Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeline: T.A. 265
Rating (this chapter): PG-13 for language and references to rape.
Chapter XV: Necromancer
At the break of the day, when the sky was a pale, clear blue and the sound of gulls could be heard from the bank of the Ringló, the messenger arrived.
He was of elven-kind, that was certain, though he was sterner-faced than many. His dark hair flowed behind him as his steed galloped down the road that wound its way from the Ered Nimrais to the meeting of the rivers. Something about his face and poise was vaguely familiar, Legolas thought, with a grace and a sharpness to his eyes that bespoke nobility. He had known someone, once, with those eyes. He couldn't think who.
The rider halted some yards away and dismounted. He nodded in greeting, and Legolas returned the gesture, if not without trepidation. He hoped there was no business with which he was to be troubled.
But why was he in such a foul mood? It was a beautiful day. If business had come, then it had come. He had hoped not to fall into another slump of despair, not so soon after the last one. It was insufferable, living one's life from gloomy year to gloomy year, when the world was so lovely and there was so much to see.
Lovely, yes, but the sorrow was there nonetheless, bleak and inescapable, a wasteland waiting to consume him.
He shook his head and attended the rider, who approached him now with a keen, intelligent expression. "I am seeking the Prince of Greenwood," he said, betraying little emotion.
Business.
"Then you have come to the wrong place," Legolas replied just as coolly. His heart was racing. "The Prince of Greenwood is dead, and I, who once held that title also, am no longer of that realm."
"Then you are Legolas, Thranduil's son?" asked the rider.
"None other." Ruefully, it occurred to him that his tone was ungracious, if not blatantly hostile. "Forgive me," he amended, "if I do not greet you with words of kindness. I mean no injury. But I am no longer of Greenwood, and am no longer concerned with its business."
"That much I have heard."
Legolas found his eyes narrowing. "You seem to know much of me. But what of you? Who are you, and what brings you here?"
"Forgive me," said the rider. "I am Elrohir, Elrond's son. I come with word from him concerning larger matters in this world. Many things have come to pass since you retreated to this land."
And so it began. Legolas tried not to look too miserable.
"Before I speak further," said Elrohir, "my horse is wearied from the journey. Though I cannot stay more than a few hours, I would tend to her needs. Surely there are stables in Edhellond?"
"Yes," replied Legolas, feeling his manner relax. "Only a half-mile hence." He motioned to the road as it wound towards the main settlement. "And you? Surely I can offer you refreshment?"
Elrohir brushed the thought away with a shake of his hand. "I ate only a little while ago, and am untired." He placed a hand against the glistening gray flank of his steed. "But let us go then, and I can tell you of the business that has brought me here."
"Do not expect me to be grateful for its coming," Legolas warned him. But his animosity was at this point merely show. He could not help but like this rider, whose manner encompassed the gentility of Elves and the straightforwardness of Men.
"I did not expect it," replied Elrohir easily, and both suddenly smiled, and began the walk to the stable.
"I did not know that Elrond had a son," noted Legolas as they walked. In all truth, he had heard little of Imladris, or any other place, for that matter, for many years. Not since he was a child, really, and in those days he had had little interest in far lands and their affairs.
"Two, actually," Elrohir corrected. "I have a brother, Elladan. He is on other business now. And we have a sister, Arwen. Now I am amazed that you have not heard of her; her reputation for being the terror of Imladris is surely famous." He chuckled at his own recollections. Legolas could only surmise what thoughts now filled his mind: old childhood pranks, perhaps; amusing family episodes whose humor was limited in the eyes of outsiders.
Legolas's gaze fell blankly upon the horizon. He thought of his own sister, Ithreth. He thought of Lórimir.
"Your business, then," he said softly.
Elrohir studied Legolas's face. "It is hardly a tale for bright skies and pleasant company," he said. "And you look out of spirits. But I will speak of it as frankly and swiftly as I may.
"Another war, however brief, seems to be on its way. For some years, Arnor has been the subject of constant raids, and a pressure at its north-eastern border. A new people dwell there, Black Númenoreans, perhaps, or men at least whose loyalty to the sons of Elendil was passing fleet. Other men are with them, rustics and Hill-men, and it seems that they are seducing even Arnorians, rivals of the court whose ambitions have pushed them to treason. Elrond has pledged his support to Arnor if war indeed comes."
