Disclaimer: Tolkien's. Not mine.
Timeframe: T.A. 45
Rating (this chapter): Rated PG-13 for themes of rape.
Chapter V: Birthright
An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë
"I've finished it!" Findur exclaimed as he ran into the room.
Father and Celebrían both looked up, wearing startled expressions. "What's this?" Father asked, motioning for Findur to sit.
"My sword, of course!" Findur replied. He sat down in the chair across from them and proudly held forth the black-hilted weapon.
"Of course. How could I forget," Father said with mock annoyance, undoubtedly referring to Findur's enthusiasm about the project, an excitement that manifested itself in the form of daily updates on his progress. "Come, let's see it."
Findur handed the sword to his father, who drew it from the scabbard, revealing a long, narrow blade with a simple vining design on its side. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window and glanced off the blade, causing it to gleam with a luminosity that recalled moonlight.
Both Father and Celebrían nodded approvingly. "Not bad for the horseshoe-maker of Imladris," Celebrían quipped, but she was smiling. Findur made a face at her; though it was true that this was his primary work at the forge, it was not a very dignified-sounding job.
"Excellent craftsmanship," Father agreed, turning the sword over in his hands. "I must say, I am impressed. You have outdone yourself, my son."
Findur beamed. "Narion felt the same," he revealed. "He said it was the best he'd seen from someone so young." He laughed suddenly, abashed at his shameless pride. "It probably wasn't true. Narion himself must have done better, along with half the folk of Imladris."
"Don't be so sure," Celebrían said earnestly. "You may only be an apprentice of Narion, but then again, he has no others, only a few fellow journeymen. If Narion decides to go over Sea, you'll surely become one of them, perhaps even the master someday."
Findur only frowned. His eyes were focused downwards. "I am actually not sure if I want to finish my apprenticeship," he confessed.
Both Father and Celebrían stared at him as if he were mad. "Why not?" his sister demanded.
"I love working at the forge, I honestly do! It's only that..." Findur paused, searching for the right words. "As a vocation, it seems like a lot of horseshoes and plowshares. Imladris's beauty lies in natural things, not in crafts. If only a place like Eregion still endured, that I might have the opportunity to forge something truly beautiful."
Father and Celebrían exchanged a look that Findur could not decipher. Then Father spoke. "Findur," he said with such immense seriousness that Findur immediately sobered, straightening his posture, "do you think a sword is beautiful?"
Findur raised his eyebrows at the seemingly irrelevant question. "Sometimes, yes," he said. "They are powerful symbols. But they can be terrible as well, when used for the wrong reason."
Father nodded. "Yes. But know this from a man who has seen much of war—" and with these words Findur saw a great wisdom shining in his father's gray eyes, the product of countless years of strife. It made him feel uncomfortably small. "While it is noble to rise in defending one's people," said Father, "ultimately horseshoes and plowshares are much preferable. Do you understand that?"
"Yes," he replied. "Yes, I think I do." His father's grave words perplexed him, and he could not think of any more to say in reply. They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Findur stood up.
"I must be going," he said. "Erelas and I are planning to get some field time in before dinner." It was the custom in Elrond's house that each member of the household labor in the fields as occupation allowed. A young man with only minor responsibilities, Findur was often on the roster. He hated the work, kneeling in the dirt and performing some tiring, mindless task for hours, but it was not so bad in the cool of the afternoon with a friend for conversation.
"I'll go with you," Celebrían suggested. "I'm meeting—" but she broke off in mid-sentence. "Taking a walk in the gardens. Alone," she added hurriedly. Father raised his eyebrows, while Findur tried not to smile.
"All right," Findur replied. "One moment, and I'll put my sword away."
As soon as they were outside, Findur spoke. "Elrond, I suppose," he said, a teasing grin on his face.
"It's not what you think," Celebrían insisted, blushing slightly. "But Father can be a bit paranoid, as you well know. I would rather not mention it. He'd become terribly protective if he knew—I mean, if he thought—" She shook her head and sighed, a heartfelt sound, but her next words were firm. "There is nothing more than friendship between us. Speak no more of it."
Findur let this go, although he very much doubted her assertion. "What do you think of his words to me, about the sword and war?" he asked instead.
"Father's? What do you mean?" asked Celebrían, a guarded expression on her face.
"Didn't you think it was odd? I'm no warrior, and these are times of peace. He seemed concerned about something, and I couldn't fathom what."
"He is often times serious," she replied. "It is his way." But her gaze was distant, lost somewhere among the thick foliage that lined both sides of the thoroughfare. Finally, her pale blue eyes turned back towards him.
