In a glade above the gardens of Imladris, a few ladies sat together, drawing and sewing as one entertained them by declaiming poetry. Ever since lady Eriel had left Imladris to go back to Lindon the year before, they had been in the habit to find themselves a quiet place every now and then, and Celebrían today had taken upon herself to take the minstrel's part. She rested on the lowest branch of an oak tree; over the twisting trunk and dark leaves, her billowing white robes fluttered as her foot moved with the rhythmic rhymes, and a twinkle was in her eye. Below her, Alcarinquë, graceful and dark, was lying on the grass, looking at the sky and commenting in between verses. Not far from her were the ever quiet Insil, busy with her needlework, and Falmaramë, who sat against another tree and, under the guise of sketching some future work, was doodling.
While the foliage shaded them from the late summer sun, it still allowed for a lovely view of the lower valley; the great house sprawled below them, and the river ran white in the narrow gorge. As the valley narrowed to the west, the crests lowered progressively until they met over the faraway ford, and they were dotted with a clear forest. The road was mostly hidden, and there was few traffic on it on account of the season that invited to rest and idleness. However, on a visible stretch some way off, a small group caught Falmaramë's eye; they rode sedately, and she recognised the golden head of Gil-Galad.
"Look," she said, "They're back from their trip to the moors."
With a laugh, Celebrían said:
"And you absolutely haven't chosen this precise spot today to keep an eye on the road, have you?"
"You were swift enough to back me; indeed, I felt you would have suggested it yourself had you known the view was better from here than from the orchard."
"Absolutely not," protested Celebrían, "I hold no special interest in the members of this party, although I do wonder why Erestor asked to tag along. Surely none of them needed an accountant during a pleasure trip!"
Barely lifting her eyes from her work, Insil of the mousy hair said: "Well, he might have wanted to spend some time with Glorfindel. I do feel the lord of Gondolin has little curiosity for ladies."
Celebrían jumped to the ground, lithe as a marten. Although there was no wind, the leaves shuddered, and she lovingly patted the oak's trunk as Alcarinquë protested: "But surely the lord Glorfindel can find himself a mate more, how can I say it without being offensive, romantic than Erestor. Unless he has an unusual and hidden passion for very detailed and very dull reports. Forgive me for saying this, Elenatta, but if I were a king I wouldn't favour someone as stubborn and bland as Erestor. He follows the rules so closely that, were they living beings, they would protest at such unwanted attention and call him a stalker."
"Gil-Galad finds him competent enough," said Falmaramë. "Anyway, I'll leave you and go greet them. Don't interrupt yourselves on my account."
Slipping her hand over Falmaramë's arm, Celebrían asked: "Let me come with you. I need to stretch my legs."
"So that you can start again this merry war you have with Elrond? Can't you at least let him get a change of clothes before you pounce on him?"
"And allow him time to strike first? Certainly not."
Falmaramë removed her arm from her friend's grasp and, laughing, agreed. For her pain, however, Celebrían helped her gather and carry her things. They briskly followed the path down to the house, getting to the stables only minutes after the riders.
The men were unloading their horses; two grooms helped them remove the saddles. Maeron, who had followed the trip, fussed over his mounts' foot, insisting for it to be looked at. All in all, it was a busy scene, and the ladies stopped to take it in.
"Why, here are the ladies of Imladris," cried Elrond, spying them. "One is dark as night, while the other is bright as day, so beware all for none can ever be safe!"
"I never knew hair colours could make you so poetic," criticised Celebrían. "Were you hit on the head by any chance, lord?"
With a slight bow, Elrond corrected her: "I wasn't thinking of the shade of your locks, lady, but rather of the disposition of your hearts, and yours wasn't the sunny one."
"Do not rope me into your battles," warned Falmaramë, walking to Gil-Galad. "How long have you worked on that line anyway? A week?"
"Call it a spur of the moment inspiration," answered Elrond.
"Then I am reassured," retorted Celebrían, "your muse is hobble-footed as ever; compliment with the one hand and insult with the other, that is quite the lord Half-Wit I know. You are agreeable as always."
A few yards away, Falmaramë had fallen in Gil-Galad's embrace; they hugged tight, and his embrace lifted her feet from the ground. When they parted, she grasped his hand and they took a few paces to the side, to wait for the tumult to settle down. She asked how he had liked the Coldfell moors in this half-season, and he told her of the round hills, still wild and unsettled under the changing sky of the north.