"And what has this to do with me?" asked Legolas dubiously.
Elrohir frowned. "A... complication seems to have arisen. It is increasingly clear that this upstart people are not without outside aid. That... the new settlement in Eregion has been providing that aid."
They had come to the stable now. Legolas halted before its doors. For a moment he could not speak.
"Tell me," he murmured after a time, "that this is some terrible mistake. Tell me it is not true..."
"I am afraid I cannot do that. We have seen Arnor's invaders in the very livery of Eregion. There can be little mistake."
"I see." Vacantly, Legolas led Elrohir into the stable. The gray horse trotted after them.
Legolas gave instructions to the stablemaster on the care of Elrohir's steed. The two then left the stable, sitting themselves side by side on a bale of hay.
"They would not do it." Legolas realized that anger stirred in his heart, an anger like he had not felt for years uncounted. "Is this what Elrond thinks of the people of Greenwood? What... what my father did has nothing to do with my people, a peaceful people, and honorable. Did we not die beside the Noldor and Sindar, upon the Dagorlad? Why do you judge us so harshly?"
He turned to find Elrohir smiling softly.
"Your people," he repeated. "That is what I hoped you might say. But you have judged wrongly. Imladris holds no grudge against your people, even those in Eregion. Of course they would not treat with Arnor's enemies knowingly. But we know little of this leader of theirs, this Naurhir. My father does not trust his intentions. If he somehow managed to deceive him..."
"That is ridiculous," said Legolas. "I have less knowledge of Naurhir than you do. He is only a name to me. I have not dwelled in Greenwood since childhood, and cannot fathom what kind of leader might direct its people to such a place. A Noldo, maybe, and perhaps one of little discretion, as the Noldor of Eregion have proved themselves in earlier times. But still an Elf."
"Maybe you are right," said Elrohir. "Maybe Naurhir is an Elf. But a malicious Elf, then, or one easily beguiled. In my knowledge, one such there has not been since Maeglin, but nothing is impossible."
Idly, Legolas plucked a straw from the bale he sat on, twisting it in his fingers. "I still don't understand what you want me to do," he said shortly. "Why are you telling me all of this?"
Elrohir paused for a moment. "Elrond has not committed any force to Arnor yet," he said. "Indeed, Arnor has not yet decided to act, and even if they do, he must investigate the situation more thoroughly. But if this becomes more than a border skirmish... if this new settlement calls upon Eregion, its ally, for aid..."
"Elf will not fight elf," said Legolas. "Eregion will not fight."
"They will not fight elves," said Elrohir. "But that does not mean they will not fight at all. If Naurhir convinces them that Arnor is their enemy, and does not warm them of Imladris's participation, they will march. Even if there is no armed conflict between my people and yours - and Imladris will lay down its arms if such a thing seems likely - only sorrow can come of this, Legolas, and enmity where it need not exist."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Return home," said Elrohir earnestly. "I know you have suffered, friend. And I know you are yet young. But your people need you. Take the crown and lead the emigrants in Eregion back from their folly."
Legolas couldn't think of a word to say. His first reaction was a vehement "no". Return to Greenwood? All that he could recall seemed like so many bad memories. His brother's death. His mother's grief over the loss of her son. Her estrangement from his father. And then, departure, leaving everything he had known. Even here, his only sorrows had emerged from Greenwood. Mother's, Ithreth's, his father's departure. He thought back to that night, the night that Legolas had forgiven him. Father had asked him to take the crown. "You are my heir," he had said.
"You will have no heirs," Legolas had replied, and the wounds that had lain between them were at that moment sharp and apparent as they had ever been.
He realized that he wanted to go back.
He loved Greenwood. He loved the forest, endless and beautiful and unchanging, and the people, his people. In his sorrow, he did not mourn what he had found there, beneath the trees of his home, but what he had lost. He had lost Greenwood, its beauty warped by the grandeur that his father had insisted on in the days before Lórimir's death. Warped by the loss of his brother. Of his family.
