Disclaimer: characters and settings belong to Prof.Tolkien. I derive no profit, except amusement, from this.
NEW BEGINNINGS.
Politics, family feuds, misunderstandings, heartbreaking partings, … Welcome to the land of the Lindar –Lindon- East of the Ered Luin, in the first years of the Second Age. This story is set after the War of Wrath and short before the mighty host of elves from the blessed realm departs for Valinor and the Edain set sail towards the Land of Gift under the banner of Elros, son of Eärendil...Featuring Cirdan, Ereinion, the Peredhil, Finarfin, Celeborn, Galadriel, Celebrimbor, Erestor, Oropher, a host of Teleri, Sindar, exiled Noldor, Noldor from Aman and a nonplussed Vanyarin heir.
1. Sparks.
In which Celeborn hides from one king only to run into another.
Lord Celeborn walked aimlessly among the trees, allowing their song seep into his troubled mind. Things were changing at an almost unbelievable pace, and suddenly that peaceful corner of Middle Earth, east of the Ered Luin, had become the uttermost west. Beyond there, where once fair Beleriand had stood now the mighty waves of Belegaer roared proudly. The elves from Arvernien and Balar, the Sindar and wood elves that hid in Ossiriand and even those who had followed the remaining sons of Fëanor, all of them had crossed the mountains and now crowded in the shores of Belegaer. The Edain, too, as well as many Naugrim, not to speak of birds and beasts, and even the mighty Onodrim, had fled the destruction, and Celeborn was still angry at the utter disregard the Valar had- once again- showed for his beloved middle earth.
He had been happy to meet many long-thought lost friends among the survivors; Cirdan, for sure, and most of his household, and he had learned of the fate of his niece, Elwing, and her children, and had seen the bright Silmaril crowning the brow of mighty Eärendil, Turgon's heir...How it was that those damned jewels had found their way back to their Noldorin masters he could not fathom, but he had cringed to see that the jewel had passed from Thingol's house to Finwë's, after all that had been lost. About the fate of the other two, he could not care less.
He shook his head angrily. He was disturbed by this intrusion. For some years now, before things had come to utter destruction, they had crossed the mountains -he and Galadriel- and dwelt in Nenuial, strengthening the land and learning of its peoples, mostly Green Elves and Sindar who forsook the Great March, but also Edain who had never crossed the Ered Luin.
They had been building a refuge for times to come, and now that the times had come indeed, he felt absurdly angered and resentful that his quiet existence had been disrupted by what he had been preparing to face. He had grudgingly left their stronghold in Nenuial and had moved to the coast to greet –and help- those new arrivals.
He inhaled deeply and tried to accord his breathing to the wind on the leaves. He knew that he wasn't being honest. It was not the arrival of such crowds, or the Silmaril, or the fate of Elwing's children that had made him touchy and short-tempered. The actual reason for his behaviour was another.
The Army of the West. He had nothing to object to the help provided by the Valar and the mighty relatives from the blessed realm…except that one of those was King Finarfin himself, the High King of the Noldor, and, above all, his wife's father.
Along the years, he had come to picture a very friendly image of this elf in his mind. Someone who would resemble Finrod in his best moods, he considered, an easygoing, open, calm, peaceful and loving Adar. He had been utterly shocked when he had been confronted with a mighty Noldor, his piercing grey eyes alight with the fire he had almost forgot that shone so brightly in those who had beheld the trees, his sword bloodied, his hair undone and matted, and his face stern and demanding. He was Galadriel, pardon, Artanis, in male, kingly version, and that thought almost made his knees buckle again.
He had been stunned as a Naugrim in front of that mighty figure, speechless as a stone in front of the blond king of the Noldor that chanted in Quenya in his otherworldly voice and smiled kindly, but exactingly, down upon all those Moriquendi that surrounded his beautiful daughter.
And so, at a wave of the king's elegant hand, Celeborn had stayed apart with the rest, feeling utterly inadequate, but, above all, utterly angered at himself and at the amused glance he had descried in wife's face.
That had been three days ago. He had been properly introduced after that, but he had not yet managed to overcome the mixed feelings of awe and reluctance that overwhelmed him in the presence of the mighty king, and so he strained to make himself scarce and avoid his presence, as well as his wife's, knowing that the actual battle was taking place between equals, father and child.
So he walked instead. He had sensed some discordance among the trees in the days past, and he could not fault them. The din had been terrible in the last week, what, with so many people making camp there, messengers coming and going, the mighty ships and the bright armies from the West, the bedraggled elves from Balar and the edain all searching for a place to call their own and deciding where to settle. Different voices and different languages must have, no doubt, disturbed and worried the trees.
They had been calm and content for a while, now, grateful for his presence, he decided, and hoping that his mood could, too, be improved by their song, he went in search of a secluded glade he had claimed as soon as he had discovered it.