"Did you go to the falls?"
"Yes. While they ran lower than usual, there was purple heather all around them, and the great green pines were full of singing birds."
They leaned against the wooden fence that ran along the courtyard, content with the other's presence by their side. Of late, they had developed a peculiar awareness of each other, and would sometimes find their thoughts meeting, even during daytime. In answer to an echo, Falmaramë slid her arm around Gil-Galad's waist, huddling close to him, and he kissed her over the ear with a mischievous smile.
The horses were now brought inside, but still Elrond and Celebrían stood bickering in the middle of the court. They had drifted to the subject of some cuttings Elrond had brought back; he was loath to allow that Celebrían knew better where they should be planted, and she shrugged, telling him to do as he wished, but not to complain when they died. At last, she grabbed the bag, taking care not to disturb the protruding stems, and walked away, her pale hair shining in the sun. Finding himself alone, Elrond shuffled around for a bit and left, a sullen look upon his face.
"What do you think," asked Gil-Galad.
"That I am happy; that I want my friends to be happy too, and that in time the savage bull does bear the yoke," answered Falmaramë.
"That's quite an undertaking. We'll need assistance."
"Alcarinquë and Insil will be willing. We have already broached the subject. They agree that these two share a same love of dry wit that hides a kind heart, and would make each other very happy if they could only soften their speech."
"Maeron, too. He's just spent three weeks listening to Elrond ramble about how he wished Celebrían were here, outwardly to help him choose what species of trees bring back to the vale."
"And we both know his official stance on trees, of all things."
They laughed and shook hands to seal the deal; they also exchanged a kiss out of tender habit, and walked back to the house.
A few days later, Maeron stalked Elrond's hiding place in the gardens; when he saw the dark-haired lord sit quietly by himself with a book, ready to spend the afternoon in peace, he hurried to Falmaramë's forge, where the conspirators had made their headquarters. They had been waiting for this signal for two days; Gil-Galad grabbed his harp, Alcarinquë fixed her hair, and Falmaramë and Maeron carried folding seats to a terraced garden that just happened to be situated below Elrond's secluded spot.
They made a great fuss of installing themselves, chatting while pouring drinks, until Gil-Galad tuned his harp and asked Alcarinquë if they would sing together her new song. After she had cleared her throat, he began playing. Alcarinquë followed the melancholic tune with her sharp voice, Gil-Galad singing a counter melody, and the others sat listening.
Sky, heaven and wind, plains and open fells,
Verdant old woods and great blossoming mounds,
Twisting great shores and hidden bubbling founts,
Green hedges, clear copses bright with bluebells;
Fields, pale flowers, buds and weeds reddening,
Wild mossy caves overgrown and ruined,
Hunched dales and crags of stones blackened,
And you, beaches where echoes my singing;
When I left her, bereft with care and ire,
To these fair eyes I couldn't say goodbye,
They who always rule from my soul the fate,
So I beg you, sky, heaven, wind and plains,
Copses, green woods, shores, and singing fountains,
Tell her for me my love and my regret.
They all greatly praised and applauded Alcarinquë, who lightly blushed and rose to curtsey. She was invited to sing again later that night, and immediately agreed.
"But tell me, Alcarinquë," said Falmaramë, "what was that thing you wished to discuss with us? For you were extremely mysterious, and insistent not to speak within range of prying ears."
"Alas, lady," she answered, "it concerns the lady Celebrían. I feel it is safe enough to tell here, far from the house. I know you are all her friends, and that is why I invited you this afternoon."
With a voice full of warm care, Gil-Galad asked: "What of her? You worry us."
"As you should be, my lord," replied Alcarinquë, and then pausing for effect before revealing, in a dramatic tone: "The lady Celebrían is in love!"
They all gasped, and then all spoke at the same time, asking who, was it for real, and how did Alcarinquë know? Gesturing them to get closer, the slender lady sat more comfortably before beginning her tale.
"Not two nights ago, I was walking back from my friend's who lives upriver. The night was warm; a great moon shone over the valley, and I thought to stray from the path and enjoy the sleeping nature. For a while, I was alone, and my heart swelled at the beauty of summer gone - but I came upon a pale figure, standing tall and forlorn below a great beech tree. I didn't know her at first, but then she spoke; she hadn't seen me and cried her sorrow to the silent woods. 'Woe of me, she said, that such an illness has taken its hold upon my heart. How unhappy I am, and what a fateful star that shone over the hour of our meeting!' She wept, wishing the night to take away her pain, if it meant sundering her spirit from her body, and she hit her breast, and teared at her hair."