He could not call them back. But what else could he do... sit in Edhellond and rot until the world's end? He hadn't understood until now why he had not followed the others into the West. Now he knew. He was still in love with Middle-earth.
"I'll go," he said, and for the first time since he had come to Edhellond, a spark of hope lit in his heart.
Elrohir sprang up from his makeshift seat. "I am glad." He began for the stable.
Legolas was a bit startled. "You're leaving already?"
"As I said," said Elrohir, "I do not have much time." He turned to look back at Legolas. "My father will send word if anything more is required of you. You would do best to ride to Lórinand now. Some of your people dwell there under Amroth, and if all goes well, others will be joining them soon. You can take counsel with Amroth, and proceed from there as you think best." He paused. "You are ready?"
"I think so. Yes." His head was reeling as he watched Elrohir enter the stable. Preparations must be made, and messages sent, and... would they receive him, the people he had left behind? Who would listen to him, the youngest son of a king who had abandoned his kingdom? Even if they did, what could he possibly do to save the people of Eregion from their own madness?
A few moments later, Elrohir rode out upon his horse. Legolas bid him farewell. Images of woods and fires and banners fluttered through his mind. And as Elrohir sped away towards the horizon, Legolas lifted his long hand and cried, "May Elbereth protect you!", and he knew not why.
The night before he was to leave, Curuan had approached him after dinner.
"Meet me tomorrow before dawn," the old man had told him. "I will be waiting in the shop. Do not speak to anyone of our meeting."
Now Findur dressed in his darkened room. The air was cold and still, and his every movement seemed to make an unbearable amount of noise. He glanced sideways at Liniel's sleeping form, at the dark hair that framed her face. He felt a spasm go through his body, the vaguest intimation of fear.
Once he had dressed, his clothing like a coarse, ill-fitting shroud about bare skin, he slipped through the door to the courtyard. Across the yard, the street ran like a sleek white snake through the blue-black night. He walked out upon it and began for the shop. His every movement seemed mechanical, like the smooth, systematic motion of a forge-bellows.
And how silent the night was! It was as if time had stopped, and he alone forged on into the emptiness. He was keenly aware of his own potential, the strength of his hands, the span of his step, the acuity of his mind. His body was a pulsing center, arcs of possibility radiating out into the waiting void. Break a branch, and all would be complete.
The door of the shop was open. Findur entered slowly. He scanned the darkened interior, picking out Curuan amidst the clutter. The old man supported himself by gripping one of the tall white pillars that were mathematically arranged about the space Around him, strange and lovely silhouettes posed in the darkness, tables and tools and anvils which, in mere minutes, would become their ordinary, daylight selves.
"Sit," said Curuan. The hand that clutched the pillar was shaking; whether from fear or from physical weakness, Findur did not know.
"Why?" asked Findur, his voice strong and clear. He felt the sense of power within him growing. It coursed through him, running through the muscles of his arms, into his hands, waiting, waiting for release.
"Sit," said Curuan. He drew closer, resting on a nearby stool.
Findur shrugged. "All right." He took a seat beside Curuan. "Why have you called me—?"
Curuan interrupted him. "Wait."
Findur waited. The room was silent. Too silent. He could hear his own heart beating within him like a drum.
"I don't understand," he said. He gazed out into the darkness. He felt the separateness of his body, shrouded in the darkness like a lonely corpse.
"Wait," said Curuan.
Look at me. Even this body, strong, healthy, unblemished, is nothing but a shroud... a shell.
"A shell. Hmm. Poetic, yes. And true, you are strong. But you overestimate yourself, Findur."
The voice was not Curuan's.
Findur froze then. His hands clenched upon the sides of his chair, and he could not relax his grip. He felt something within him, or with him, or around him, not a thing, but a presence, a fire and a shadow and a voice, and it had spoken his name.
With a start, he understood.
"Sauron," he whispered.
Curuan was chuckling softly when it was over.
"So, Findur," he said slowly, "do you understand now?"
Findur looked up. For a moment, he was startled. Curuan's face was smoother. He sat erect on his stool. And his thin, scraggly hair was now a thick gray.
