldor
practicality. She smiled wickedly. "He even sent an envoy here to
the king, asking his wisdom in this matter. That should butter him up
sufficiently." She lay back with her head in his lap and toyed with
a lock of his hair, her eyes wistful. "I would love to see them.
They sound - fascinating."
Celeborn tapped her nose lightly. "Be careful, you grow more
like the Daurnana by the day - curious as ten squirrels. Perhaps we will
go and look for them some time, then. Easy enough if they settle near
Doriath."
"They couldn't pass the Girdle, of course," she mused, her
thoughts running along where they might live, how their settlements
might look, what their customs could be like. "No member of the
Secondborn could set foot in Doriath."
As she spoke she shuddered, the skin crawling on her body and he
looked down at her in alarm. Her sea-blue eyes closed briefly, and when
they opened they held a shadow. "Perhaps some will come here,"
she said more quietly. "But there is the whisper of great events
attached to that thought."
"Leave it then," he told her briskly. The more time she
spent with Melian, the more frequent these unsettling moments of
precognition became. "When the time comes is time enough. Let it
be. Come, sit up and kiss me. I have been three long months without
you."
Laughing and stretching, she wriggled with exaggerated sensuality,
making them both smile. Direct and open, to play the coquette was never
her way. She sat up and took his face between her long, cool hands.
"Celeborn the Wise, indeed," she said, leaning forward to
place a light kiss on his lips. "Very well - I will leave it. The
future will arrive when it does - no point in living it in
advance."
"None at all," he agreed. "I can find better things
for us to do with the here and now. Come, I will show you."
-----
The future came as it always does, but it did not find Galadriel
waiting for it in Doriath. Three hundred and twenty years after
Fingolfin set foot on the shore of Middle-earth and his host greeted the
first rising of the moon with trumpet calls, Elu Thingol called his
brother's grandson to have private discourse with him and his closest
advisors. Melian was notably absent, engaged in pursuits the nature of
which were unclear even to her lord. Whatever they were, they kept her
busy and uninvolved in the discussion.
After, Celeborn did as he had done almost from the day they met: he
went in search of Galadriel to share his news and hear her opinion.
"But - you say no-one lives there? There must be a reason for
that surely, some fault in the place itself."
Celeborn shook his head. They were sitting outside on 'their' rock,
watching the trees reflected in the water, autumn leaves staining the
crystal clarity with bright, warm shades. This was Galadriel's favourite
time of the year; she loved the colours and the crispness in the air.
"No-one has ever travelled far enough south to find out. For all we
know, there might be Nandor living there. Perhaps," with a sidelong
smile at her, knowing what would pique her interest, "Perhaps your
brother's Secondborn have found their way there."
She gave an unladylike snort at the transparent attempt.
"Perhaps. Perhaps horses with horns. Perhaps chickens the size of
eagles? Seriously - why? Why do this?"
Celeborn looked out over the forest and then, his voice low, said,
"Because Elu Thingol is old and wise and knows that the current
peace is no more than a respite, that once the firedrake has its full
strength the Enemy will come upon us all with warfare. His main interest
lies with your kindred, certainly, but his eye will surely turn this way
again. Doriath stands strong and guarded, but the Great Mother is Maiar.
Morgoth - Morgoth was one of the Shining Ones. The King wishes a haven
beyond the battlefields should the need arise."
While he spoke Galadriel felt the air around them to make certain
that no-one gifted sensed the import of his words. Melian was not the
only one who disliked the outside world and saw no need for Doriath to
look beyond the borders she had set down. She said nothing of this to
Celeborn, however. When he had finished, all she asked was, "How
many of us, and when do we leave?"
-----
Melian was predictably furious although she vented her anger with
care, not wishing a confrontation with her lord. To please him she had
made his forest secure from all danger, even going so far as to place a
girdle of mists and forgetfulness around it to assuage his fear of
discovery by the Dark One who ruled in the north. She saw no need for a
southern lair, suspecting that in time Thingol might feel its lure and
be tempted to leave this place - and her.
"She says I cannot go. It is unfitting for an unattached female
and the king's guest to travel with colonists and warriors."
Galadriel informed Celeborn dryly at the end of a recital of Melian's
objections. "For the rest, I think the King will withstand her,
though your numbers might be reduced. My presence though..." Her
face was worried, eyes darkened to sea green, her mouth severe.
"Your brother would give his permission, surely?" Celeborn
asked, looking up from the inadequate map he was studying. "Nothing
more would be necessary."
