Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I don't.
Timeframe: T.A. 210
Rating (this chapter): PG-13 for violence.
Chapter VII: Shadow of the Past
Most of the time, he could forget. He could put the past behind him and be Morfindel, husband of Liniel, blacksmith of Greenwood. He was, after all, an ordinary man: tall, dark-haired, well-built, possessing a serious but pleasant demeanor. True, his eyes were a bright shade of blue, deep and penetrating with tinges of sorrow. True, even now the people of Greenwood murmured of the mystery shrouding his past, and, in some people's eyes, he was still a stranger, however much they appreciated his skill. He became accustomed to these truths, and was content with his life in Thranduil's realm. Yet he could not forget his life before Greenwood indefinitely.
It was in the simplest things that he rediscovered his past: the quality of noonday light streaming through the summer foliage—the sweet fragrance of flowers perfuming the air—a haunting melody rising up from the nearby village. At these, his heart would flood with memories, and he would again feel the burning agony of having all that he knew demolished in a single moment, would see the glinting stars glaring down upon him as he fled from Imladris. He would think of the people he had known, of Celebrían and Lord Elrond and his mother. Sometimes, he even allowed himself to recall Celeborn, but such thoughts were fleeting, a shadowy recollection of silver hair and wise eyes. Never a father.
When these memories returned, Findur found himself unable to concentrate on any meaningful task. He would spend hours sitting alone, possessed by so many thoughts, a few of them fair, many terrible and consuming. At these times, not even Liniel could comfort him. She had learned to let him alone until such fits had passed, demonstrating a lack of persistence that was rare for her.
Once, when such a mood had taken him, he found himself sitting alone by the mere, gazing at his rippled reflection in the water. His eyes burned with a fiery light, but his face was unusually pallid, a strange, sickly contrast against dark hair. Never had he seen such a distasteful image in his life, the product of grief and an inevitable source of grief.
Suddenly he had an urge to leap into the mere, to break the shadowy reflection and end all this madness. Though aware of the irrationality of his thoughts, the image and the notion stayed with him for a long time. He wondered what would come to pass if he gave up his life. He imagined Liniel's reaction.
He wondered if he looked like his father.
"Morfindel, will you ever come out of this shop?"
Findur looked up from his worktable. Liniel stood in the doorway, hands on hips. The smell of freshly baked bread was about her, a byproduct of one of her few endeavors into domesticity.
"Just a few minutes," he said.
Liniel gave him a skeptical look. Her eyes fell on the rows of plowshares, nails, sconces, arrow heads, and the like which were cooling beside the forge. "You've finished all of your work," she observed. "What are you doing now?"
"Just sketching out designs using some of the techniques Kali showed me."
"The Dwarf?"
"Yes, the Dwarf. Just because you're angry at my preoccupation with work doesn't give you an excuse to feign ignorance of my business contacts."
Kali certainly was a frequent enough visitor to warrant name recognition. Smith of Khazad-dûm and sometimes trader with King Thranduil, he had met Findur some years ago on his way to Thranduil's hall in the east. Discovering with delight that the elf actually possessed a fervor towards crafts almost equal to his own, Kali was quick to make friends with Findur. Now he stopped at Findur's shop nearly every time he made a trip to Greenwood. He had become Findur's main supplier of tools and equipment, although for actual raw materials Findur was obliged to trade with Khazad-dûm itself. In addition, they often shared metalworking techniques and insights. It was Kali who first introduced Findur to the crafting of jewelry and fine ornamentation. Not only was it a pleasant pastime and a source of income, but his work had received the notice of the King of Greenwood himself, who was well-known for his appreciation of precious metals and gems.
Liniel, disbelieving of her husband's previous assertions of speed, entered the small, dusty shop and sat down on a wooden stool beside Findur's worktable. "Let me see," she said, peering over the drafts that Findur had drawn of a necklace, delicate links connected in intricate patterns to make up the chain. White jewels would actually be encrusted within the chain, so minute that they were practically imperceptible in the initial sketches. In practice, however, they would give the entire chain a shimmering gleam.
"It's wonderful," said Liniel. "Like something from Gondolin, or Eregion."
Findur smiled. "Such arts are beyond my skill. They lie more in your domain, my love. It is only a necklace."
"Will you make it?" As she spoke, Liniel began to rummage through the other drawings that were strewn out upon the table. Findur swiftly took one of the pieces of parchment from the bottom of the stack and put it away in a drawer, careful to keep the inked side away from Liniel's view. Liniel's eyes followed his movements, but she said nothing of it. "Will you?" she pressed.
