Part IV: Land of the Rising Sun
For ten days and nights without stopping for rest or food Ceriselen Starflame rode, the wintry valley of Imladris fading before her eyes to the rolling green hills of hobbit-country and then the graying woodland beyond it. Beleriand was near; she could taste the salt in the air, and see brief glimpses of the blue ocean beyond the forest. This gave her speed, and she urged Naharendil ever faster. The elven-horse never seemed to tire; his eyes were bright with anticipation of what lured his rider so, and his hooves pounded the forest floor in rhythm with Cerise's beating heart.
"The Havens," Cerise whispered to herself as they crested a hill looking over the surrounding land. Before them stretched a thin, white beach, overhung by rocky outcroppings of mossy stone. Atop the longest cliff stood a white tower, reaching into the misty clouds that roiled over the azure sea beyond.
Letting Naharendil trot down the hill, Cerise was suddenly stopped by the appearance of a tall, white gate. At its doors were three horsemen astride grey stallions, each one robed in blue and carrying imposing, white bows carved of birch. The center one, his angular face composed of strikingly tan skin framed by dark hair, accosted her, turning his horse sideways to block her entrance. "What is your business here, aier?"
Cerise colored angrily at the title: little one. "I am Lady Ceriselen Starflame, daughter of Lord Erasan of Mirkwood, and I have the protection of Elrond of Imladris. I wish to enter."
"For what purpose?" the arrogant elf asked slowly, as though speaking to a young child.
"What is the name of he who interrogates those who merely wish to enter the Havens?" Cerise countered.
The elf's piercing grey eyes flashed. "I am Mithfalas, son of Cirdan the Shipwright, Lord of the Havens, and travelers do not come idly to the land of Lhûn. Tell me your cause, and you shall enter."
Cerise sighed in defeat. "I wish to look into the palantir."
Mithfalas blinked, then laughed, turning to his fellow guards, who joined him. "That is an uncommon request. Most do not know that we possess one of the Seeing Stones."
"May I enter, now that you know my purpose?" Naharendil shifted restlessly beneath her.
"You will not be allowed to look into the palantir, aier, but you look tired and hungry, as does your steed." Mithfalas regarded her, a smirk lighting his serious features. "My father will give you shelter for a night." He turned back to the gate and signaled to the guards; its doors swung open, and Cerise galloped past, shooting Mithfalas a scathing glare as she set off for the tower.
~*~
The tower was dimly lit inside; candles here and there gave it a sort of ethereal glow, while the twilight streaming through the windows merely shadowed the ground floor. Cerise slid from Naharendil's back, trying to be demure with her skirt, and relinquished him to the waiting attendant. Mithfalas held out an arm sarcastically, and she scowled at him again. What an insufferable pig, she thought furiously as they mounted the spiraling stairs to the receiving hall.
Cirdan the Shipwright was an imposing man; his long, gray hair and beard did little to dissuade the sheer power emanating from his gleaming, dark eyes, and even sitting one could tell he was very tall. Behind him stood several guards robed similarly to the guards at the gate; Cirdan smiled benevolently at his son as Mithfalas entered behind her.
Cerise was suddenly doubtful of the importance of her mission. Really, how urgent was it for a maiden to see her love while he was away? Surely Cirdan would dismiss her cause.
Before she could apologize and run from the room, however, Cirdan spoke, a kindly smile lifting his mustache. "My son tells me, Lady Ceriselen, that you wish to look into the palantir. Such a dangerous ambition for so small a maiden! What is it you wish to see?"
Cerise glanced around nervously. Did she have to tell him before a roomful of judgmental elves?
Seeing her uncertainty, Cirdan turned and whispered to his guards, who bowed respectfully before vanishing from the hall. Mithfalas, however, stayed, an infuriating smirk on his face and laughter in his eyes.
"Prince- prince Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood, my lord," Cerise stuttered, her cheeks flaming at Mithfalas' raised eyebrows. "I fear for his safety."
Cirdan considered her, but without his son's mocking expression. "Legolas Greenleaf," he repeated finally, his grey eyebrows knitting in concentration. "Is he not one of the Nine Walkers?"