It was unthinkable to either that she remain here while he left on a
mission that could take hundreds of years to complete, with at least as
much time before he could justify a return to Menegroth to offer his
personal report.
"I... have no idea," she admitted honestly. Finrod was glad
she was safe in Doriath and had no part in the risks faced daily by the
Noldor in a mainly hostile world. Her brothers were also, she knew,
relieved that she was taking no part in the eternal politics that wove
through their lives. However, none of them approved her closeness to
Thingol's kinsman, and there were regular comments about 'finding a
suitable match amongst our own kind' when she ventured out on one of her
visits. It was never discussed, but she knew that Celeborn, too, faced
resistance to his choice of a landless Exile.
They sat quietly for a while, as quiet as it was possible to be in
Doriath. Cave dwelling meant little privacy, day and night the sounds of
voices and footsteps were a fact of life. Finally he said, "Well, I
suppose if we were bound, no-one could say much more?"
She quirked an eyebrow at him. "As in - together for eternity,
before witnesses?"
He put the map aside and turned to her quizzically. "How would
that be for you?"
"Well, I always assumed we would eventually - I just never gave
it much thought before," she confessed, trying to get a final look
at the diagram of lines and open spaces. Far too many open spaces she
suspected, designating the unknown.
"But the idea doesn't - displease you?" Light blue eyes
studied her, serious now, waiting.
Her eyes met his, equally serious, then she moved into his
ever-welcoming arms chuckling softly. "If you truly deserved the
title of Celeborn the Wise you would know the answer to that without
asking. No, it does not displease me. Not at all. I have been waiting
all my life for you to ask."
-----
They exchanged rings with the King and Queen of Doriath as witness.
Galadriel's brothers were all present; Elu Thingol had given permission
for them to enter the Guarded Realm for the occasion. Both the laws of
the Noldor and the customs of the Sindar required that the bride's
kindred be present and honoured. The ceremony took place in the Pavilion
itself before the assembled nobility of Doriath under a canopy of
flowers. Melian left while the promises were still being exchanged. Her
pupil had rejected her, and in the strange depths of her unknowable mind
it was already as though Galadriel had never been.
Music played, dancing commenced. As soon as it was decent to do so,
Celeborn collected his wife and together they took leave of her brothers
who would travel back through the forest once the King's health had been
drunk.
"Pass by Nargothrond when you leave," Finrod insisted, all
golden hair and warm smiles, his arm around his sister's shoulders but
his eyes on her mate. His brothers, having loudly toasted the new
addition to the family, added their voices to his. They would pause at
Nargothrond, too, before continuing on to their own lands. "Who can
tell when next we will all have a chance to meet? Times are uncertain,
and your journey takes you far from these lands."
Galadriel was quiet as they traversed passageways to reach her rooms,
further from the main living area, more private and their usual choice
when they wished to spend time alone. There was no point in finding new
accommodation - they would spend only the first few weeks of their
marriage in Doriath before taking to the road. When the door curtain
fell closed behind them, he looked at her seriously.
"What?" he asked.
Her eyes met his. "I felt - I felt I might never see him
again," she said in a small, thin voice. "All of them.
Probably no more than the fear of us being so far apart, I know,
but..."
"A few hundred years are as nothing to our kind," he told
her gently, eager to avoid premonitions of gloom on this of all nights.
"You mistake fear of separation for loss, nothing more. They will
be here when you return - and perhaps a few young ones with hair of
Vanyar gold, too." He would not be sorry to get her away from
Melian's influence. Her instincts had taken a morbid turn of late.
She shook her head sadly, her eyes shadowed. "Their lines end
here, I think. I can feel it on my skin, I..."
"Not tonight," he interrupted firmly, lifting her into his
arms and carrying her to the bed. They were of similar height, he
stumbled, almost dropping her, and they fell together laughing. "
The future can follow in its own time," he told her, leaning over
as she lay in her wedding finery, her hair spread out across the pillows
like silver-shot gold silk. "This time belongs to us."
Their union was all either of them had imagined it could be, soft
touches and tender kisses, worshipping one another with mouths, eyes,
the gift of touch. And finally a joining that was more natural than
breath, more obviously right than anything either of them had ever
dreamed possible. They drowned in one another, came up for air laughing
with joy, sank back down into passion's sea. Their hearts had been one
from the day they first met beside the river, and now body and soul
followed suit.
Very much later, lying drowsing in his arms, Galadriel murmured,
"We should have done this long ago. This was not one of your better
ideas, Celeborn the Wise. It was your best."