Leaning forward, Falmaramë wondered: "But why? Is her love unrequited, that she is so miserable?"
"I fear so," replied Alcarinquë gravely. "For she said the name of the one who wounded her so, and it was that of the lord Elrond."
"Oh no," exclaimed Gil-Galad, "poor lady!"
They heard a noise coming from the bushes over them, as if someone had chocked and tried to be quiet about it.
Maeron acted unimpressed.
"You can't be serious, Alcarinquë; or, rather, the lady was having her fun with you."
Falmaramë agreed: "Are you sure she was not counterfeiting? You know her sense of humour. I cannot fathom her in love, ever."
"True," continued Maeron. "I would have thought her spirit invincible against all assaults of affection. You've been the butt of the lady's joke, my friend."
Alcarinquë help up her hand, a solemn expression upon her face. "You didn't see her there and then. I followed her, hiding myself, with the idea to protect her against herself, should she seek to hurt herself in the height of her torment. Come closer, and I shall tell you more, for this I daren't say out loud."
They all huddled together, whispering over their empty glasses.
"Is Elrond still there," breathed Falmaramë.
"He is," assured Maeron, "he's listening from behind the hawthorn bush, I can see his shadow from where I sit. Let's go for the finish."
They regained their places. Falmaramë clasped her hands over her mouth; Gil-Galad muttered darkly to himself, and Maeron rubbed his forehead in apparent incredulity. He spoke first:
"I still can't believe it. She seems to abhor him."
"Of course," snorted Falmaramë. "Have you seen the way he treats her? She has enough sense, not to speak of pride, to keep her affections to herself."
Pouring herself a drink, Alcarinquë agreed: "Aye, she said as much to the night. He so often encountered her with scorn, she said, that she would fain cut her own tongue rather than admit her love to him. I gather most of her suffering comes from this."
"Perhaps we should tell Elrond," suggested Gil-Galad, "and ask him to show her some pity. He is incapable to love her back, that we can all agree upon, but perhaps he can find it in his heart to stop being so cruel to her?"
With a sigh, Falmaramë said: "Were it anyone else I'd agree with you, but you know the man. He would but make a sport of it and torment her worse; his wisdom seems to stop where his passion of jest begins. She's a sweet and virtuous lady, she doesn't deserve to be dragged down in such a way."
"Yet we have to do something," protested Alcarinquë. "She might die from such a pain."
Gil-Galad answered gently, with his muted western accent: "I fail to see what's in our power, apart from being there for her, and do what we can to change her mind from this imprudent love."
But Falmaramë frowned, and said: "Well, although that would leave us at great risk, she could leave Imladris and go to her mother in Falas."
The hawthorn bush seemed to cry out.
"What was that?" asked Maeron.
"Some bird, methinks," said Gil-Galad with a straight face. "You know she wouldn't leave, beloved; she has set her mind to protect this valley."
They all sat in silence for a moment, lost in thought, until Falmaramë exclaimed: "Oh but what a thrice damned fool! Why couldn't she love someone more amenable!"
"We must absolutely not breathe a word of this to Elrond," said Gil-Galad. "Although I love him well, I wish he would examine his conscience, and see how his behaviour is unfitting to one of such a noble heart. But this secret is not ours to share, so we can only hope he finds wisdom by himself."
Gloomily, Alcarinquë said she was afraid they might have to wait a long time for that. They reluctantly agreed, and rose to gather their things and leave. Once the terrace was abandoned to the sun and breeze, Elrond left his hiding place; he was ashen-faced.
"They were serious, they pitied her," he murmured. "This is no trick, Ereinion wouldn't have lent himself to such a cruel jape. Have all the pains I've taken to prevent this occurrence been in vain? Oh, my silver lady of the woods, but you mustn't love me; your kin would renounce you, and I would not have you cut from their hearts. Besides, I am not worthy of you. I was happy when you scorned me and I lived in the shadow of your disdain. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"
On the following morning, Falmaramë invited Elrond to have tea, and made sure to sometimes look at him with a pensive expression. At last, he couldn't take it anymore, and said, in a burst of surliness: "Won't you tell me what's on your mind? For though I enjoy your company, it seems to me something heavy lies upon you."