"Know that his words were true," she said. "For I have seen war, Findur, and it was hardly a glorious event."
"Eregion?" he asked quietly.
Celebrían nodded. "I was only a child, but I will never forget it," she said. When she next spoke, it was to change the subject. "You know," she said suddenly, "Elrond asked Father again to go to Lórinand. (1) Because of—"
"Of Nenya," Findur finished softly. "Yes, I know." He frowned, because he knew well what Father's answer had been to this request. "I have long wished to see the Golden Wood. It is foolish that two Rings of Power are held in the same small valley. He could do so much more good in Lórinand."
"He and Mother spent much time there," Celebrían reminded him. "We visited it often before you were born. It would be painful for him to return now. Besides, Imladris is our home. Would you really want to leave?"
"Perhaps not," Findur admitted. "I only wish that Father hadn't had to take Nenya. That..." But he fell silent. So much for changing the subject. Though their focus had changed, the conversation had gone from unpleasant to depressing.
"That Mother hadn't left?" Celebrían asked, a strange lilt to her voice. He saw that her eyes shined with unshed tears. "She had to, Findur. She had been through so much pain. How could we ask her to stay?" She placed a sympathetic hand on Findur's shoulder. "We'll see her again. Once we are certain that the darkness is overthrown, and that there is someone else to bear Nenya. There will be a time." But Celebrían's words could not appease him. How could she be so certain that the perpetual scar that Morgoth had left on the earth would ever heal, that there would ever be another wise enough to bear a Ring of Power? But he held his tongue. If Celebrían wanted hope, no matter how fabricated, so be it.
There was another brief silence, and then they spoke of familiar, comforting things—the harvest, the marriage of one of Celebrían's friends, the song that Lindir was to perform in the Hall of Fire that night. Soon they had reached the entrance to the gardens, where Elrond was waiting with a smile, a surprising contrast to his usually stoic expression. He tried not to smile himself as Celebrían bid him goodbye and, beaming, ran to join Elrond. Only friends indeed.
When they were gone, he felt a peculiar despondency fall over him. He envied his sister, who could take grief so easily, moving from sorrow to laughter in minutes. It was if he felt anguish more sharply than others, held it with him longer, so that it constantly tore at his mind. Perhaps, after enough experience, sorrow would cease to bother him—or at least he might become accustomed to the pain.
It was nearly suppertime when Findur finished his work in the fields. Erelas had left earlier, and now he walked back to the house alone. As he went, a frigid wind began to howl down into the valley, whistling through the boughs of trees and shaking a few leaves prematurely to the ground. Though it was only the beginning of autumn, not yet harvest time, a cold spell was not unheard of at this time of year. Findur shivered and folded his arms across his chest, trying to remain warm as the air grew colder.
Soon, he reached the house. Upon opening the door, he was greeting with warm air scented with the familiar smell of burning wood. His entire body untensed at the welcome change in temperature. He hurried down the corridor to his family's chambers, hoping that he wasn't already late for dinner.
Luckily, his father was still there, paging through some old volume most likely borrowed from Elrond's extensive libraries. "You're back," he said without raising his head. "We'll go soon."
"Wait a moment while I change into something warmer," Findur replied, going to his room. Although it was much warmer than outside, he could still use some extra insulation.
He did not notice the letter at first, focused on rummaging through his winter chest for a tunic. It was not until he had found a woolen top and was dressing that he noticed a folded sheet lying on his writing desk. On closer inspection, he saw that it was a letter, sealed with unstamped wax. He quickly pulled on the shirt and walked to the desk. Picking up the letter, which, he noted, was written on aged, slightly crumpled parchment, he tore it open.
It was from his mother. Although he could not explain how such a letter had come here, there was no mistaking the thin, elegant handwriting that filled the page. The possibilities overwhelmed him—that she had somehow sent the letter from the West, that the impossible had come to pass, and she had come back!—but the heading read, 30 Hrívë, 3436. (2) It was a date from the Second Age, only a few years after his birth. His pulsing heart and senseless hope disintegrated, but his curiosity grew stronger. What was an old letter from his mother doing on his desk?
Celeborn, the letter continued, and Findur realized that he should not be reading this; this was surely some kind of mistake. Yet he found he could not set it down. At the sight of her writing, he recalled her gentle smile and musical laughter as she walked with him on summer days through the meadows of Imladris—the infinite sadness in her eyes as she bid him farewell for the last time. Words written by his mother's pen would be like words spoken from Taniquetil itself.
