Shadow of Memory and Doubt ~ Chapter 1
by Nickel S (purple_shad@hotmail.com)
March - April 2002
Author's Note: Yes, there is dialogue.
Galadriel forced her mind to stay blank and tried to unclench her fists as she stood, taking her leave. Holding her head high, she turned and took a deep breath. Focusing her gaze on some distant point, she could nonetheless feel Melian's eyes follow her out the door. In a stiff hurry, she made her way quickly down the stone halls and winding staircases of Menegroth back to her own chamber.
Once inside, she flung the door closed behind her and plunked herself, rather ungraciously, onto her bed. She tried to calm herself and shake free of the guilt-ridden grief that had been brought to the surface by Melian's interrogation (How dare she?), the tragedy that she so desperately wanted to hide (She has a right to know… They all do). The memory of the blasphemous deeds of the Noldor and subsequent Doom of Mandos would haunt all the High-Elven for eternity.
The blade flashed twice: up, and then down again, except… Except the downward stroke met resistance, not enough to halt the blade, but enough to requisite more force.
Galadriel swallowed and looked down at her hands, her knuckles as white as the sheets bunched up in her grip.
Rivulets of luminous red blood snaked randomly across the flat rock, down to the shore where the sand turned black and the white foam tried in vain to wash it all away.
She took a deep breath, clamping down on the memory before it escaped her control. Then, she looked at her comfortably furnished room, so far, so different in both space and time. Cold reason washed over her, the same reason that had led to the conclusion that all the Noldor adhered to. An escapable Doom, perhaps, but there was no need to alarm the Sindar of Beleriand.
But is it right to live silently, ignoring the unspeakable, while the kin of those they -we- slew remained ignorant? Is this as bad as an outright lie?
The Noldor princess rose abruptly to pace her chamber, but the movement did little to ease the tense muscles in her legs and back. She stopped to stare hatefully at the stone walls, bereft of windows, separating her from the air and light of the woods beyond. Galadriel closed her eyes and let her mind seek the vision that her ocular senses could not perceive.
Arien, the Sun, was a few hours from the western horizon, not that it could be seen through the dense forests of Doriath. In fact, in every direction were the great trees of Beleriand standing tall and still in green light. The wood seemed very inviting compared to the closeness of the carven stone of Galadriel's current residence.
Moving to her wardrobe, she slipped out of the intricately detailed silk gown she wore and donned the more practical clothes she often wore when hunting: comfortable midcalf-length breeches that she could sprint in, and a light, close-fitting tunic. The mirror was now unnecessary; centuries had made an automatic practice of winding and twisting of her golden hair around her head. Finally she strapped two slim daggers to her legs. The transformation was not wholly remarkable from a moment before, for Galadriel always wore a noble, commanding air and a clear light shone in her eyes.
Galadriel peered out into the hall. Seeing no one, but not being one to timidly sneak about, she strode quietly through a good number of the Thousand Caves. Along the way, she occasionally passed Grey-elves, Thingol's people. They nodded their heads or bowed in deference to her according to their rank as she passed. She had little mind to stop to talk, but reciprocated their nods politely with a thin smile. Fortunately, no one hindered her journey out of Menegroth until she came to the font gates. There, upon the watch, were a few elves with Mablung, the Captain of Thingol's guard. At her approach, he hailed her.
"Greetings, Lady," he called. He noticed she stopped only when she reached him (for he stood between her and the gate), and added, "Where would you wish to go?"
Galadriel looked out at the towering trees, then up at the sky above for a moment before looking back down at him. Indeed, Mablung was shorter than she who was tallest of Noldor women. "I do not have a clear destination, Sir, but I wish to take a run in the wood for a while."
Mablung, as if noticing her attire for the first time, nodded, but he said, "Would you go alone, Lady?"
"I would," Galadriel replied curtly, wishing nothing more than to bolt through the gates as soon as they opened.
But Mablung persisted. "Surely you would feel safer if I had my guards escort you where you will?" There was no response, so he ventured to continue, "It is my duty to honor and safeguard the guests of my King and Queen, especially one as esteemed as yourself, Lady Galadriel."
"Your sentiments are appreciated, Mablung," she said with an exasperated sigh. "But as I am a guest, my departure should not be hindered except at the behest of my host. And I bid you do me honor by opening this gate!"