-----
Part Two
Taur-im-Duinath
The journey south lasted several moon cycles. Celeborn and Galadriel
left before the main party to spend a week in Nargothrond where she
could introduce her mate to the many friends who had not yet had an
opportunity to meet him. In answer to queries about the haste of the
binding and the lack of the traditional year of waiting beforehand, she
merely laughed and explained that there had been nothing for them to
decide or to consider, therefore no need to wait. The joy in her eyes
silenced any further questions.
She spent the night before they left with her family. Aegnor and
Angrod had waited for her in Nargothrond, and Angrod's son Orodreth had
remained there during the binding. He had just taken a wife himself, a
young Sindarin maid from the Falas. Galadriel liked her immediately and
wished they could have met sooner. Orodreth and his father had a history
of unease, and he had made his home with Finrod, as had another
dissatisfied son, Celebrimbor son of Curufin. He had his grandfather's
curiosity and sense for beauty but lacked Fëanor's ego. He and
Galadriel got on well, although Celeborn harboured suspicions towards
all who shared the Kinslayer's blood.
They took their leave at dawn, at that time when the sky was no
longer dark nor yet light. They crossed the river at the secret place
known only to the inhabitants of Nargothrond and a very few others and,
retrieving their waiting horses, set off to begin their married life
under foreign trees. Galadriel looked back over her shoulder until the
crossing was out of sight. She said nothing to Celeborn, but she knew
soul-deep that she would never see her brothers again.
-----
They crossed the Andram at the Gap, forded rivers and endured bare,
open plains. Even under the current peace no place knew true safety,
although their number was such that none of the wandering servants of
the Enemy thought to confront them. They met no-one save for bands of
wandering Avari who needed little coaxing to share a meal, but who had
nothing to tell them of the southlands beyond the fact that there were
trees and that where the trees ended the dry-lands began. At one point
seabirds, further inland than was their norm, made Celeborn contemplate
seeking out Cirdan, but their route kept them inland and he let the
impulse pass.
The journey gave them time to get to know one another better. They
travelled slowly to allow for the pace of the wagons and those elves
with horses chose to walk rather than ride. Although she had a fine
horse, Finrod's parting gift, Galadriel preferred to be amongst the
walkers, feeling the earth beneath her feet as she learnt the moods and
fancies of Ennor. She had been on the Hither Shore for over three
hundred years, but most of them had been spent in Doriath, within the
confines of Menegroth. For her this was the beginning of the adventure
she had sought when she chose to follow her brothers and uncle rather
than turn back with her father on the brink of the Helcaraxë.
The travellers rested in the heat of the day, taking a meal in the
late afternoon, and then went on their way beneath the stars, something
that still felt more natural to all of Elvenkind. Galadriel gloried in
the sun's warmth and its golden light, but she never quite managed to
persuade Celeborn to abandon his love for the night's softness.
Eventually they reached the treeline of a forest that stretched on as
far as the eye could see, or at least so said the first scouts. Celeborn,
climbing a tree to confirm this for himself, estimated their new home
might be larger even than Doriath. Even when approached by Silvan folk
with a long love for branch and leaf, the trees were strange and quiet;
he wondered if they had ever encountered elves before.
Eight days' journey into the midst of the forest brought them to a
broad clearing beside which bubbled a fierce-flowing spring. There was
consultation, discussion, a few brief arguments, and finally they
decided that this would be a good place for their first settlement.
Edenbar they called it - the New Home. Celeborn sent out armed patrols
in all directions to see if any threat could be discovered, and while
they waited for word, wood was collected for shelters and a central fire
pit dug for cooking. Unless some place vastly more amenable were
discovered soon, it was generally held that this would be their home,
the heart of the southern haven.
As soon as they were settled a report of their journey with a
description of their destination was sent to back Elu Thingol, carried
by three of their number who had had second thoughts and whose hearts
longed for home and kin. Months later a pair of adventurous young elves
arrived back in their stead. They carried the king's blessing and
instructions that Celeborn refrain from overmuch contact with the Dark
Elves believed to be living on the western fringes of the great wooded
expanse. He expressed no interest in the little village of mortals that
had been discovered further east. Galadriel was fascinated by them, but
they regarded the elves with such superstitious awe that Celeborn
instructed they be left strictly alone unless they were in need of
urgent aid.
Galadriel spent days in the woods, watching them while being careful
to evade their notice. In those early days she developed a fondness for
the race that would never leave her. Ever the dutiful wife however, and
understanding how vital it was that the leader's authority be respected
by all, she heeded Celeborn's instruction and avoided direct contact.
Life under the trees in a place not wrapped around by mists suited her
well; she was happy, in love, and felt more at peace than at any time in
her adult life.