"I'll at least attempt it. The next time that Kali passes through—" But Findur halted in mid-sentence. "Do you hear something?"
Liniel shook her head. "What is it?"
Findur listened. It was the sound of hoofbeats.
"That's strange," said Liniel, when he told her this. "Hardly anyone travels on horseback here. It's simply not practical, after all, unless you're a skilled rider."
Together, they ventured out to the path, and listened carefully. Now Liniel, too, could hear the distant rhythm. Soon, horse and rider could be seen in the distance, rapidly approaching the cottage. Gradually, however, they slowed.
"How odd," said Liniel. "Who could possibly want to see us?"
Wine was scarce in Greenwood Forest, where the climate was no good for grapes, but tonight they drank it in plenty. After all, Liniel had said as she unearthed a well-aged bottle in the cellar, wine should be saved for an important occasion, and tonight certainly qualified under that category.
It still seemed unreal, and every few seconds Findur wondered if all his memories, beginning with the messenger's arrival, were not part of some great, fantastic dream from which he would shortly wake. Yet here before him lay the letter that he had received, both signed and sealed with the mark of Thranduil, a green rune stylized to resemble a tree. He picked it up and reread it, aloud for added effect:
" 'King Thranduil, sovereign lord of Greenwood the Great, requests the presence of Morfindel and his household to a banquet honoring the 210th year of his Majesty's reign...' " He paused and looked up at Liniel. "That's rather morbid, don't you think? In effect, he's celebrating his father's death."
"Morfindel! Honestly!" Liniel did her best to frown and glare disapprovingly. In the end, she was forced to hide her amused smile by taking a long draught of wine. "I think it is you, my dear," she concluded as she set her goblet on the table, "who is the morbid one."
"Ah, this from the woman whose paintings are full of blood and corpses," he retorted in mock annoyance, his blue eyes sparkling.
"Only occasionally," she insisted, toying with her bread in such a way that Findur worried that she might hurl it at him. "And I rarely any paint any more, so your point is nil. Now go on reading. I want to hear it again."
He raised an eyebrow at her demanding eagerness. If their bantering was not in jest, it might irritate him. "As you wish," he said with a sycophantic smile. "Where was I... oh, yes. 'A banquet honoring the 210th year of his Majesty's reign, to take place in the halls of the King on the 40th day of iavas, in light of his celebrated achievements in the arts of jewel-smithing and metal-smithing. (1) Accommodations will be provided for all guests."
There was a long pause, during which Liniel smiled into her empty goblet, her image refracting multifold through the glass like a prism, and Findur smiled at Liniel, at her deep gray eyes bright with some lovely secret and her dark hair falling about her shoulders, shimmering like silk in the light of the fire.
"It is everything we have hoped for," she murmured, her chin resting on the backs of her hands. "You're sure to receive a post in Thranduil's court, you must know that."
"We cannot make assumptions," Findur began, but Liniel cut him off.
"Morfindel," she said in a slow, lucid tone. "You are practically the only blacksmith in the entire Wood. Greenwood has not had a royal smith since the days of Oropher's reign. You have been given commissions from the court, and Thranduil has always been tremendously pleased with your work. He has just invited us to a banquet. What does that suggest to you?"
"Of course it is a possibility. I am just being realistic."
"No, you are being ridiculous."
Findur shrugged. "Perhaps. For the time being, I will not worry about it." He looked down at his plate and realized that, compared to Liniel, he had eaten little of his food. He picked up his roll, bit into it, and made a face.
Liniel scowled at him. "Come, it isn't that bad."
"No, it's not," he admitted. "I just wanted to see your reaction. You're so amusing when you're angry."
Liniel opened her mouth to retort, but instead burst out in laughter. She stood up and picked up Findur's empty goblet and her own dishes. "Put your plate in the kitchen when you are through. Arandulë has her day off today, remember. I'll go fill the washtub, but it's your turn to wash dishes."
As she walked away, Findur felt a contentedness wash over him, a sharp contrast to his previous apprehension. "Ridiculous," he repeated under his breath. Liniel was right. His cynicism was unwarranted. Why shouldn't Thranduil hire him? He deserved a chance to exercise his talents fully.
You deserve nothing, a voice within him hissed. But he brushed it away, finished his roll, and went to join Liniel in the kitchen.
The day of their departure dawned warm and fair. Not a single cloud marred the bright morning sky. It was as if the autumn, in line with its weary, sluggish nature, had dozed off for a few moments, so that summer had slipped past him to offer the world a few days of illusory summer.