"Nothing, my friend; although of recently I've wondered where your opposition to marriage comes from."
"Is that all," said Elrond with a curt laugh. "I did think you had the key to that riddle, as you even once threw it to my face: what you called my abandonment issues, and I call a sensible thought-out decision. Because I will not do women - or men, for that matter - the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the conclusion is, I will live a bachelor. My friends suffice to content my heart and fill my life with cheerfulness."
There was a knock on the door, and Celebrían came in. Falmaramë greeted her with joy, bidding her sit by her side, while Elrond said nothing.
"Did the cat get your tongue, lord, that you remain silent," asked Celebrían with openly feigned care.
"Why, this should be nothing to surprise you, as you called me dumb often enough," he answered. "Can a man not be allowed to think and admire in peace?"
Celebrían waited for the barbed conclusion, but it never came so, with a shrug, she turned to Falmaramë and asked: "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes; I am thinking of holding a masquerade, and I would enlist your help to that end."
Before Celebrían could answer, however, Alcarinquë came into the room, saying that Falmaramë's presence was needed in the forges, on some matter of a delayed shipment. So she excused herself and left with a profusion of excuses. Between his teeth, Elrond muttered: "Elenatta, you sly lady; by my faith, you will be listening from behind the door. Well, I'll prove you and Ereinion wrong, and be a model of courtesy from now on, although I don't wish to unduly encourage the lady."
Louder, he said: "Will you have some tea, lady Celebrían?"
"No, thank you; I wouldn't trust you not to spill it."
Celebrían sat with her legs crossed and spoke no more. They were facing each other on either ends of the low table, looking at their own nails in an unusual silence, until Celebrían rose and said: "It looks like our hostess isn't coming back. I shall bid you good day, then."
Rising, too, Elrond bowed. Before he could refrain himself, however, he blurted: "So you wish for my day to be good, fair lady?"
"Mere politeness, lord. It would pain me no more to wish you a foul week."
"Yet, you want my time to be pleasant."
"As pleasant as you deserve, certainly; and if you insist I'll wish you as much bliss as you may take upon a knive's point shoved down your throat. Good day, lord Elrond."
When she was gone, Elrond started to pace around the room, murmuring to himself again. "'As pleasant as I deserve', there's a double meaning in that. Strip away the insults and there it is, poor soul! I believe Alcarinquë was right. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain. Yet - I dare not. What is to be done? Ask Ereinion to send me back to Lindon under any pretense. Elenatta will be mad, of course, but she can find herself another counselor easily. What a heartbreak it would be, though. Oh, I am lost if I go, and she is if I stay; better to go, then. But the mere thought to leave fills me with dread, there is no good choice here, and I am weak. Let us stay here, then, and see how things evolve."
Later, Falmaramë and Insil took a walk in one of the water gardens, where late water-lilies still rose from dark ponds dotted with the first fallen leaves. The last of the honeysuckle perfumed the air as evening came; their greenery grew thick over the paths where Celebrían was wont to stroll, and Alcarinquë had made sure she was there before sending her two co-conspirators. They walked at a leisurely pace, stopping now and then to tie a perfumed tendril to its support. When they caught a glimpse of white through the bushes, they turned to the other side, and Falmaramë said aloud: "No, truly, Celebrían is too disdainful; their hope is unfounded."
Insil, with an expression of quiet wonder, replied: "But are you sure that the lord Elrond loves her so entirely?"
"Aye, so says my Nandaro, and you know he is his oldest friend. It appears Elrond at last opened his heart to him during their trip on the moors."
"And they bid you tell her of it?"
"They did entreat me to acquaint her of it, but I persuaded them to never let Celebrían know."
With a disapproving cluck, Insil said: "Why did you so? Does he not deserve some affection in his life? Is he not nobly born, and has he not a honest soul?"
They started walking again before Falmaramë answered, a pain in her voice: "He is all that, and deserves more than most; bar Gil-Galad, I know of no better man. Yet you saw for yourself how she greets him. It would be better that she knew not of his love, lest she'll make sport at it."
"True," regretted Insil, "her tongue is as sharp as her mind is quick. 'Tis such a pity that disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes whenever the lord Elrond enters the room."
Behind them, a flutter of robes told them someone was trying to catch up with them on the other side of the bushes. Not being in a contrarian mood, Falmaramë and Insil stopped again.
"But what proof do you have of the lord's affection, lady?"
