First Impressions
Disclaimer: Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate, not me. I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money by this.
Rating: PG.
Summary: A first meeting to be remembered for all the Ages. Fluffy Elrond/Celebrían ficlet.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Happy Birthday ESCAPISTONE!
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Celebrían padded softly through the corridors of Imladris, luxuriating in the warmth of her soft woolen gown. Soft drizzle had filled the air as they made their way through the foothills of the Misty Mountains and the dank chill of Khazad-dûm had never entirely left her bones. The Dwarves had been welcoming enough, 'twas true, for although they still held sharply to their old quarrels, long too were their memories of the kindness of her uncle. But for an Elf, a creature of the open skies, the echoing depths of the caverns had been strange indeed.
One corner of her mouth twitched upwards in amusement. 'Twas not as if she was accustomed to Imladris, either. Something about its lines, the graceful carvings on the pillars, jolted her nerves, though whether 'twas for good or ill she could say. 'Twas all so … very Noldorin, and something else besides, some echo of a dim memory locked in stone, which she could not quite grasp.
The elf-maiden shook her head. It was really quite remarkably foolish to dwell on architecture, albeit architecture which sent a dull thrill through her nerves, on this day of all days.
Adar. He was here; he was safe, and they were together again. There could have been no mistaking that silver mane, so alike her own in hue, as she peered through the drifting mists. Of course, if she had been in any doubt, the quickening pace of her normally impassive mother's horse would have dispelled it. Ai, but she had had not even the reassurance that her mother had, and long they had held each other, father and daughter, until they were soaked to the skin by both tears and rain.
Celeborn and Galadriel were together now, and Celebrían was free to wander the corridors of Imladris, although it was a queer sort of freedom, not to know anything or anyone, except the harassed-looking advisor who had shown them to their chambers, apologising profusely for the absence of his lord. The Master of Rivendell had left early that morn to inspect the boundaries, he explained, and was not expected back for hours.
Celebrían did not entirely believe him: her mother had been known to scare grown Elves half to death, and she would not be surprised if, apprised of their imminent arrival, he had fled from the house like g deer before the hunt.
Her lip curled slightly as she peered round the nearest door, but the scornful expression soon dissolved before her joy. A whole room of books, shelf after shelf. Quickly glancing around, she saw that the room was uninhabited and slipped through the door.
A large desk stood in one corner, strewn with a multitude of papers, two empty goblets holding everything in place. A book lay open on a map of the Vale of Anduin. Craning her neck, knowing that this was both unmaidenly and impolite, but too curious to stop herself, she saw that it was the Lay of Leithian, written out in a neat, angular script. Feeling even more guilty, she curled her fingers round the thick tome and lifted it out of her resting-place, savouring the rich, butter-smooth texture of the leather beneath her touch. 'Twas all too irresistible: warmth from the low fire crackling in the grate, a comfortingly heavy book in her hand and an entire library to herself. 'Twould not be prudent to disturb her parents anytime soon, and, if she wandered any more, she was in dire danger of losing her way and finding herself in the wine cellars.
Celebrían nodded swiftly, content with her justification, and glanced around for a suitable nook. Her father had always laughed affectionately at her predilection for reading in odd corners, but she found the snug places allowed her mind to ramble happily along the paths of imagination with no sense of the hurly-burly of everyday life. Admittedly, the linen closet had not been her best choice, but how was she, then but twenty years of age, to know that the door only opened from the outside, or that her candle would burn down so swiftly?
Her eyes alighted upon the deep window shelf, padded with worn scarlet cushions, in which the indentations of another body were still visible. Rain drummed on the thick glass, and it looked perfect for her purposes. With a grin, she crossed the room and hopped up onto the broad ledge. Immediately, something small and sharp-edged prodded her in the back. With a grimace, the elf-maiden fumbled behind her. It was an inkpot. Placing it carefully on the floor, she hugged her knees to her chest, and immersed herself in the tale.