"I do not write in hope that this letter will reach you," the letter read, "for I know that the fighting is fierce and leaves little opportunity for such messages to be delivered. In spite of this, I am consoled, for I know that we are only separated a little while. Yet I will not lie to you. I am weary of this bitter season, my love. The days grow shorter, and the night holds little solace. The chill of winter seems unending, and I seldom can find strength to place hope in the spring. It is a grief that cannot be diminished by words on paper, though I may try.
"Findur grows so quickly. He is a precious child, my sole consolation in these fateful days. I know you will think this a contradiction, though you love him in your way."
Findur frowned. A contradiction? His father only loved him in a way? But there must be some meaning to these strange words, he reasoned, and read on.
"I understand that you fear his nature greatly. I do not blame you; I have the same fears—that the evil done unto me and perhaps inherent in him is irrevocable, that this dark-haired jewel will grow up to assume his father's role, invalidating any victory that we achieve at the present. I do not deny it: only a fool would be unafraid of the heir of the Dark Lord!"
The letter fell from Findur's hands like a leaf from a trembling branch. He stared at the ground, unable to move or even to think. Slowly, the manifold horror that resonated in his mind came together as a single thought.
I am a monster.
Around these words, a cruel image formed, and the story of his life was rewritten. His mother had not merely been imprisoned, but had been raped during her captivity in Mordor. He was not his father's son. He had been born—for what? To continue Sauron's evil work? Then he, after all, was the reason that she had left, and they had stayed behind—how could the Valar allow such a terrible creature to pass into the West? Why had they allowed him to live at all?
A voice from the next room punctuated his tumultuous thoughts. "Come, my son! We shall be late!"
Findur started at the voice, a reminder that the rest of the world still existed. More appalling were the words. "My son," he repeated underneath his breath. He snatched up the letter and stormed into the room where Celeborn was waiting.
"Why do you call me that?" he cried, his voice breaking near the end. He hoped that his face did not reveal the anguish that he felt also.
Celeborn stared at him, agape. "Findur, what have I said?"
Findur found himself laughing, a hollow, mocking sound. "Of course. Play the concerned parent, Father. We both know the truth now. You can't bear me, and I do not blame you."
"How can you say this?" Celeborn demanded, his voice growing increasingly agitated. "If I have done anything..."
Findur shook his head and threw the letter down on the table. "Perhaps this will clarify a few things."
Celeborn picked up the letter and began to read. After a few moments, a terrible expression came over his face—horror mixed with grief, Findur thought. It was the closest he had ever seen the man to weeping.
"Then it's true," Findur said. His voice was suddenly thin and strained. He turned away from his father, towards the window, inky black with night, and leaned one hand against the windowpane. The glass was frigid, but he did not care. "So this is the grief that my mother fled," he continued. "My conception, my birth, my very existence. You should have let me die when you had the chance!"
Celeborn walked to him and put a hand on his shoulder, but again Findur moved out of reach. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see Celeborn's face, lines of grief etched across his face as if he were some aged, careworn mortal.
"I don't know where you found this. But your mother loves you, Findur," Celeborn said gently. "I love you."
"Then why did she leave?" Findur demanded. "Do not give excuses. I am not your son. I am but a tool of Sauron. I should never have been born."
"Do not say such things!" said Celeborn. "It is true; your mother suffered a great deal. You cannot blame yourself. It was very difficult for her to leave you."
"But she had to leave me behind, didn't she? It wasn't just Nenya. I can never go into the West. I will never see her again."
"At first, that was a concern," Celeborn admitted. "But you are not a monster, Findur. You are the son of Galadriel. My fears have long been allayed."
Findur's hand pressed harder against the windowpane as he replied. "How can you be so sure? Any moment, the darkness within me could awaken." He lifted his head, so that his piercing blue eyes met with Celeborn's soft gray pupils. Out of the tumult that was his thoughts, an idea awoke in him, and he realized what he must do. "I can't stay here."
Celeborn's eyes grew wide as Findur walked back to his room. Celeborn followed him. "Where, then, will you go?" he asked in a surprisingly even tone as Findur took out a satchel and began to pack.
"I don't know. But I won't remain here, pretending I'm something that I'm not. I'm a danger to everyone, can't you see that?"
"Do not do this," Celeborn pleaded, placing a hand on his arm to restrain him. Findur pulled away and continued packing. "Let us speak of this further. You are troubled; you are making a rash decision."
Findur closed the satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and strapped his sword to his side. He turned to face his father. "I am a man, am I not? Will you stop me from going?"
"No," Celeborn said quietly. "But I will ask you to reconsider. My son."