He felt a childish irritation at the sight of an elf, comfortably sprawled under an oak, Celeborn's favourite, looking completely at home in his glade. The fact that this intruder was the young High King of the Noldor in exile, "or whatever he calls himself now that the actual one is around", Celeborn thought with wicked pleasure, didn't help to ease his mood.
"What are you doing here?" he glared, not too kindly, right above the dozing elf who sat up in one fluid motion, fully alert and with his hand upon the unadorned hilt of the dagger at his side.
"You startled me, Lord Celeborn," the young Noldo said politely, looking up at the angry-looking elf. "Is anything the matter? " he added worriedly. "Is Cirdan looking for me?"
"Not that I know...Should he, for any particular reason?" Celeborn inquired, amused in spite of himself.
"I don't know," the young king seemed a bit discouraged, " but…it seems as if there's always something else that I should be doing…"
"Then, shouldn't you be down there?" Celeborn suggested, trying-and failing- to conceal his eagerness "Maybe he needs you now…"
"He knows how to find me," the youngster said with maddening confidence, settling back comfortably against the tree trunk. "A king he may be," Celeborn thought accusingly, "but subtlety is not to be mentioned among his traits."
"Would you like to take a sit?" "Although he is well-mannered, at least I can give Cirdan that," Celeborn acknowledged grudgingly, sitting beside him with a tired sigh, and closing his eyes in the hopes that it would discourage further conversation.
"How do you find these lands, Lord Celeborn?" the question came after a stretch of blessed silence.
"Adequate," was the noncommittal answer.
"Adequate... for... all of us?"
The tone was carefully neutral, yet the question in itself was not innocent, so Celeborn opened his eyes and looked briefly at the other's face. The grey eyes were curious, but there was a subtle shadow within, worry, wariness, he wasn't sure.
"I'd think so. If I remember well the tales of the Great March, it took our ancestors many a year to cross the lands from Cuiviénen to Western Beleriand. I am sure there's plenty of room for all of us, if that's what worries you, King Gil-galad, he answered pointedly, stressing the epéssë that had spread among the troops as of late. He regretted his words almost immediately, though, as he saw the flickering of a wince in the young king's face at his mocking tone, but he decided that offering his excuses would make the whole thing worse.
"I'd say that is your wife's father's concern, rather than mine," the other answered, letting his annoyance flow freely with his words, "but surely you would know better."
"Why do you say that?" Celeborn was now plainly exasperated.
"Well, he's been asking questions…" the youngster observed, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.
"Surely not to you," Celeborn retorted sharply, "if he expects to gain some reliable knowledge of the lands."
"No, not to me," the Noldo accepted with equanimity. "I'm still awaiting his summons concerning…my…interpretation of his orders during the last campaign," he grimaced.
Celeborn nodded at that. He had heard the tale, how the elves of Middle Earth had been commanded to stay behind, and how the King's troops had not followed Eonwë's counsel, -or Finarfin's orders, as it seemed the case now, the boy was braver than he had ever suspected- and had reinforced and protected the rearguard of the army from Valinor, while defending and evacuating elvish and human settlements that where harassed by stray orc parties or fleeing enemies. He offered a sympathetic look at the troubled king.
"I heard you did a great job…"
"We did as much as we could. Nobody wanted to be left behind, and there was much to do before abandoning Beleriand" he said flatly. "I'm far more concerned with the future, now. I guess your lady wife is with her father presently?"
Something in the undertone told Celeborn that this was a serious conversation, and that his condescending attitude wasn't a good idea.
"She is. How do you know?"
"Well, you seem to run out of sight whenever the two of them meet, " the young king joked, "Not that I fault you," he added hurriedly, raising his hands in a placating gesture "I find that your father-in-law is—a bit…intimidating…" he offered hesitantly.
"To put it mildly," Celeborn agreed with a small smile. He waited patiently for the younger elf to reach his point.
"He's asking questions about who's returning to the Blessed Realm," he finally let go in a hurried flow." You know, the Valar have lifted the ban upon the exiles, and have opened the road to the West for all the elves lingering in Middle Earth. There are many who are heeding the summons, but I suppose he'd expected more…"
Celeborn turned slightly to gain a better sight of the Noldo's face. A small frown was marring his brow as he absentmindedly toyed with a piece of bark between his fingers, long and unexpectedly calloused despite his young age from too much sword and bow wielding.
"I believe he worries that these lands are not safe or adequate for those staying and…I…wondered...you would have let me know if such were the case, wouldn't you?" he asked openly, raising questioning eyes to Celeborn.
Celeborn met his gaze calmly. He and Galadriel had been there when the first refugees arrived. They had met the leaders of Sirion, and Cirdan's counsellors, and Edain chieftains, and they had learnt much of their counsels and opinions. But they had yet to meet formally with the young king of the exiles, who had arrived only three days ago with the bulk of his troops, while those of the High King of the Noldor had come in their mighty ships, completely crowding the little harbour. Meeting Finarfin and overcoming his scrutiny had been more than enough for Celeborn, and he did not feel particularly happy at the idea of having to entertain yet another Noldorin king.