"Y- yes, my lord," Cerise affirmed. "That is why I fear he is injured, or even dead. Please-" she stepped closer, even kneeling before the Lord of the Havens. "-I must know."
Cirdan closed his eyes in defeat, and without their flashing defiance he suddenly looked very, very old. "Mithfalas," he said, without turning to face his son. "Escort this maiden to the Hall of the palantir. Stay with her, and cover it immediately if He turns his gaze upon the Havens, do you understand?"
Mithfalas shot Cerise a look of impressed reverence as he nodded to his father. "This way," he muttered to her.
~*~
The stairs were long and many, and after close to an hour of walking, Mithfalas finally turned through an archway on a landing. "Here we are," he said quietly, his voice echoing in the cavernous room.
The room had no windows, and was very badly lit; a few torches were blazing merrily by the door, but that seemed to be the extent of it. Cerise squinted to make out the white marble pedestal in the center of the room, atop of which a simple, dark-dyed cloth was draped. Mithfalas carefully, slowly repealed it from the pedestal, his eyes closed, and then stepped away.
A glowing, ivory sphere sat on the cold stone; it did not roll, even on the flat surface, but simply was. Cerise inhaled, and even that was audible in the total quiet of the hall. She had never seen one of the palantiri, and suddenly understood why they ensnared the minds of elves and men alike so quickly and completely. It seemed to whisper to her; she heard fragments of her own life, Arwen's urgent pleading, Legolas' soft whispers, Nimuriel's harsh laughing. She even caught the deep, comforting voice of her father, one she only vaguely remembered. When Cerise was standing over it, green eyes wide and mesmerized by the swirling spectrum of color within the globe, images began to sharpen in its depths, snatches of figures and scenes and sounds of distant times and places.
Cerise gasped happily as Legolas' face came into focus, his mouth set in concentration and hair blown backward by wind. He was paddling, which confused her for a moment, but then the picture widened and Cerise saw the Argonath. They stood tall and implacable, mile-high statues of the greatest of men, and the Elven boats that must contain the Fellowship slowed as they approached.
"So he is safe," she breathed, pressing her forehead to the cold glass of the palantir in relief. "He is safe." The words tasted strange in her mouth.
The image wavered and changed, and the blue waters of the Anduin became the blue-tinted lights of Lothlorien. Amid the tangled mallorn branches a blonde figure appeared, robed in pure white and with the Ring Nenya sparkling on her left hand. She was speaking to someone Cerise could not see, and her pale fingers were wrapped about the silver handle of a pitcher. Water spilled silently into the well beneath as the other person spoke.
"What will I see?" the deeper voice said, wavering and suspicious, and echoing in the palantir's glass confinements.
Now the Lady Galadriel smiled, and the pitcher rose as she answered him. "Things that were, things that are," she said, and the light of mystery and shrouded anticipation veiled her eyes. "And some things that have not yet come to pass."
Things that were.
That's not him now, Cerise realized. She'd sensed that Legolas was in danger. And yet the palantir had shown him in full health, perhaps perhaps because that was what she had wanted to see?
"Show me Legolas as he is now," she whispered urgently. The palantir darkened for a moment, contemplating her request, then spread itself green and blue beneath her gaze. Estel appeared first, sweat visible on his brow as he darted over the rocky grass at his feet. He was quickly followed by Legolas, who seemed to be alright as well. His quiver-buckle gleamed in the bright sunlight of wherever they were, and Cerise remembered undoing that buckle, her fingers numb with desire. She shuddered and stared harder at the glass, willing some other clue of where he was. A stout figure clad in dark armor, with a rust-colored beard that covered half his body, trailed behind them. This must be the dwarf, Gimli, that the princess mentioned, Cerise thought absently.
Things that are.
In the distance she saw the craggy mountains that denoted their whereabouts as being east of Rivendell. But surely they were not still in the Misty Mountains? She'd seen them on the River Anduin, which must mean they were south of there.