But it was just like the Voice had said. Power was a force, to be given, to be received. The power that had bound Curuan, that had clothed him in that mask, had simply returned to the source.
Curuan had spoken, but he was not looking at Findur. Instead, he was looking at his hands, strong hands, in the sunlight. Sunlight, for it was dawn now, and a pale light streamed through the windows. How long had Findur sat here, motionless, taking in the secrets and truths that he had sought for so long?
Now, in the early morning light, he understood the fragments of memory that lay behind him, and understood what they meant, and what he was. He had seen the pattern, the significance, the inevitability of his life. What had struck Findur the most, however, was the last thing that the Voice had shown him.
He had seen the end of the world.
He had to say, it was not quite what he had expected. There was no final battle, no cataclysmic blow. No real end at all, for that matter. It just... withered.
Entropy. There was no word for it in the Elven tongue. And yet he had seen it for himself. He had seen the universe, and he had seen Arda, one speck amidst a swirling whirlwind. Chaotic and magnificent it had seemed to him, but utterly irredeemable.
Arda's fate was death by fire. Nothing impressive. Just a gradual decline, and the sun's slow swelling to a great red flame, a flame that consumed the turning world easily, like a candle might extinguish a moth.
That was the end that Sauron's Voice had showed him.
And Eä itself? Ilúvatar's beloved creation, grand and glorious though it was, merely thinned out, and cooled, and stopped, a cold unmoving graveyard of dead stars and dark worlds.
There was no end, only an end to beauty, and no death but the death of everything worth living for.
"Do you understand?" Curuan had asked, and his words rang out into the stone hall.
Yes, he understood the logistics of it: Curuan had been Sauron's all along, and so, for that matter, had Findur. Oh, Celeborn had spoken of free will, and Galadriel of the new life she would make for her precious son, but both had grievously underestimated the reach of the Dark Lord's hand. What sort of fool would place his most secret weapon in a poorly defended dungeon at the outer perimeter of his realm?
The Lord of Mordor had not merely planned for the possibility of Galadriel's rescue. He had counted on it. Findur had been a provision, useless if Mordor was victorious, but incalculably precious if it did not. Thus had things fallen, and therefore had Findur survived, nurtured in Imladris, molded by Curuan, served by the Black Númenoreans of a new Northern realm, and ever preparing the way for Sauron's return.
Findur had not evaded the Dark Lord's machinations. He was the very result of them.
He mused on this last appellation. "Dark" was not a fitting title. Fire was Sauron's power, the power that Findur himself would share in. So much for free will! There was really no choice to be made. Finally, he was free not to choose, to become what he undeniably was.
Ilúvatar had abandoned Arda. The Valar had retreated. Sauron was the lord of this world. A choice? Yes, there was a choice, and like Curuan had said all along, it was one between powers, between strength and weakness, destiny and oblivion.
He had seen the fate of the Eldar, and it was a slow and steady dwindling, a fading that could not be halted. Not without power...
He looked up at Curuan once more. "I understand," he said, and rose, relaxing his grip on the chair.
Curuan rose in kind, standing nearly as tall as Findur himself. His keen eyes gleamed. "He is insubstantial now, and yet weak, but it will not always be so. He will bring you to great things, Findur. And such a little thing in return. That you prepare the path for him."
"And all paths are drowned deep in shadow," Findur murmured. (1)
"Excuse me?" said Curuan.
Findur was unsettled himself. That was not something the Voice had said. But it had come to him nonetheless, like a voice in a dream.
"Nothing," he said. He turned and started for the door.
"Findur."
Findur whirled around. Curuan was watching him with the same even gaze.
"All will go well with Elrond, will it not?"
He nodded. "Of course."
"Very well." Curuan strode forward without limp or bow. "We shall go out together, then?" He smiled. His teeth were smooth and white.
"Together," Findur agreed. Curuan stepped forward. Findur opened the door. And together they walked out into the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, streets that gleamed white as snow.
He left early as planned, with two of his guard as escort. Arandulë had begged to be among them, but he had insisted that she stay behind. "Liniel will go mad without your company," he had told her. "You know how restless she was the last time we both went away." His personal reasons were simpler. He did not want Arandulë to be involved.