Liniel spent the morning rushing about the house, searching for misplaced articles of clothing and half-forgotten objects that had suddenly proved essential to their journey. Although she was for the most part meticulous, she had a habit of casting aside items that, at the time, she deemed useless, and later was in dire need of them. At first Findur helped her in her search, for, though outwardly he was a bit of a slob, he had an excellent sense of organization; he could leave his possessions in a pile and later recall exactly where a certain small item was among them. Naturally, after eight score years together, this knack applied to Liniel's things as well. However, when her mode of searching degraded from a methodical hunt to pure guesswork, he found time to slip away and perform a certain necessary task that he had been putting off for days.
"Findur, you are a sentimental fool," he muttered to himself as he stood in the hallway, admiring the contrast of the crimson blood against the pale, jewel-studded sand in Liniel's landscape of Alqualondë. He lifted the painting off the wall, sat down with it upon a nearby bench, pried off the backing, slipped the letter into the frame, and secured the backing again. It was an ideal hiding place, even apart from the dramatic implications. It seemed hazardous to bring his mother's letter with him to Thranduil's hall; indeed, he had been foolish not to better guard it these past years. No one, not even Liniel, would ever dismantle this painting. The letter would remain within. His secret was safe.
Naturally, he had chosen a painting that sensationalized the occasion—both painting and letter were symbols of the utter irrationalism and contradiction that was his life (Findur, son of the Dark Lord and the noble Kinslayers, he thought with a wry smirk). It was also a forceful reminder that his self-loathing was not always rational. Galadriel had, in fact, fought on the side of the Teleri, her close kin, in the First Kinslaying; their blood was by no means on either of their hands.
In all honesty, the painting had much more to do with Liniel that with him. It was a vestige of the time when she had harbored a significant amount of anger towards the Noldor, who, as she saw it, were responsible for many of the sorrows that had befallen Middle-earth. In a roundabout way, she blamed them for her parents' death. That was, of course, many years ago. According to those people of the village with whom he was friendly, Liniel had been brooding and reclusive ever since she came to this part of Greenwood, a trend that grew worse after her mother's disappearance. It had only been with their marriage that these tendencies had passed. It perplexed Findur to think that he could have possibly induced such changes, but it pleased him to know that his marriage was not a nightmare. He recalled an old children's story he had heard when he was young, about a man who turned everything he touched into dust. He had often feared that he was that man. Perhaps it was not so.
The sound of footsteps at the door startled him, and he immediately stood up and hung the picture back up. His hands had barely left the frame as Arandulë entered the house along with a young man, Halion, with whom she had been spending a considerable amount of time lately. Neither seemed aware of the implications of his position, and he quickly moved his hand away.
"Hello," said Arandulë. "We were on our way back to the village, and I thought I would stop and see what work it is that you need me to do while you are gone."
Findur thought for a moment. "I believe I left a list in the kitchen, but I cannot guarantee that it is still there. Liniel is tearing apart the house in her last minute packing."
On cue, Liniel's voice rose up from the other room. "Where is that wretched stocking?"
Arandulë giggled, and Findur sighed. "I had better go and help her," he said, excusing himself with a nod. As he made his way to the other end of the house, he listened contentedly to his wife's small noises of impatience. Absurd, how such small idiosyncrasies made him love her the more.
Liniel was unusually giddy as they readied for the banquet. When Findur was dressed and ready to depart, Liniel was still sitting at the dressing table, fussing with her clothes and hair, talking and laughing all the time.
"What do you think of this one?" she asked, holding up a silver pendant with a small white jewel against her green dress.
"Everything looks beautiful on you," he assured her.
Liniel rolled her eyes, but she smiled nonetheless. "Flatterer," she teased. "Or do you simply want me to hurry? Don't worry. We have plenty of time."
"I know. I'm anxious." I realized that he was pacing and sat down in the chair beside the dressing table. "It is an honor to be here, and I would like to make a good impression."
"You already have," Liniel said. "If you hadn't, we would never have been invited to begin with." She paused to riffle through her jewelry again, coming up this time with a dark red stone dangling from a golden chain. He had made the setting for her only a few weeks ago, and now she donned it with a satisfied smile. "We can show off the good craftsmanship," she joked as she clasped the chain around her neck. Yet he doubted her words were entirely in jest.
"Who's anxious now?" he exclaimed. "Thranduil has seen plenty of my work. My wife need not be a walking advertisement."