"Beside his own word, upon which I would risk my life? Such forlorn and dejected looks as he carries all day would be enough to speak his heart, and yet there is more. Gil-Galad says he got up twenty times a night to pace, or write letters he would then tear into a thousand pieces. And he would rail at himself, that he should be so immodest to write to one that he knew would flout him. He joined the trip in the hope that a change of air might do him good, and instead came back even more besotted than before."
They both sighed, and Insil said: "No, I think the lady Celebrían cannot be so much without true judgement, nor so heartless, that she would badly treat a confession, even if she were to refuse him."
"She would roast him under her mocks; better for Elrond to die of a wasting heart, if it comes to this, than poisoned by the very object of his love. No, Insil, I forbid anyone to bring up the subject to her."
Insil shook her head in despondency, and lamented herself:
"Alas, I regret that you may be right! The risks are too high; it would be unwise to tell her. My heart bleeds for the poor lord, though - and his only protection against contempt being hiding under a wall of sharp wit."
"So does mine. I do hope the planned masquerade may lift his spirits, though."
With that, they left, speaking of the preparations to be made; Maeron, who was watching from a hidden place, didn't see Celebrían leave the garden before night had fully closed, and she walked as one bewildered by enchantments.
The day of the party soon came, as the first snow powdered the high summits far in the valley and trees, down to the great house, had turned golden and red. Yet the warm air was still perfumed by late roses, and summer lingered in the brightness all around.
As the sun began to set, all busied themselves with their costumes; they were inspired by great heroes of the past, beasts of the woods, or even puns and wordplay, and most were kept secret to the last minute. That night, in Imladris, under the dark sky of the new moon, none would go by their own names, and masks would hide all.
As lamps were being lit, Insil helped Falmaramë with her costume. For now, she had forsaken her usual reds, and wore a gown of pure white, that was torn in the back. Gil-Galad came in, carrying his own costume upon his arm, and said: "Let me guess. Aredhel, the White Lady of the Noldor?"
"Guess again," was the answer, and Insil produced the mask from a box. White and made of feathers, it was big as a helm and, when Falmaramë lowered it on her head, it was revealed to be made in the likeness of a bird's head, curved beak and all.
"Your namesake, a falmaramë?"
"Wrong again, beloved. You surpassed yourself, Insil," said Falmaramë. "This is a work of art."
Full of pride, Insil blushed under the praise and replied:
"Wait until your hair is done to compliment me. The mask you sent me is wonderful too, just what I wanted."
Insil's deft hands now worked to attach a loose net of feathers over Falmaramë's hair; when she was done, her lady opened a jewelry box, revealing a shining necklace of many white stones. The biggest gem shone like a star, breaking each ray of light in piercing colours; when Falmaramë wrapped the necklace around her neck and it came to rest upon her breast, Gil-Galad said: "Now that's a costume Elrond will mark."
Falmaramë rose, and slowly turned around. When she lifted her arms, the light fabric of the sleeves flew as wings, and gave the impression of a woman changing into a bird. For she was clothed as Elwing, granddaughter of Lúthien and mother of Elrond, who threw herself into the sea carrying a Silmaril to escape the sons of Fëanor who hunted it, and was saved when Ulmo, Lord of Waters, changed her into a great bird.
Satisfied, Insil yet fixed a hem, saying, her mouth full of pins: "I've always wanted to make such a costume, thank you for giving me the chance."
"What are you going as, Insil," asked Gil-Galad.
"I'm not telling you, lord; you shall have to find me amongst the crowd to get your answer."
When Insil had taken her leave, Gil-Galad changed, too; he was clad in black robes embroidered with silver, and carried a white staff bearing a single flower. His mask was in the shape of the moon, for he was clad as Tilion, who steers its silver vessel through the sky. Falmaramë came to his side; as she took his arm, she said: "Celebrían is disguised as Yavanna Kementári; I made her a mask of gold filigree over green, distinctive enough."
"And tonight I finally got Elrond's. He'll be Huan."
They laughed together trying to imagine a hound costume, and left to the party, that was now well underway. There was music everywhere inside, minstrels sacrificing nuance for loudness as people, in many-coloured costumes ranging from the lazy to the outrageous, danced in mad reels. Some had already removed their masks in order to eat and drink; others ran, pursuing each other in merry games. For this single night, as autumn balanced on the threshold of winter, there was no order in Imladris, gaiety and mirth having taken the place of solemnity.