The sun was westering fast, its rays burnishing the ragged clouds, as she reached Finrod Felagund's contest of song with Sauron. It was a bitter reminder of the ill afoot outside this tranquil valley, and she found her thoughts drifting to the lord who had disappeared so peremptorily.
Aye, one must think oneself either very grand or very lowly to take off into the hills. She could not help but think it to be the former. Gazing absent-mindedly into the distance, she toyed at a loose thread on her cuff. Aye, he would be grand and stern, one with a face of granite and a heart of stone, if she guessed rightly. Sallow features, pinched with self-importance and worn with an unnatural age, the way Galithlion, who courted her with such icy ardour, was. She imagined him striding through the corridors, barking orders at all and sundry, too certain of his own worth to do aught else. He was renowned as a counsellor of cool steel, and she could not see him in any other pose.
How appalled he would be to find a mere maiden in his library, for such I judge it.
With a muffled sound of mirth, she returned to her reading, the image firmly implanted in her mind.
So engrossed was she in the bittersweet love of Lúthien for Beren, she did not hear the soft tap of feet on the tiled floor. It was only as a shadow fell over the open book that she jumped, startled.
"Ai, Mandos, you scared me!" she exclaimed.
"I beg pardon, my lady." Suddenly remembering his manners, he swept her a bow. In truth, he had been equally unnerved by the silvered figure sitting at the window, gazing at the book as if there were naught else in Arda of interest. He had half-imagined himself asleep, but it was all too real, too solid. "I did not expect to find anyone here at this hour."
He took a step backwards, and Celebrían, twisting to appraise him, found her attention fixed. Tall and slim, with broad shoulders, over which fell a torrent of black hair, and a noble face, showing much of both sorrow and joy. But it was his eyes which caught her, made her lift one trembling hand to her throat. The silver of the first stars of evening, bright and brilliant, with melancholy humour lurking in their shadowed depths. He was attired for riding, in simple garb of muted colours, his black cloak cast carelessly back over one shoulder, his boots bespattered with mud. A sword hung at his side, no courtier's blade this, but the weapon of a warrior, yet the fingers which rested so casually atop it were slender and graceful, more befitting of a scholar than a battle-hardened fighter.
"I…I…" she stammered, too disconcerted to introduce herself. "I must apologise for my intrusion…"
"'Tis no intrusion." He smiled. "There should be books enough here for you to read throughout your stay, if you so wish."
"But will Lord Elrond mind terribly?" she inquired. "I had thought that he would not much like to find his library thus invaded…"
She thought she saw amused shock light his eyes and course across his face, but the next moment it was as if it had never been, and she dismissed it as a flight of fancy.
"Nay. I think that he would have no mind to set himself against your beauty."
"Gallant tease." Much to her horror, she found herself so much at ease in the presence of this youth who surely could number few more years than herself.
"'Tis no tease to speak the truth. However, it is nigh on time for the evening meal, and I should shock the House quite horrendously if I turned up looking little better than an orc. May I accompany you to your chambers, hiril?"
"Oh!" She was abashed. "I had not thought it was so late. The book…"
"They are intriguing things, are they not?"
"Quite. Such wonderful, terrible times they tell of…"
"More terrible than wonderful." He stiffened slightly.
"I am terribly sorry, hir. I did not mean to offend."
"No offence, merely old, old memories," he replied, deliberately relaxing.
"But I must certainly offend Lord Elrond if I do not make haste. I should imagine that he stands on ceremony, and rates his position as the confidante of the High King very highly," she confided, rising and brushing at her skirts.
"Maybe." Once again, that strange, enigmatic smile flitted across his kind face. "We are all slaves to a fortune greater than ourselves, are we not?"
But Celebrían had no time to ponder his odd words, for as he uttered them, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. She ducked her head to hide the blush raging in her cheeks under her silver tresses.
Really, 'tis foolishness to respond thus to the courtesy of a stranger, she upbraided herself.