One morning Celeborn found her turning in a circle, golden hair
flying, her head thrown back as she smiled up at the trees and the blue
summer sky visible between the leaves.
"What's this?" he asked, laughing at her infectious joy.
"I always said sunlight could be a dangerous thing - does it have
such a strong effect?"
She stopped turning to smile at him, her eyes alight with pleasure.
"I dreamt of a star," she said happily. "A candle was
lit, something good came into the world. I have no idea what or where,
but I can feel another strand waiting to touch my life. I came out to
welcome the sun and I suddenly realised how free we are here." She
stepped into his arms smiling, her hands resting palms flat against his
chest. "This I promise you," she declared, determination
showing behind the joy. "Never and for no-one will I ever, ever
again live in a cave."
In the north in Nargothrond, Orodreth's Sindarin wife had just given
birth to a son. Looking deep into the babe's clear blue eyes, intuition
spoke to her and, minor royal though he was, the name she gave him was
one that would fit a king: Gil-galad, Star of Splendour.
Elu Thingol had also sent word that he wished the settlers to search
out a good, fortified hill below which to delve a more secure home. None
such existed in the immediate vicinity and Celeborn, wishing to give the
little community time to find its feet, had kept this information to
himself. Watching Galadriel now, he was certain he had taken the right
decision.
-----
No-one could say with certainty when things began to go wrong. Small
matters to begin with, barely worth note other than as anomalies: there
were fewer birds, rabbits, a small but regular part of their diet,
became scarce. The ice-cool spring, which had originally flowed fast and
clear, slowed to a trickle even though there was more rain than before
and the air felt chill and damp. More worrisome, trees that had begun to
respond to the elves' presence withdrew once more into themselves. Many
of the settlers became afflicted with a form of melancholy and went
about their duties with downcast eyes and slow steps.
"Too alien to Doriath," was Galadriel's explanation as she
and Celeborn sat one morning watching a scene that had previously been
filled with talk and good-natured laughter. Now, water was collected,
leaves were swept in something close to silence, and the singing that
had been part of their day was stilled. "They miss the security of
Menegroth, the sense of the Great Mother's presence throughout Doriath.
Here - they feel alone, I think. You and I are still untried, not centre
enough for them."
He nodded. Although a child of the Guarded Realm himself, he had
slowly reached similar conclusions. "What about the birds?" he
asked finally. "Every animal we found when first we arrived has
either crept away or their numbers have dramatically reduced. And it has
been months since our patrols met any of the Avari crossing this place
they call the World Wood - and those that did were all travelling
south."
She shook her head sadly. "There is a shadow over all the
world," she told him, resting her hand on his - though whether to
give or receive comfort was not clear. "I hear it on the wind, I
feel it in the earth. Nature is holding its breath." More softly
she added, "The shadow spreads from the North. I fear for my
people."
-----
And then the Secondborn began to die. The patrols reported their
meagre crops had begun failing and the water from the small river that
passed their village had turned muddy, contaminated by a rock slide
further upstream. The old were the first affected, a thing to be
expected in any race lacking the life of the Eldar. The next to succumb
were the children. Galadriel, who had compromised Celeborn's
instructions to the extent of occasionally playing with the little ones
when they ventured into the forest to pick berries, was heart broken.
Each little form that was laid to rest in the burial place at the turn
of the river tore at her with feelings of guilt and helplessness.
The elves shared what they could of their forest gleanings, leaving
gifts at the edge of the village, but there was precious little to
share. The burial place grew, several new markers being added each cycle
of the moon. Finally the patrolling warriors reported that those few
that remained had packed what was still of value to them and vanished
into the forest, moving south as had the Avari before them.
One night a dream came to Galadriel, vivid, bright with sound and
colour - leaping flames and flowing lava, the unmistakable clash of
fighting, elven voices raised in battle anthem, the sky-borne roar as
the Dragon passed across her vision. She woke crying and trembling to
Celeborn's insistent shaking, but wakefulness brought no respite; for
the next few days she walked with a face upon which horror was
deep-etched, watching from afar as the siege of Angband was broken in
the cataclysm that would be known down history as the Battle of Sudden
Flame.
She felt Aegnor and Angrod die one by one, falling to the swords of
the enemy in desperate battle, and her grief as she shared their death
throes chilled Celeborn's blood. He alone would come near her at that
time; she appeared bereft of her senses and the elves from Doriath, who
admitted to no stake in the great battles being waged far in the north,
kept their distance from her. Amongst themselves they said that the
Noldor had brought it upon themselves, attempting to pen the unpenable.