Mablung had no words then and bowed to her in compliance, motioning for his guards to do as she had commanded.
Finally.
As soon as the gates widened enough for her lithe frame to pass through, Galadriel sprinted off into the trees like an arrow loosed from a bow. The guards blinked once to see her wave in farewell; then she was gone.
She ran on and on into the woods, glad to be free of the enclosing walls and Melian's overwhelming presence. Even in the woods of Doriath, she could feel the Maiar's power so long as she remained within the Girdle of Melian. Galadriel did not know where she was running, nor did it really matter. All that mattered was the constant rhythm of her heartbeat, her breathing –loud in her own ears-, the pumping of her arms and legs, the fleeting feeling of grass under her bare feet.
Celeborn gave a shrill whistle as he came up to the horse pasture. Immediately a large sorrel mare lifted her head from grazing with the other horses and gave a responding neigh. She then broke from the grazing herd, a few of the others lifting their heads in interest as she trotted up to the elf.
Celeborn strapped his quiver and bow on his back, checked his dagger and nimbly leapt onto his horse's back with the support of one hand. In his other hand, he still held his sword and scabbard. This he strapped to his belt as he directed the mare to the front gates with his legs.
Mablung was there, waiting for him with his own steed. As soon as he was within earshot, Celeborn said, "You need not follow, Captain." The other elf began to protest, but stopped as Celeborn just shook his head.
After meeting her, Celeborn had realized quite quickly that, when determined, Galadriel would not allow anyone or anything sway her. He also loved her more than enough to respect her wish for privacy. And though he had only a notion of understanding why she had run off, the day had waned far enough for him to worry about her not arriving for supper.
"She ran out from the gate like a deer under chase, heading south," Mablung was saying. "Likely she is in Region by now, but she will not go unnoticed by Beleg's array. Whither will you look, my Lord?"
Celeborn looked up at the sky beyond the treetops, much the same way as Galadriel had in the afternoon. Already, from his viewpoint, the sky was a deep color of night. Then he smiled and said, "I know not, yet I will find her." Urging his horse forward past Mablung on his mount, he continued over his shoulder, "You have my word that I will not go too far. If we do not return by this time 'morrow evening, then you may send out a search, but not before then."
Mablung was puzzled. "Shall I tell Queen Melian?"
"No! And if you have any doubts, I will make that a command that you must follow."
By then the sorrel horse was jogging away into the trees. For a while Mablung stared in the direction Celeborn had gone, wondering whether or not to follow the given order.
Galadriel walked calmly through the night-shrouded woods, her hands clasped behind her head. After her initial spurt of adrenaline had run out, she had continued her journey at a jog until the sun had passed well beyond the edge of the sea. It was probably sinking beyond Valinor by now…. Presently, she walked, only to delay her return to Menegroth further.
Perhaps instinctively, she came upon a clearing large enough to disclose a patch of sky among the tall trees. At the centre, she lay down in the long grass to gaze up at the stars. They comforted her and she absently began to sing the songs she had learned long ago in the land of the Valar. She remained that way for an immeasurable length of time. "Gilthoniel, A Elbereth…" she sighed finally, letting her mind leave her body to rest.
Celeborn sighed as he dismounted. Apparently his steed had not forgotten her interrupted meal and was snuffling for some suitable supplements on the forest floor. There was little grass where they currently were so they kept moving at a slow, meandering pace. The elf had long since worn his voice sore while calling his beloved's name, quite a feat for a descendent of the tribe of elves best known for their singing abilities.
Time moved on.
Galadriel returned to awareness after feeling a faint ripple in the back of her mind. She breathed the warm scent of the earth and noted the subtle difference in the starlight.
Another breath… she felt the ripple again, larger this time.
A warning.
Galadriel rolled onto her knees and elbows, peering over the grass to scan the edge of the clearing for any signs of movement. Whatever it was, it was still a little distance away yet. She silently reprimanded herself for putting herself in such a vulnerable position. She moved into a crouch. Still there was no noise except the swaying of the tree branches and the whispers of insects. With furtive glances, she judged the space between herself and the nearest sheltering trees. However, from that same direction, she could feel the presence of two beings now, as they drew closer. Silently drawing both her daggers, she made her decision and sprang forward.