But as he made his way sure-footedly through the corridors, she could not entirely quell the pounding of her heart.
"Well, I must bid you farewell for the time being." He paused on the lintel. And, as if he had made up his mind about something, he lifted her hand in both his and brushed his lips against it – so burning hot.
"F…farewell."
~*~
"What dream you of?" Galadriel asked, deftly fastening her daughter's stays.
"Oh, nothing much, naneth, only a book," she lied. Over the top of her bowed head, Celeborn raised his eyebrows at his wife.
"Lord Elrond has a great many books," he remarked innocently.
"Aye, but I do not think he would much appreciate my pawing over them," Celebrían muttered.
"We shall see, iell-nîn, we shall see."
~*~
The Great Hall of Imladris was thronged with folk as they entered, the younger lady twitching nervously at the silk of her gown. An imposing figure stood with his back to them, mantled in velvet of the deepest burgundy, a mithril circlet set atop his head. Lord Celeborn scowled at the sight of the bevy of surrounding him, until Galadriel shot him her most determined glare.
"I think we should make ourselves known to our host, herven."
They wended their way across the room, weaving between the massed crowd of both Men and Elves, receiving many nods and bows.
"Lord Elrond, may we present ourselves to you?" the silver-haired lord called quietly.
And he turned.
Celebrían resisted her impulse to flee, preferably all the way back to Lórinand.
How could I not have known? How could I not have noticed his mastery of the place?
It was the stranger from the library, yet there was a majesty and awe clinging about him now which there had not been – or rather, a radiance revealed.
"Oh."
"Mae govannen, Lady Celebrían." He was laughing at her, she was sure, his fingers lingering on her wrist as he took her hand.
"Mae govannen, Lord Elrond." She snapped a curt bob of her head.
How infuriatingly embarrassing it was to be caught in churlishness before the very man she had been consigning to the ranks of those lacking in manners scarce hours before…
As they settled at the table, she tried to escape from him, but, by chance or machination, she found herself seated beside him, so close she could have reached out and smoothed the line of his arched brows. She suspected that it was merely because her parents were, most unusually, paying little attention to those around them.
"May I be forgiven?" the Noldo murmured as he carefully speared a slice of venison.
"You shamed me with my ignorance, my lord," she said haughtily. "I have not much liking for being made a fool of."
He ducked his head, his braids falling in his eyes.
"'Tis rather you who shame me, my lady."
Celebrían busied herself with her food, slicing the potatoes into ever-smaller fragments.
"Why were you absent? Was it pride?" she asked, and then flushed scarlet at her presumption.
When she looked up from her intent examination of the pattern on her plate, it was to find him almost as red as she was.
"Nay." He stopped, fumbling for words. "I see that my reputation has preceded me, and that it is a cruel one."
"Oh." That seemed to be her response far too often around this Half-elf, as if his very presence left her a tongue-tied elfling. 'Twas certain he could be daunting when he wished to, but that was not what bothered her so… "Then why?"
"There were reports of orcs in the high passes. 'Tis my duty not to let any danger pass near to those who look to me for protection."
"So you went yourself?"
"Is it so strange?"
"I had thought it so; now I am not so certain." A sudden frown creased her brow.
"What ails you, hiril-nîn?" He laid one hand over hers. In truth, the usually reticent lord did not know what had possessed him to do such a thing, but there it was, and her skin was so silken beneath the calluses on his own from long hours of sword-practice... "You look confused?"
"I was wondering what this is?"
"Well." He leaned close and she could smell the pleasant musky scent rising from his newly washed hair. "It appears to be chicken, but, if I am any judge of Lindir's cooking, I would guess that it is actually salt cod. Although one can never be entirely sure…"
Such was the expression of honest perplexity in his stormy eyes when he glanced up at her through his thick lashes that she giggled.
"You are strange."
The rest of the meal passed pleasantly in commonplaces, Elrond pointing out the more interesting figures in the room. All too soon, though, he had risen, his robes swirling around him, his bearing regal and charming.