Rohan, she realized as a party of horsemen approached Legolas, Estel, and Gimli. The image faded again, only to be replaced by the darkness of night over a pale, stone fortress. As the palantir closed in, she saw the burning lights of war-torches below it, and some above. Curtains of rain were drawn over the battle. On the wall of the fortress stood a long, uneven row of armed men, varying in age from young boys not even grown to puberty yet to old, stooped grandfathers. Estel was visible at their head, shouting orders. Legolas stood beside him, his bow drawn, and Cerise caught his comment to Gimli: " even more would I give for a hundred good archers of Mirkwood. We shall need them."
Things that have not yet come to pass.
I could help him, she thought longingly, remembering her newfound skill at archery. She reached up, outlining his lovely face in the palantir with a finger.
Cerise was jolted from her gazing and froze as Mithfalas came up behind her, the full length of his body touching hers as he peered into the palantir. "What do you see?" he murmured. Hot breath danced on her neck.
"Er," she said intelligently, stepping back from the pedestal and, unknowingly, closer to Mithfalas. Legolas' face vanished.
"Are you afraid, aier?" Mithfalas' tone was soft, amused.
What is he doing? Cerise thought confusedly, then considered his words. Oh.
"No, I'm I'm all right," she tried to tell him, but her voice was barely a whisper now.
Mithfalas' eyes bored into the back of her head. Cerise shivered. "And your prince? Is he all right?" His voice was mocking, cold.
"He's fine," Cerise said firmly, but hoarsely, although she wasn't sure of that fact.
"Where is he?" Mithfalas continued scornfully. One of his hands grazed her waist, holding fast when it caught against her hip.
Cerise closed her eyes. "Rohan."
"So far away," he commented, his hand venturing across her abdomen. "And yet he loves you, I presume?" This, taunting, like a fisherman luring her to grab the bait.
"Y-yes," Cerise stuttered. Her voice failed her.
Mithfalas bent his head, and a curtain of brown-glossed dark hair fell over her shoulder. "Are you sure?"
She couldn't answer. Her breaths came shallow and quick, and the darkness of the room blinded her; his hand trailed up her stomach, tracing the crescendo above her ribs.
Only a mortal concubine would be so promiscuous, her conscience scolded, making Cerise flinch. What was she doing? She was letting him take her, and Legolas was on the dangerous ramparts of some foreign battle, in the cold rain of night. Whore, the voice said scathingly, sounding strangely like Nimuriel. Harlot.
"Do you tremble?" Mithfalas said into her collarbone, softly, laughing at her.
Trollop.
Mithfalas' mouth vanished from her chest and reappeared at her lips, where it simply pressed, making Cerise shiver with shock.
What would Legolas say if he could see you now? Whore, harlot, trollop. Coupling with others while he is away, kissing another elf, letting him ravish you. You don't deserve him.
I never have, Cerise told herself as Mithfalas' hand went further, higher.
He doesn't deserve this! To be cheated and made a fool of by his counterpart and love. Do not do this to him.
Sighing with resolve, and feeling a wave of revulsion crash over her at what she had almost done, Cerise pushed him away, and unlocked her mouth from his, glaring at him with disgust. "I have seen what I needed," she spat, straightening her gown and recovering the palantir.
Mithfalas matched her glare and made a show of wiping his hands on his trousers. "Get out, wood-elf. You don't belong here."
"Gladly," Cerise said, and flew from the room.
~*~
The first thought that ran through Legolas' head when he saw the Lady Eowyn of Rohan was that elven women were more beautiful. He instantly compared her waterfall of golden hair to Cerise's shroud of red, her leaden grey eyes to a pair of searching, sharp green ones. He had been loath to do this to Galadriel, but the absolute lack of female life on their journey led him to superimpose every dreaming detail of her face on Eowyn's. And he found that none could be more perfect, that the fact that Cerise's breasts were not as developed as hers, nor were her cheekbones as pronounced or her legs as long, did not deter him from the sweat-soaked, wildly heated visions that came upon him when their party camped at night.
But his heart ached dully with longing when he saw the wishful glances Eowyn gave Aragorn, and he felt he had a sort of connection with the mortal man when he saw the lovelorn look in his eyes. The intricate jewel that hung about Aragorn's neck seemed to weigh him down; his head was ever bent, his expression distant.