Far rather be like Elu Thingol; retreat to a safe place and let the
darkness go past.
By the time Fingolfin made his final journey, spurred on by rage and
desperation, the worst of her anguish had abated. She walked with her
father's brother in spirit as he sought the Enemy in his own land, faced
him, fought and died. She sat through it all with her back resting
straight against a tree trunk, tears streaming down her face. Celeborn
knelt beside her holding her hand, but she looked past and through him
as she watched the passing of her king.
After the Dagor Bragollach, the shadow on the forest seemed deeper.
Slowly at first, then in increasing numbers, the settlers from Doriath
began to speak of home. Celeborn insisted they first send word to Elu
Thingol to discover his will in this matter, but privately Galadriel,
whose eyes no longer had the clear unshaded depths of former times, said
to him, "They have lived most of their lives under Melian's
protection, within the fences of Doriath. This place was always alien to
them, frighteningly open. So much has happened, my love. Perhaps it is
time to think about turning for home."
They were sitting near the sullen spring, the forest around them
almost silent save for the occasional bird call. So few birds now.
Celeborn took a lock of her hair and let it slide across his fingers
gently. After her mourning, he was careful of her as though with someone
who had suffered physical wounds. "I have lived my life in Doriath,
my heart, and this place gave me joy. Why would I be the only one?"
She shook her head. "You were prepared to look at it as a new
place, a new way to live. I think they really wanted a second Doriath -
as your king did too."
He noted her use of the term 'your king'. Previously her loyalty had
wavered between her people and her kindred by marriage, but no longer.
"Perhaps he did," Celeborn said on a sigh. He had never
told anyone about the order to dig caves. He wondered how much
difference it would have made had he complied and sent the patrols out
in search of fortifiable hills rather than potential allies. No matter
now, the time for that was past. "We will give it five more
years," he told her finally, the figure coming unbidden as a
comfortable space. "Then we will decide. All of us."
-----
Despite the evidence of his eyes, Celeborn stuck stubbornly to the
deadline he had set. Long before the five years were up he was sending
foraging parties far afield in search of food and to bring back water to
supplement the meagre trickle from the spring. The trees drooped, dull,
insensate, the forest became a dark, cheerless place even in full
daylight. They spent the final weeks slowly dismantling the shelters and
rolling up the woven screens lovingly ornamented in the days when the
forest had been a new friend. Galadriel wordlessly kept one such screen.
Made by her own hand, she who disliked weaving, it depicted a group of
mortal children playing in a forest glade.
The waiting time had passed quietly for her. When a messenger from
Doriath finally arrived to see if they still lived, he brought a letter
from Finrod Felagund to his sister, which the Noldo had begged be
delivered when chance allowed. She had no need to break the seal to know
all the news that touched her personally, but she opened it and read,
sharing with her mate and anyone else who had an interest the full story
of Morgoth's assault and the efforts of the Noldor in the face of
disaster. Fingon was now High King, a prospect that made her twitch an
eyebrow, though even to Celeborn she made no mention of her foreboding
at so much authority in the hands of one too easily swayed by grim,
eternally driven Maedhros.
She wrote back in turn, painting a picture of exaggerated optimism
regarding both the settlement and her life. "No need to worry
him," she told Celeborn when she admitted to her small deception -
there were no secrets between them. "He has enough to worry about,
why add to his concerns?"
When the appointed day arrived they left at first light, dousing the
coals in the fire pit for the first time since their arrival. There was
no thought of travelling by moonlight this time; even in broad daylight
the forest made them uneasy. Following his scouts' advice, Celeborn led
them north and west. They walked, rested, walked further, the belongings
they had salvaged packed upon the horses' willing backs. When the trees
finally began to thin, decisions had to be taken. They camped on a hill
from where they could see the land that lay under the authority of
Cirdan, Lord of the Falas falling away to the sea. Before them the
Sirion wound its turbulent way, offering no crossing place this close to
the estuary.
There was a divide amongst the former colonists; those wanting to
take the straight route home through the Gap of Andram to Doriath and
those who wished to find a way across the Sirion and then tarry along
the coast, perhaps travelling as far as the great Telerin city of
Eglarest. The predominant view was presented by Arasdínen, whose
scouting party had set the route they had followed through the forest.
"If we move away from the river as we continue north, we will
traverse the Gap and reach Doriath's borders with ease," he said.
"Reaching the coast, however, depends upon finding a way across the
Sirion. It might be an interesting excursion," he conceded, looking
around at the assembled faces, "But it might well add a year to our
journey. And when we finally turned for home, we would have to pass
through territory - not our own."