Surely, he had been searching for all of the evening and well into the night. In his anxiety Celeborn had drawn his sword, but his guard remained low, dampened by his worry. Nor did he notice that his horse had paused behind at some bushes laden with berries. So it was that he wandered to the edge of an open glade where he stopped as the air below his chin was sliced and a dagger point halted –just barely- at his chest.
She nearly screamed.
Galadriel gripped the hilt of her dagger so hard, she vaguely wondered whether it or her fingers would crack. As the shock of realization lingered, she stared dumbfounded at an equally bewildered Celeborn at the other end of the blade. Crimson blood and silver hair. Everywhere. The image was too much for her and the peace of mind that she had known just moments before evaporated with the returning onslaught of memories. She trembled, recoiling.
The dagger dropped out of her hand and landed on the ground with a soft thud.
Celeborn watched her with concern as her expression conveyed a trace of anguish. Without warning, she turned her back to him and stood rigid in silence. For an extremely long moment, he waited for her to regain her composure, relaxing his posture only slightly. He glanced down at the dagger, which reflected a brilliant sheen even in the sparse starlight. When it seemed she was not going to act without further prompting he sheathed his sword and slowly knelt down to pick up her fallen weapon.
Meanwhile, Galadriel tried to settle her pounding heart and banish the strange visions mixed with memory from her mind. She could feel him acutely; his patience, the care he took to not reach out with his mind and impose upon her own scattered thoughts. The questions he surely had were carefully checked and his mind was as closed to her as hers was to his. How she wished it were not so, but she could not make herself lessen the space between, yet.
"Don't move," he said softly, his voice drifting up to her.
She could feel his breath on the inside of her left wrist. She looked down to watch him lift the dagger and place it carefully back into the leather sheathe bound to her leg. That done, he raised his head to look up at her. Her eyes softened. He lifted his hand, palm upward in request, and she realized that she still held the other dagger tightly in her right hand against her chest. This she gave to him and he secured it to her other leg. He then rose to his feet, still behind her, stepping back as if she were an untamed animal that might dash away at any moment. In fact, that was not so far from the truth.
"Shall I come hither later," he asked hesitantly, "when you are ready to return to Menegroth?" After receiving no immediate answer, he made ready to turn and leave.
"No!" Galadriel's hand seized his retreating forearm and he froze. Then, she appeared to relax and return to normal, although still remaining distant. She shook her head and repeated softly, "No. I will return with you." She lowered her head a little and opened her mouth as if to say something.
Celeborn tilted his head to the side, waiting patiently.
"I am sorry."
"Then, I am sorry for disturbing you," he responded without pause. He stepped closer, unable to hide the worry in his eyes. "Are you all right?"
I'll be fine. Her mind gently reached out to touch his, relaxing when she felt his calm, warm response.
Celeborn sought her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She gave him a wan smile which he returned, but with more mirth. Moving closer still, he lifted a hand to brush aside the loose strands that were falling out of place from her crown of gold hair – and pricked himself on a pin. When he yelped, Galadriel tried unsuccessfully to stifle a chuckle. Celeborn, relieved that she was amused, pretended to look overly hurt.
"If you truly wanted me to leave you alone…" he began in mock anguish, but she only laughed harder, shaking her head and inadvertently loosening her hair further. "My lady wounds me," he lamented, playing along, "Not with looks or words, but with the pins in her hair!" Galadriel was in stitches. A grin split Celeborn's serious expression and he had no choice but to join in her laughter.
[To Be Continued]
Disclaimer: All characters and locations are the wonderful creations of JRRTolkien. This is my own, perhaps blasphemous, rendition of his mythology.
* Thanks to Oboe-Wan (150021), one of the best Tolkien fanfic writers out there, for being my beta reader and constant source of Silmarillion info.
* Thanks to all readers and reviewers. Feel free to point out anything that seems off.
* No thanks to Movie-Version Folken for usurping Celeborn's title of Head Muse half-way through the writing of this fic and making me think about writing an Escaflowne fanfic.
What the elves are really thinking:
Elf1: Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
Elf2: I think I am.
Elf1: Yea, I think so too.