"Goodbye," Findur replied, and went swiftly out of the room, down the hallway, and out into the frigid night. Celeborn did not follow him.
The meadow before the house was deserted. For though it was a new moon, the stars bright and cold against the raven black sky, most of the folk of Imladris had chosen to stay within the warm house that night. Only a few strains of melody rose up from among the trees, and these were faint. For now, he could count on being alone.
A memory came to him now, and for a few moments, the meadow was warm and sunlit, and he a little boy clutching his mother's hand. She was wearing a wreath of flowers that he had woven for her earlier in the day. They dashed through the tall grass and wildflowers. A horn rang out in the distance. Men leading horses came towards them—warriors returning victorious from battle. When they were near, all the men hailed them, but one stopped, eyes ancient and grey. The eyes shone with love. The man and his mother embraced. The sun flooded down on them, their hair, their faces. "Findur," Mother said, "this is your father."
Gradually, the recollection faded. Findur again found himself in the middle of the field, unmoving. He realized that warm tears were streaming down his face, filling his mouth with a salty taste. Soon his sobbing was audible, heartfelt groans that left him small and quivering in the darkness.
He wished he could die.
Yet as soon as the thought came to him, he knew that he could not kill himself. It was not a matter of cowardice, or even hope for the future. He only knew that, beyond all reason, he did not want to end his life.
Besides, what relief would death bring? The Valar would not judge him kindly. Perhaps he would be damned to Mandos for all time like Fëanor, or maybe the Valar would concoct an even more terrible punishment. No, rather he would flee Imladris. He would go away somewhere, and live alone, or at least under an alias. Maybe he would go to Khazad-dûm, where he might learn the crafts of the Dwarves. Only this: he would not become powerful or well-known, or even especially talented. He would rather die than be a pawn in Sauron's plans.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps running towards him. "Findur!" a voice called.
Findur looked up and saw Celebrían. She was wearing an oversized cloak, perhaps Elrond's. Her eyes were large and watery, and her bottom lip was trembling. "What's wrong with you?" she demanded, her voice high-pitched and slightly muffled by the cumbersome cloak. "Father said you two had an argument and that you ran out, and he wouldn't tell me why." She paused, and her frown became more pronounced. "You've been crying."
"Leave me," he replied wearily. "I think you know what Celeborn and I fought about."
"Celeborn—" Celebrían began, but she peered closely at him, and realization flickered over her face. "Oh, Findur," she said gently.
"You pity me," he replied. "And you fear me. Sister, just go."
Celebrían's face grew stern. "You do not know me very well if you think I either pity or fear you," she replied. "Please, let us speak of this. I don't know how you found out, and I don't pretend to understand how you must feel, but I love you. We all do."
Findur did not reply. A part of him wanted to accept her offer, to go back to the warm house, to apologize to everyone and pretend none of this had happened. But this was impossible. There was no use in pretending—it could never be the same again.
"I'm sorry," he said, turned on his heel, and ran past the border of the meadow in the woods. He thought that he heard Celebrían running after him, but eventually the sound faded and he was alone in the forest.
At first, the climb was easy, for there was little incline and the trees formed wide avenues. However, as time passed and the ascent grew steeper, the foliage was denser, and Findur was hard-pressed to find a path. Several times, he found himself unable to climb further and was forced to turn back and choose a new course.
Twilight shifted to night, and Findur felt his emotions settling. His breath and pulse slowed down in accordance. At the same time, his senses grew keener, and his mind became more alert. The shadows of the forest came alive with sight and sound: animals scurrying through the foliage, a flitter of black wings against the starlit sky, the sound of wind through the leaves like a mother hushing her child to sleep. The stars had become a pantheon of lights in the black sky. He looked up at them as he walked. He had learned all of the constellations when he was young, and silently named them now—Menelvagor, Soronúmë, Anarríma, Remirrath, the Valacirca. But what comfort might the stars of Elbereth bring to the son of Sauron? Could even the brightest jewel pierce the shadow that was his birthright? He sighed and turned his eyes back towards the ground. The trees were thinning out again, he realized. He was almost there.
It was with both relief and sorrow that, some minutes later, he reached the end of the woods and found himself amidst a sloping green plain, mountains looming in the distance. For the first time in his life, he had left Imladris.
opening quote:
For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the Stars,
from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds,
and all paths are drowned deep in shadow
(The Fellowship of the Ring, "Farewell to Lórien")
1. Lórinand - an older name of Lórien
2. 30 Hrívë - This is the equivalent of December 20 in our modern calendar.