"You want to build up a kingdom here?" he asked abruptly, arching an eyebrow.
"I am worried that your lady wife may tell something to her father about these lands that I –or Cirdan- " the other acknowledged sagely "should be aware of," he said without actually answering, Celeborn noted with suspicion. "There are many people here, Lord Celeborn, people that lived in Balar and in Sirion, and in Ossiriand, that have lost their homelands and that are looking for new places to settle down. While Cirdan is helping build the fleet that shall take the Edain west, I am charged with advancing plans for the settlement of those who remain. Since you seem not inclined to give me a plain answer, I shall take it that you haven't reached very far eastwards, and that you assume that the lands are safe and adequate."
"That's a good assumption."
"I am glad to hear that," the Noldo answered, a hint of sarcasm in his even tone. "I won't disturb your rest anymore, my lord," he added, reclining his head against the tree trunk and closing his eyes.
Celeborn studied his companion carefully. He remembered the prince as a lanky kid, back in the havens; big grey eyes and a sharp tongue that matched an equally sharp wit. He had been a child then, but the sadness was already there. He looked older than his years, and it was no wonder, Celeborn thought with an unexpected surge of sympathy, for he seemed to take his duties quite seriously despite his young age. "He's never been a child," he remembered Cirdan saying of his young ward back at that time. He was king, now, at eighty something, when most of the elves were still considered youngsters and given little responsibilities. Feeling acutely aware of one's shortcomings in front of Finarfin was too easy, even for one with long years of court experience, and Celeborn could picture only too clearly how inadequate this young king of a bedraggled host of the once mighty Noldor must have felt in front of his powerful uncle from beyond the sea.
"What were you doing here?" he asked suddenly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, "What were you doing?" Since you interrupted my musings, I thought it was only fair that I did the same to you…" Celeborn prodded playfully.
The Noldo cast a suspicious glance at him but answered willingly. "I was hoping to find a respite away from duties and prying eyes…" he stabbed masterfully, Celeborn had to admit. "I came across this glade the other day…but then... the trees were so restless by our presence… that I thought I might just sit here and ... let them become used to me…" he added thoughtfully. "What!" he asked sharply, at the astonished look in Celeborn's face.
"Forgive me," the amazed elf managed "Only it was...startling to hear such statement coming from…you," he tried to avoid fully disgracing himself.
"You, meaning "one of you, disgraced, exiled, doomed, cursed, stone-lovers Ngolodh," I suppose" the young king said lightly, although the hurt deep in his eyes was unmistakable.
There was no point in denying the evidence. "Yes, I suppose you are right," Celeborn acknowledged mildly.
They remained in silence for a moment, and then, the Noldo spoke in a soft voice.
"My father was born in Valinor, Lord Celeborn, as your lady wife."
He had rested his head against the tree trunk and had closed his eyes, the ghost of a wistful smile crossing his tired features. Celeborn awaited in silence, berating himself for his careless words.
"He grew up among the Powers. He learnt to track and hunt with Oromë´s host, and the Vala himself taught him the language and habits of every kelvar. He, too, learnt to listen to the voice of the olvar with Yavanna. All the elves learnt such things in the blessed realm. My first memories are of my grandfather and my father teaching me to listen to the voice of every living thing." He stopped there, his voice unsteady, and he lowered his eyes for a moment, not ready to meet Celeborn's gaze.
"We, Noldorin people, may have better ear for the song of the stones, Lord Celeborn," he kept on hoarsely, "but... I know enough to hear Ossë's voice in the waves, and to feel the distress in this forest. And I can still hear the lament of the stones that were drowned in Beleriand, the mighty tower of Barad Eithel, the beautiful terraces of Vinyamar, and the carved walls of the havens." He raised his face then, and pierced the Sindar with his grey eyes. "But I do not think myself better than you for that," he added softly.
Celeborn accepted the reproach in silence, shocked by the pain, yearning, and vulnerability in that weary face.
"By your leave," the young Noldo said, as he stood up gracefully, "I can hear too, that Cirdan is looking for me," he joked lamely, managing a brave smile as he bowed courteously and departed.
Celeborn was not surprised, then, to feel the trees around him spread their pity as a canopy fire, straining to comfort the retreating elf.
"At least, I can now enjoy the silence," he shrugged; and snuggling comfortably against the oak he let his thoughts drift away in harmony with the song of Arda, ready to enjoy a peaceful time.
"Oh, Atar! Look who's here!" an only too familiar voice sounded too close for comfort.
"Galadriel, my lord Finarfin," he smiled resignedly, standing and bowing to his wife and her Atar as they emerged from the other side of the clearing, mentally rolling his eyes at the Valar and their wicked sense of fairness.
TBC