He carefully avoided looking in Galadriel's direction when he made
this veiled reference to the Noldor lands that stretched between the
coast and their final destination.
Elfaron, who had more of a pioneering spirit, said easily, "We
have been gone over a hundred and forty sun years, Arasdínen. What
difference will a few more make? I vote we follow the Lady to the shore.
Like her, I have a yen to see sunlight glittering upon the sea."
They always called her the Lady. No-one was quite sure where it had
began, but she never insisted on the rank that was hers by birth and
marriage. The Lady suited her far more, and she took it for her own.
Voices were raised, ideas exchanged, and Celeborn grew concerned as
the debate became heated. In truth, the decision to go in search of
Cirdan's cities had been a matter between himself and Galadriel. The
adventure would buy them time, preferable to following the straight
route home which would see her turn left for Nargothrond rather than
pass Doriath's borders. She loved Finrod dearly, and pausing to greet
him would be unremarkable - but Celeborn strongly suspected that, once
within Nargothrond's halls, she might refuse to leave.
"What of a compromise?"
Mîrant was the voice of calm in many a dispute, and Celeborn had
learned to value her common sense. Everyone had assumed he would be a
leader of unchallengeable authority, for such were the ways of Doriath,
but it went against his personal preference for discussion and
consensus. Galadriel had said more than once that the king made Feanor
look open and reasonable and Celeborn had privately agreed with her.
Debate, loud and occasionally acrimonious, had become the modus vivendi
in Edenbar.
Now he looked to Mîrant. "Share your thoughts with us, wise
one."
Through all this Galadriel sat silent beside him. Normally her voice
was raised as part of any discussion, because she had opinions about
almost everything, but in this matter, knowing her choice biased, she
had held her peace. Now she nodded encouragement. She was fond of
Mîrant who had spent long hours helping her to become more proficient
in homely crafts like weaving and sewing.
Mîrant smoothed down her robe and smiled around. "There are
some here who wish to see their home and their loved ones, and for whom
the waiting grows long... but there are others with a desire to see new
lands, meet new faces. Their wishes are of equal value." The murmur
of agreement that had greeted her first words fell away to silence.
"What I am suggesting is that we form two groups. One would follow
the straight road home, while Prince Celeborn would lead the other in
search of a way across the river."
"Surely it is the Prince's duty to lead us home? Let those who
wish for adventure choose another to lead them." The speaker had no
love for the prince's Noldor mate. Mîrant, anticipating, shook her head
as argument resumed.
"It would be strange," she said, raising her voice to be
heard clearly, "If the party that presented itself to Lord Cirdan
were headed by anyone less than our King's kinsman. It is a matter of
respect. By the will of the Shining Ones, all that those who travel home
will require of a leader is that he knows what to do about orcs or other
undesirables."
No-one, not even the most partisan elf in favour of an immediate and
speedy return home, could fault the logic of her suggestions. Celeborn
called a vote as had become his way, and there was no dissent. The elves
formed two groups, the larger of which would travel direct to Doriath.
Mîrant and Elfaron were part of the far smaller party that would seek
out the Lord of the Falas. After, they all sat talking through the
night, their last time together as a single, united community.
When dawn broke they divided horses and possessions, took in some
cases emotional leave one of the other, and set out. They walked
together for the first half day, then slowly diverged, the one group
turning true north, the other angling west. For a time there was much
calling back and forth - laughter, well wishes, last minute messages to
be carried home. Finally the distance became too great, and with final
waves each party turned to face their destination and moved on alone.
-----
"No, no, its fangs, NO!"
They had followed the Sirion for days, drawing ever closer to the
ocean. Celeborn was worried. There was no crossing point, certainly no
ford. The scouts he sent out reported that the land split broadly,
allowing the mighty river to empty into the ocean. Galadriel had no
suggestions to offer, which made him realise just how much he had come
to rely on her cool logic. She walked in silence, her eyes
inward-looking, and when he asked what ailed she made no answer beyond a
small, tired smile and a shake of the head. Sometimes whispers of other
times and places reached her, and he had learned to let her be until
they passed. Now, alone, he mulled over their options with concern. The
most likely choice was to turn east, hoping to find a place the river
could be breached, but that might take them too far inland to make the
search for Eglarest practical.
Sounds of an approaching horse heralded the return of the final
scout, Elfaron. The elf slid lightly from his mount's back and made his
way over to Celeborn. The line of walkers paused, waited.