"It hardly hurts." Liniel adjusted the jewel slightly in the mirror, and turned to face him. "Think, Morfindel," she said, her eyes shining. "This night will change everything. When you get a position as—"
"If I get a position."
Liniel laughed and leaned forward to kiss him. "Not this again. Thranduil himself said that he has not seen such talent since days long past. There's no need to be so modest."
"In some places, modesty is held as a virtue," he replied.
"Ah, well, you cannot expect such decorum from the backward elves of Greenwood," Liniel said lightly. "I'm sure your modesty would be better appreciated in Imladris, or wherever it is you high folk come from."
Findur stiffened at her words. They did not mean anything, of course. Liniel and he had a nearly unspoken understanding about his past; it was not to be disclosed, nor could it safely be. Liniel was not prodding; she was simply teasing him. After all, why shouldn't he come from Imladris? His accent and his lack of exposure to Silvan culture indicated such a locale. It was a natural choice on her part.
Liniel observed his deep frown and knit eyebrows. "What is it?"
Findur relaxed his face and managed to smile at her reassuringly. "I suppose I'm still nervous."
Liniel threw him a skeptical glance as she turned back to the vanity, scooping up her jewelry and placing the pile into her trinket box. "Don't be. Everything will be wonderful. You'll see."
Just as the sun began to set, casting a soft gray hue upon the light that streamed through the westerly windows, an attendant arrived to escort them to the banquet hall. He led them deep into the heart of the caverns, the passageways growing broader and grander at each turn. Findur stared in awe at the wide doorways and tall pillars hewn from the living rock. The walls were carven with beautiful patterns traced with silver and studded with gems. The labyrinth corridors were intricate and endless, and he soon abandoned his attempts to deduce where they were in relation to their rooms.
Juxtaposed to his wonder was the unavoidable sense that he was beholding a paltry model, as like to the glory of Menegroth of old as a boy's play-sword was to an elven blade in the hand of a warrior. A gemmed star design upon the wall was a poor witness to Thingol's throne room, its vaulted ceiling arrayed with jewels in the likeness of the stars of Valimar. And now Menegroth has gone under the sea, he thought, an audible sigh escaping his lips. Liniel put a hand upon his shoulder and gave him a questioning look. He returned her look with eyes that assured, "It's nothing."
Nothing and everything, he corrected himself. Both words applied to the memory of the elves of Middle-earth: a tenuous whisper in the winds of time, the slurred dream-murmurs of a dying people. It need not have been reduced to this, he thought as he followed the silvery lines of a carven eagle with his eyes. Why have our kingdoms dwindled to empty shadow-lands? What has happened to my people?
The eagle did not reply, his vacant stone eyes regarding Findur with profound indifference.
After some minutes of walking, they came to a great arched doorway, runes chiseled above the arc. Their guide led them past the threshold into a lively hall of light and laughter. The circular hall had a lofty domed ceiling. Red torches hung about its perimeter, casting a merry light upon the room and its occupants. A long table was set with all manners of meats and dishes, including a great slab of venison and several bottles of wine imported from the acclaimed vineyards of Dorwinion. King Thranduil was seated at the head of the table. He was a formidable-looking man, with blazing eyes and golden hair that shone in the torchlight beneath a crown of berries and red leaves.
To Findur's utter astonishment, the king stood up as they walked through the doorway, hailing them with a lifted hand and a smile. "So we meet again, Morfindel," he said when they came within speaking range. "And this must be your wife." He nodded in Liniel's direction. "I am afraid I do not know your name, my lady."
"I am Liniel, daughter of Celahir, my king," said Liniel with a nod and smile, meeting the king's eyes.
"Celahir," Thranduil repeated thoughtfully. His sharp gray eyes suddenly took on a somber expression. "I knew your father. He was a good man."
"Yes, he was."
"It is an honor to be invited, my lord," Findur said as they walked together to the table.
Thranduil, again donning his merry smile, shook his head. "The honor is all mine. Such a gifted craftsman is a rarity in Greenwood. Your work excels anything that I have seen of elven-make. Come, take a seat and enjoy the feast. Perhaps we can speak further after the meal." With that, he sat down again, leaving a surprised Findur and a contented Liniel to be seated.
Once situated, Findur scanned the rows of faces around him. At the head of the table sat Thranduil, and beside him, a lovely woman with dark hair and a shrewd glint in her eyes: Thranduil's wife, he supposed. On either side of them sat a few important-looking men, most likely Thranduil's councilors, as well as some members of the royal family, distinguishable by their golden hair. After them, lesser councilors, then a handful of foreign guests: a few dwarves who looked altogether out of place with their bright mail and massive beards, and some elves whose dress gave them a rather foreign look, perhaps from Belfalas and Lórinand...