The orc-killing and constant running was habit now; Legolas found that he could withdraw himself from the battle, and turn to other thoughts. Thoughts of home, of the shady, gold-streamed trees of Rhovanion, thoughts of his father and mother, so proud, their arms linked as they watched their son depart for Imladris. Thoughts of Cerise.
She crept into all his actions now. Everything he did, he did with the thought of her watching, her approval. Her hands brushed his when he needed reassurance; her tearfully joyous arms wrapped around him every time he emerged, safe, from a confrontation. Legolas was beginning to worry that the dream-Cerise he had made for himself would result in disappointment when he saw the actual one again; she was too perfect, too loving and beautiful and pure to be real.
But deep down, he knew that she was exactly that way, exactly that wonderful, and he hyperventilated in breathless anticipation every time this realization struck him. Legolas had imagined their return to Rivendell a thousand times, in countless ways, each more impossibly exhilarating than the last. He was having trouble contemplating life without her to hold onto.
~*~
Cerise fumbled in her pocket for her dagger and felt its cool, hard, comforting length. Pulling it out, she located the nearest guard (standing at the door to the tower) and quietly, on slippered feet, approached him. In a sudden flash of metal, the blade was securely positioned against his throat. "Don't scream," she advised, removing his helm from his head and unfastening the dark blue robe of the Havens draped over his tunic. Then, blushing despite herself, "Take off your trousers, and your boots." Her long, velvet gown and brocade slippers would never do for such a quest.
The guard quickly obeyed, ripping off the dark pants with abandon that comes only in the face of death, and handed them to her. "Good job," she told him, then withdrew the dagger from his neck and, before he could shout for help, knocked him over the head with its handle and made for the stables, armor and clothing in hand.
As she closed the wooden door to Naharendil's stall and leaned against its rough side, she breathed heavily, considering what she was about to do. The helm was weighty, even in her hands; she set it aside by the horse's front hoof and dealt with the clothes. She could not wear the tunic alone, obviously, for it was winter and she would be susceptible to weather. So, taking hold of her dress, Cerise inhaled and ripped the skirt from the bodice. Threads hung haphazardly, and the rip was uneven, slanting dramatically at one side, but it would do; she was short, and the tunic would hang low on her.
Discarding the skirt, she pulled on the trousers, which hung off her hips and pooled at her feet, and had to be belted high on her waist with another strip of fabric from the gown. Cerise sighed and unbuckled her bow and quiver. The tunic lifted easily over the fitted, dark green velvet of her gown. The sleeves were not the fashionable bells that so many elves wore, but simple and straight, which boded well for Cerise's purpose.
Repositioning the bow and quiver on her back, Cerise regarded her hair, and decided to simply take out the beaded thong pulling half of it back into a braid and use that to bundle it all at the back of her head. After several minutes of wrestling with its lengths, she managed to get it all beneath the helm, and withdrew her hands from it. The weight made her bend over in sudden pain, and it obscured some of her vision, as the holes in its face only revealed her eyes.
Cerise examined herself in the silvery mirror of a nearby trough of water. One could not tell she was a woman, but for her petite build, and no one would consider that anyway. She would just have to be careful not to speak.
Her head snapped sideways as she heard footsteps in the hay. Quickly, she swung a leg over Naharendil's back, marveling at the freedom of trousers, and burst from the stall, rushing past the two guards, who were too stunned to stop her. Soon, the grey woods of Beleriand overtook her, and she galloped into the darkness.
~*~
A/N: Ooh, I like this chapter! I thought it'd be interesting to give Legolas a little competition (he rarely gets that). Also, I've never read a fic involving the Grey Havens, and thought it'd be cool to include Cirdan. The stuff with Cerise and Mithfalas was going to go a lot further, but I cut it off in favor of a PG-13 rating and less guilt for our heroine. Anyway, next chapter oh, I'm going to keep it a surprise. You'll just have to read!
See you next time!
~goldenberry
(starice@hotmail.com)