Soon, Falmaramë and Gil-Galad went their separate ways in search of their quarries. The crowd overflowed from the reception rooms and the Hall of Fire to the gardens, where torches marked the paths, and Falmaramë had to search twice before she found a man costumed in a hound's likeness. She approached and hailed him, disguising her voice, and she dragged him into the nearest dance. It was energetic and required more exhaustion than care to the steps; before it was done, however, Elrond's voice rose from under the hound's head, and he said: "Elenatta, I know it's you."
"At a word, I am not," she answered, twirling around another's arm.
"I know you by the way you carry your head."
"To tell you true," she cried out, "I counterfeit her."
When next they got close, he asked: "What about these marks upon your hands, left by your hours in the forge?"
"We are in Imladris, sir," she said, hopping around. "Many here haunt the forges and believe themselves to be smiths. At a word, I am not this lady you seek."
"You carry a replica of the Nauglamir around your neck, you absolute dummy, which no one else would dare to do, and you are dressed like my mother," snapped Elrond. "And I feel I am caught up in one of your accursed schemes, and I would like…"
But revelers separated them, so he could only shout his last word: "Answers!"
The music swelled and teared through the dancers like strong wind through a field of corn; Falmaramë cried out for him to go to the rose garden, and she capered away, waving him goodbye over the laughing crowd.
Meanwhile, Gil-Galad had found a slender woman in a dress of green, where many flowers had been sewn. Her mask was a wonder of gold wire, shaped as leaves of many kinds, that was set over velvet of a profound green. Even her eyes were hidden behind a tracery of leaves, although they shone bright, and her hair was covered by a black hood that fell to her shoulders in a short mantlet, because the dark earth is where the great Yavanna most applies her will, she who brought the first living things into the world.
The lady, for now, was listening to music, and Gil-Galad sat by her side. The place was quieter than most, populated by tired dancers who welcomed a rest.
"What a lovely song," she exclaimed once the minstrels were done.
"I heard a sweeter still was to be held in the rose garden," he said, feigning a Sindarin accent.
"If this is an invitation, sir," she answered, "I am not interested, although I thank you for it."
"Oh, I won't be going; others wait for me elsewhere. This is just a rumour I heard, and it said the song would speak of many things, hidden until now: friendships changed and secret hopes, mostly, but the words weren't written yet."
The lady stared at him, trying to make out his identity, but he rose and took his leave with a short bow.
"Follow your curiosity, lady," he said, before vanishing into the night.
The rose garden was in the last of its glory; indeed, the late blooms had been weeping their petals for a few days, and night kindly hid the thinning leaves on the stems. There was no torches there, as it had been deemed unnecessary, the place being a little way off the house, and the obscure light that fell from the stars barely showed the paths.
Elrond heard a soft footfall walk over the thin gravel; his mask was a fantastic shape among the shadows as he showed himself. The silhouette that stood before him was dark, and moved not when he gave a generic salutation. His voice felt unusually unsteady, and his heart skipped a beat when an answer came in the voice of Celebrían. Yet they didn't speak each other's names, and she said:
"I did not think there would be anyone here."
"I hope you are not overly disappointed, although I can leave, should you wish to be alone."
"No," she answered. "I am in need of a friend, and can't find him. Perchance you can be him, but I am quite afraid he is lost to me."
"Shall we look together for him," asked Elrond, his mouth feeling dry. "People are not easily misplaced; they're usually too big for that. This friend of yours, what is he like?"
"Let me think before I answer," said Celebrían, and she took his hand into hers. He was trembling, and her warm fingers steadied his. She continued: "He is witty, oh so witty; he has an incisive mind, and we used to spar with words. He is kind, too, extremely so, for he never aimed where it could have hurt, and I strove to do the same; I loved so our conversations."
A small animal ruffled through the bushes, startling them, and Elrond grasped Celebrían's other hand. But silence fell again, and he asked:
"Why do you speak in a past tense, lady?"
"Because, lately, he has been cheerless and, where before he sought my company, now he has forsaken it. When circumstances brought us together, he stayed silent and responded not to my appeals for conversation. I'm afraid I have been a bad friend to him, for him to remove himself so."
He pressed her hand and said, a strange despair in his voice: "No, that you never were. Have you thought - maybe the fault doesn't lie with you, but instead with him. Perhaps he feels he cannot be your friend anymore because, because, it wouldn't be right anymore."