The Hall of Fire was bustling, filled with soft melodies. Deeply afraid of her inability to wrest her eyes from the tall Noldorin lord sitting before the blaze which cast strange shadows on the strong planes of his face, Celebrían made her excuses to her parents and stepped outside into the chill autumnal air. She did not see the fleeting shadow of panic on the Master of Imladris' face, nor hear the footsteps which followed her.
"The stars are beautiful, are they not?"
She spun, catching herself on the balustrade.
"You have a habit of creeping up on me, my lord."
"Elrond."
"My lord."
"I wished to … I wanted to apologise for the offence I seem to have caused this afternoon." His voice was pitched low, his eyes, fixed upon her face, sincere.
"I was not … well, I was a little shocked to find that the elf I had spoken too and the lord I had so casually impugned were one and the same," she said candidly.
"That was… Oh, Eru, why can this not be as easy as … as telling Gil-galad that it would not be wise to impale Annatar's head on the gates of Lindon?"
"Was that easy?"
One eyebrow quirked skywards.
"No, especially as it was partly on my advice that that fell Maia was
banned from the city. Yet I find that I
would rather speak those words again than try to explain my inexcusable
behaviour."
"If you speak, I swear I shall listen and make no demur." She twisted the end of her sleeve between her
fingers.
"I … I … I was intrigued, and I did not wish to earn your scorn by revealing myself as one whom you so evidently disliked."
"I … I … I presumed you were something you were not. I could not imagine that the Lord of Imladris could be anything but a stern, hard creature, with no regard for others," she confessed. "Your reputation as a master of lore … Well, you were not at all what I expected."
"And what was that?" His breath rose into the air in frosted clouds.
"You were young."
"Not so young, little one. I have seen enough in these years, and there is no youth to me."
"Yet you seemed it," she reaffirmed. "You came out looking for Gil-estel?"
"Nay, I came looking for you, although the Silmaril in the heavens calls me to look at it far more often than I deem sensible."
"He was your own father…"
He looked at her sharply.
"Do not pity me, my lady."
"'Twas not pity." There was sorrow, yes, but how could she pity someone who looked upon his past with such stoic strength? "And my name is Celebrían."
"And mine is Elrond," he replied, with a faint smile curving his lips.
"Well then, Elrond, shall we not forget all imagined slights?"
"Aye, my la … Celebrían."
"'Tis strange…" She returned to her perusal of the sky. "…That the stars should be so bright after this day."
"Maybe." There was still a deep reserve to him, and he would not easily speak his thoughts.
"And which one is that one?" She pointed.
"Which?"
"That one there…"
"That one there?" He had moved to stand behind her, his chin just shy of her head. "'Tis the Eye."
Oh Eru…
"Yes." She prayed that he could not hear the tremor in her voice. "And that one?"
Elrond could barely stand from her proximity.
He rested one arm on her shoulder, the soft fabric ticking her cheek. Celebrían could almost pick out the lines on his palm in the starlight.
"That one?"
"No, the one to the left … a little more left … that is the one…"
Keeping a tight hold on his control, Elrond gently touched one hand to her midriff, pulling her closer, so he could see what she saw.
"May I…?"
Heady with the sensation of his lean body against her own, she nodded shakily.
"Ah … I see … why 'tis the Maegloth …"
"Oh … yes. I was looking at it wrong. And this one is…"
Afterwards, neither could say how long they had stood there, secure in the night and the natural melding of shallow breaths. But Celebrían could still feel his arms around her as she slipped away.
Not yet. Elrond watched her fade into the shadows. For all the joy of this night, I cannot say anything yet. But one day…
TBC
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A/N: The star names are my own. I'm not good enough at astronomy to work out constellations, either with Tolkien's names, or with modern names.
Translations
Hir – lord.
Hiril – lady
Iell-nîn – my daughter.
Maegloth – sharp-flower.
Adar – father.
Mae govannen – well met.
Hiril-nîn – my lady.