"Nothing," he told Celeborn, shaking his head to the
hopeful faces. "But there is a village down by the shore. I could
see smoke and I think there are boats drawn up from the water. We could
approach them?"
"Elves?"
"That I cannot say, my Lord."
Celeborn was about to ask more - he never remembered what - when
Galadriel's scream split the air as she fell to the ground, her body
writhing. He raced to her side, pushing elves out of his way, ignoring
startled exclamations, and tried to take her into his arms, but she
twisted free with a strength belied by her slender build. All he could
do was attempt to keep her from hurting herself as she struggled,
fighting against an unseen enemy. Her words were unintelligible, her
eyes wide, staring, fixed on an invisible menace. Mîrant was a faint
voice in the background as she organised the rest of the party, telling
them to find shelter from the wind and open the afternoon's ration
early. She came and knelt beside him.
"My lord, what does she see? It is - some kind of fit?"
He shook his head grimly. Galadriel was frantic, her nails digging
into dirt, her head tossing back and forth, her hair dragging through
the sand. "This is like the other times, but worse. I have no idea
what she sees, how to help her..."
"She will harm herself." Concerned, Mîrant tried to hold
onto a flailing arm. Galadriel tore free, then followed through with a
blow that landed Mîrant on her back. Celeborn grabbed hold of his wife
and shook her, worry sinking into fear. The nights during the war when
her fea had witnessed her brothers' deaths had left him terrified that
one day something would happen and she might not be able to come back.
This - this was far worse than then. Crying out hoarsely, she twisted
and struggled in his grasp, her face sweat-streaked, her lips drawn back
in a snarl. Almost breaking loose, she lunged for his throat and on
instinct he drew back his hand and slapped her, a blow so harsh it stung
his palm.
For a moment there was total silence broken only by the call of
seabirds, then Galadriel blinked and stared at him, finally seeing him.
Celeborn paused, then carefully put his arms around her. As her head
slowly began to droop, he drew her close.
Far in the north on the island once known as Tol Sirion, Finrod
Felagund lost his unequal battle against the werewolf, his golden light
slipping into the place of darkness beyond which lay Lord Námo's halls.
Of all the bright-haired children of Finarfin and Eärwen, only their
daughter remained.
"Findaráto?" she breathed, the voice that had screamed and
raged now little more than a whisper. " Findaráto." Then she
subsided against Celeborn and the tears began.
------
He carried her, and they followed the plume of smoke. The shore
dwellers, busy smoking fish for the lean months, came out to watch their
approach, amazed. They turned out to be fishers from the village on the
other side of the estuary, elves owing allegiance to Cirdan. No, they
told Elfaron, they knew of no way across the river, no shelter other
than their own rough housing; shallow caves set in the cliffside. They
sent covert glances to the silver-haired lord, very like their own in
appearance, who stood grim-faced, the golden-haired female held almost
possessively in his arms. She was tall for one of her gender, taller
than any of their own mates, but he held her as though she were
feather-light.
Finally, after close questions as to their identity and destination,
the leader had a suggestion. After a glance at the lord from Doriath, he
decided rather to address it to Elfaron. "We have nothing here for
you, no more than shelter from the wind for the night," he
explained carefully, trying to match speech so that there would be no
misunderstandings. "Our village you can see over there across the
water..." He pointed. "We have food enough for ourselves,
little to share, no space for so many guests. But..." He took
Elfaron's arm, turned him to face the sea. "We could take you out
to the Island. It will mean several trips, but it can be done."
The landmass loomed against the sky, blue-green and distant. "An
hour, no more," he expanded, seeing the uncertain glance Elfaron
sent to his companions. "Lord Cirdan has warriors garrisoned there
to protect this part of the coast. The Strangers have people there too;
they build ships." He indicated the golden haired one as he spoke.
She would be one of them. What she did in this company was not for him
to ask. Normally her kind travelled in armed groups on tall horses and
kept to themselves.
"She needs shelter, somewhere warm and safe," Mîrant said
to Elfaron in an undertone. She looked out towards the island, then
across at Celeborn. He seemed to have heard nothing of the conversation,
but stood staring straight ahead, heedless of the wind blowing his hair.
"I think we should accept the offer, Elfaron. Either that or at
least try the village for overnight."
"The island," Celeborn said, the first time he had spoken
since he had lifted Galadriel into his arms and begun walking towards
the sea. "That would be Balar - holy land, a portion of Tol
Eressëa itself they say. The island will be a good place to rest."