"You see, my masked confidant, this is where I feel guilty. Because I wanted…"
Celebrían's voice faltered, and she continued in a whisper: "I wanted him to be more than a friend. And I thought perhaps he saw it and that made him flee. Because, as you said, he might have thought it wouldn't be right for him. His heart is made of noble stuff. Or perhaps I inadvertently wounded him, and thus chased him away. But I would very much love to have him back, for I love him dearly."
Feeling as one drunk, terrified and cornered, his head light and his tongue locked, Elrond pulled his hands from Celebrían's and tried to remove his mask. But the knots were hard to undo and, instead of struggling, he tore it away, and gazed at Celebrían with wild eyes. The night air cooled his brow before he stammered: "No, you did nothing wrong, not ever. I, I treasured our conversations, how you play with your claws out, how, your grace and that way you have to look at me with this glint in your eye, and I'd walk barefoot into Mordor for you, but I'm not worthy of you, while you're of the highest lineage, you're so nobly born, and your parents would disown you, and you don't deserve that, and, oh I don't know anymore."
Then Celebrían laughed, a pure trill of silver mirth, and she said, with a very tender mockery: "Who among us has the blood of Melian and Lúthien coursing through his veins, who is cousin to the High King, who is of the same lineage as the great kings of Númenor? There is more valour in your past than in mine. Never mind my parents; eventually, they would come round."
"But I've done nothing, I only ever was a herald to Gil-Galad, and the campaign of Eregion all these years ago was a wretched failure, I have no right to your affection. You deserve someone bright and bold. And I'm afraid."
Slowly, she removed her own mask and freed her hair from her cowl; it glistened in the obscurity. She took his mask from his hands and threw both of them away in a bush.
"What are you afraid of?"
Her hands felt cool on his cheek and upon his neck, and her hair was silky smooth under his threading fingers - how long he had yearned to do that - her back was supple and soft, and Elrond was absolutely lost and panic stricken.
"I'm afraid, afraid that you'll see how worthless I am and that you'll go away," he whispered, and he kissed her, clumsily, hurriedly, because he thought it was the only time he would ever be allowed to, on this night of all nights. He was amazed that she kissed him back; his lips parted in surprise, and her mouth tasted of lemon and juniper. Some door had opened in his mind, so he babbled on, how near all who mattered to him had left, and he felt pitiful and small again, undeserving of love, and ashamed for speaking so on what should have been a joyous moment. But she neither laughed nor ran, and said: "Yet you have friends, who've stayed with you for many years. Gil-Galad and Falmaramë have never left; given a choice, I shan't either."
"I very nearly destroyed everything with them too," he confessed. "I fear I may do the same with you."
She gave him a sharp smack on the shoulder.
"Then, healer, heal thyself," she said. "Bring your mind back to the sensible reality instead of these gloomy thoughts. I say you are worthy enough of my love as you are; if you cannot see that I value a good man more than a hero, then you are blind, and should strive to remove these scales from your eyes. And this is your work, not mine, although I'll stand with you along the way."
"You would?"
To shut him up, she kissed him again, and then said: "We'll keep things slow, and hidden, if you wish, so you won't fear what others think. I don't mind."
"You would do this," he asked again, feeling like a fool.
"I would," she answered, and a path cleared before them. Over their heads, small roses had opened in the dark, their pale ghosts lighting the night, and their sweet perfume drifted in the air.
Some way off, in another garden that stood over the roaring Bruinen, Gil-Galad found again Falmaramë. The wan shape of her dress caught the light from a river of stars; seeing his shadow approach, she walked to him. The sound of music drifted to them, and he saluted her, saying:
"Do you dance? Listen, they have begun playing a set."
"It would be my pleasure," she answered.
His hands around her waist, her hands upon his back, they whirled away for a few measures.
"Have we succeeded?"
"Perhaps. I hope, for their sake."
For a while, the moon danced with a silver bird who carried a shining star; and then they left for the comfort of their home. Then the bird cursed as the moon tried to remove the net of swan feathers from her hair; they fell together laughing, and morning found themselves asleep together, crumpled costumes and all.
During the night, a gale came that stripped many trees of their golden leaves, and was followed by a day of torrential rain. When it seceded, the great billowing clouds left behind stuck to the rusty hills, allowing only glimpses of their barren slopes, and the air had a newly found fresh quality, for winter was coming nigh to Imladris.