And Imladris.
Findur felt his heart clench as he stared in astonishment at the familiar face of Narion, the master of the forge of Imladris: the dark hair and uncanny green eyes, mouth drawn up in a characteristic half-smile as he spoke unenthusiastically to a nearby elf. Findur immediately stood, turning his face from the table so that Narion might not see him.
Liniel looked at her husband. "What is it?"
"Quick. We must go," Findur hissed, taking Liniel's hand and hastening to the door.
Liniel wrenched her hand out of his, but she followed him into the hallway.
"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded once they were out of hearing range. She grabbed his arm in an effort to slow him down, but Findur instead quickened his pace. "What on earth is wrong? Look, it we go back now—"
"If I had stayed tonight, everything would have been ruined," said Findur. "That is all I can tell you. I have a good reason. Please, just trust me."
"Reason," Liniel repeated skeptically. "How, may I ask, is reason involved when a man abruptly leaves a banquet and can't even explain himself to his own wife?"
Findur did not reply. They had come to an intersection, and he was trying to remember which passage led to their rooms. He finally noticed a familiar carving on the wall of the corridor to their left, and opted to continue in that direction.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"I'm listening," said Findur softly.
But Liniel did not reply for several moments. "It's your past," she said finally. "I can't fathom what, but it's something you've hidden from me. I'm tired of this, Morfindel. Why can't you simply tell me the truth?"
You would not say such things if you knew, he thought idly.
"...it's utterly unreasonable to expect me to blindly follow you. You leave with some insane notion in your head..."
You would despise the very sight of me.
"...jeopardizing our entire future, without the slightest hint of a reasonable explanation..."
You would wish me a corpse.
"...and now you expect me to trust you?"
"Yes!" he cried, coming to a halt. "I am your husband and you are my wife. Isn't that reason enough for you? Now leave me be!" He sped up again, leaving Liniel behind.
After a lengthy period of time spent navigating the maze-like hallways, Findur arrived in his chambers. He felt suddenly, inexplicably weary, and took a seat in the main room, closing his eyes in what he knew would only be a temporary repose.
Several minutes later, he heard light footsteps in the exterior hallway and the opening and closing of the door. A few moments later, he felt Liniel's presence beside him. She sat on the arm of the chair and wrapped her arms around him, leaning against him so that he could fell her heartbeat, a light, steady pulse against his shoulder blade. He opened his eyes in surprise. This was not the greeting that he had expected.
They shared a few moments of companionable silence. Then Liniel spoke. "Oh, Morfindel," she murmured, smoothing his hair with her fingertips. "Will you not reveal what darkness troubles you so, that you will say aught of it, even to me?"
"I would tell you if I could," he said in a measured voice that barely masked his impatience. "It is not a secret I can share, for your sake as well as mine."
Liniel gave him a sharp look. "If you fear that I lack discretion, you do not know me very well. I do not see what harm it can do if just we two know. Nothing you can say will make me think of you any differently. Please, darling."
Findur felt anger again wash over him, a burning annoyance at Liniel's persistence, at her complete lack of comprehension when it came to the gravity of the situation. He stood, disentangling her arms from about himself. "You don't understand. You make promises about what you know nothing about." Didn't she listen? He could never tell her, not Liniel or anyone else. And why did she not leave?
Liniel stood, but she showed no indications of leaving the room. "My love, please," she said once more, softly but firmly.
"Will you not do as I say?" Findur shouted. He struck her across the face with all the strength that he could muster.
Liniel stumbled back from the impact of the blow, crumpling against a chair. As Findur watched her, he felt a sudden lurch in his stomach, a repulsion against his own actions that filled his entire being with numbness. His hands were trembling. He wanted to help her up, but he found that he could only stand in place as she stabilized herself. Blood was trickling from her nose. For a moment, her eyes were liquid with tears, but this was swiftly replaced by a cold glare that pierced Findur's heart.
"Get out." Her voice came fierce and sudden, such a definite command that it did not occur to him that there was any alternative.
1. 40 iavas approximately September 10 in our calendar.
Big ugly canonical error alert: the Halls of Thranduil didn't exist until well into the Third Age. Moreover, I actually realized this halfway through writing it, and decided that the artistic message it conveyed was more important than the small detail I was butchering. Looking back, I would not have made this choice, but it's rather too late now.