Balar
The island had been the right choice. Once the warriors who met them
at the quayside had heard their story and noted Celeborn's faint
resemblance to Cirdan, including the tell-tale silver hair of the
Sindarin royal house, they were given food and shelter and bombarded
with questions. Galadriel was put to bed in the main room of the
commander's house, gladly vacated for such an unlikely guest. True,
there were Noldor on the island, on the western end, but none of them
had the famed golden hair denoting Vanya descent.
Days passed and Galadriel's mind healed, although she never lost the
memory of fangs sinking into her brother's flash. For her, neither Beren
nor his quest could ever be worth the cost. Cirdan, notified of their
presence, sent word that Elu Thingol's nephew and his people were
welcome to remain on Balar for as long as they wished, and offered the
use of his own small house for the prince and his lady. Galadriel turned
wide, pleading eyes to Celeborn, one of the few times since they had met
that she ever asked anything of him, and he nodded, no words being
necessary. He knew she could not yet pass the trail that led to
Nargothrond, that the road north was currently more than her heart could
bear.
The Noldor shipbuilders, Turgon's people, came to pay their respects
to Finarfin's daughter, offering her their hospitality, but she thanked
them and chose to remain in Círdan's small but comfortable house. Many
of their followers chose to take ship back to the mainland and adventure
along the shore, still with a mind to see Eglarest. Celeborn and
Galadriel remained on Balar with perhaps ten others, including Elfaron
and Mîrant who stood close to binding. He had found welcome amongst the
warriors manning this final watch station along the coast and she took
delight in the island, studying its plants and herbs. She had developed
a close attachment to Galadriel; if the Lady chose to remain, she told
her prospective mate, so would she.
Now, on a night in the four hundred and seventy-second year after the
return of the Noldor to Endor, Celeborn of Doriath and Galadriel, once
known as Artanis of Tirion, stood together staring across the sea at
land etched dark against the night sky. It was Celeborn who first saw
what they seemed to have been waiting for, and he moved his head forward
to rest his chin on her shoulder. "Over there to the left," he
said. "Lights. Torches, I think."
She looked where he pointed and they watched a wavering line of tiny
lights appear along the shore, twinkling distantly like wind-tossed
stars. "Walkers, not riders," she commented. "Too slow.
But so many..."
"Too many," he agreed grimly. "Something terrible has
happened."
Galadriel moved very slightly. "Again."
They waited through the night as though keeping vigil over the
flickering snake of light. When Celeborn finally went to make tea, he
found Mîrant in the kitchen ahead of him. Slowly, first the garrison,
then the household, then the rest of the residents of the small harbour
town roused and came out of their homes to watch the approach of dread;
the sheer number of torches spoke for themselves.
The sky was light when the first boats set sail from the village. By
this time Galadriel had given instructions for food to be prepared and
for those with healing skills to make ready to cross the water. On
Celeborn's instructions the island's boats were not launched and the
warriors waited on full alert until they knew who and what they had to
deal with. The identity of the first person to disembark on the quayside
told its own story. Tall, broad shouldered, his silver hair fastened
back in a single, practical braid, his clothes soot-blackened, torn, and
stained with what could only be blood, Cirdan of the Falas greeted his
Dorian kinsman with a tired nod. His pale blue eyes assessed the
reception with something like relief: the warriors drawn up in good
order, food in baskets, a small group of elves, mainly female, with the
tools of the healer's trade.
"Eglarest?" Celeborn asked briefly.
"And Brithombar." Círdan's voice was rough with weariness.
"We were overrun, there was no way to withstand them. The Noldor
act with scant unity now that Turgon holds the high kingship. The Dark
One's armies swept through their lands unhindered."
His eyes moved to Galadriel standing tight-lipped near Celeborn,
noting her lack of surprise at his words. While he was speaking a child
had disembarked and stood looking around curiously. Clear blue eyes
dominated a tired, dirt-streaked face, dark hair curled carelessly loose
about small shoulders. He was very young, not much above twenty. As he
drew level with Círdan, the lord glanced down, then back at Finarfin's
daughter.
"Your nephew Orodreth sent him to me for fostering. He sensed
the Falas would be safer than Nargothrond. Instinct seems to have failed
your line here." With a hand to the boy's back he urged him
forward. "Greet your aunt, Rodnor Gil-galad."
Out of all the pain and darkness that had overtaken their line,
something yet remained. A smile kindled in Galadriel's eyes and twitched
the corner of her mouth. "I know you, El-tithen," she said
softly. "I sensed your birth. Welcome home."
================
Daurnana = Great Mother
Edenbar = New Home
Mîrant = precious gift
Elfaron = star hunter
Arasdínen = silent deer
El-tithen = little star