Liniel had already risen and left by the time he had returned home for his bags. He was a little glad of it, and made no effort to find her. He knew that she would see it, see the transformation in his eyes. She couldn't know yet. He didn't know how to tell her, what words to use. She might not understand him if he tried.
Curuan would remain behind as usual, acting as steward of Eregion. Of course, Findur had no doubt that the man could travel if need be, in his new condition. He wondered how long it would take for others to notice the subtle changes in his appearance. And if the Voice returned, and even more of the curse was removed?
It wouldn't matter soon, he told himself. Soon, everything would be in order. Soon, there would be no more lies.
It was raining as Findur and his escort rode down into Imladris, a warm, gentle rain that, although unlooked for in late spring, was not unagreeable. After days of riding through the bland flatlands north of Ost-in-Edhil, finding himself in this green, rainy valley was a refreshing change, albeit a wet one. He did not heed his damp hair and clothing, but his hand automatically went to his sword hilt. Once he made certain that his cloak adequately protected the weapon from rain, he relaxed, sinking into his saddle, content to be soaked. The horses slowed to a trot. The road sloped ever downward, and Findur felt his spirits rise.
What a relief it was, to finally arrive, for something to finally happen! For four nights, he had hardly slept, lying in fields or beside scattered trees, staring up at the stars. Fear had not kept him awake, but restlessness. He wanted to get everything done with at once, for the inevitable future to become irrevocable past. He wanted fulfillment, the broken branch. Then he could go home, and sleep, with Liniel in his arms.
They came to the bridge. The noise of the Bruinen rushing beneath it mingled with the sound of falling rain. Findur found it strange that no one had stopped to greet them yet. But Imladris had many eyes. Surely Elrond knew that he was here, and would greet him exactly when he wanted to greet him.
Findur was thankful, at least, for the cover of rain. The people of Imladris were inside. He could not have borne so soon the eyes, the whispers. "Look! Celeborn's son!" they would say, always staring.
They passed over the narrow bridge and started up the path to the house. As Findur had anticipated, Elrond acted with calculated precision. As they approached the house, a man came towards them, motioning for them to halt and dismount.
They stopped. Findur nodded, and he and his party dismounted. He stepped forward.
"Hello," he greeted.
The man nodded in kind. He was one of the stablemasters. Findur had known him all his life. "Welcome, Master Naurhir. Would you allow me to escort your steeds to the stables?" A second elf appeared behind him. "Erelas will escort you and your party into the house."
Findur smiled vaguely at his childhood friend. Erelas, for his part, was stern and unemotional. He seemed not to recognize the young man he had planted and weeded with two hundred years ago.
"Of course," said Findur to both of them. "Thank you." He allowed himself to be escorted up the path that he knew so well. The rest of his party followed, oblivious to the confusion that lay beneath Findur's cool indifference.
As they walked, Findur tried to sort out exactly what was happening. He glanced at Erelas and found him staring stonily ahead. He and the stablemaster had obviously been made aware of the possibility of encountering Findur, and had been advised to regard him as a stranger. How could Elrond have possibly known ahead of time? Had Findur really been so sloppy, or was this a last minute decision? And what was the meaning of this pointless charade? Was such ostracism some ridiculous show of hostility? Well, it certainly made things simpler. He did not relish explaining to his men why Naurhir Morfindel, who had enough names as it was, was suddenly being referred to as Findur by apparent strangers.
Erelas led them into the house. A vague sense of foreboding settled over Findur as he followed. They passed through the front rooms quickly, but enough time there was still for Findur to feel the eyes run over his form and hear the voices whisper, "Look! It's him, it is Findur, Celeborn's son..."
Findur glanced at his men. If they had heard, they showed no sign of it.
Soon they stopped before a door. Erelas opened it and turned to Findur. "These will be your sleeping quarters. You will be summoned when Master Elrond wishes to speak with you."
Findur was ushered into the room. The door was shut. He heard Erelas lead the others to adjacent rooms, and then silence.
He looked around him. The room was unremarkable, one of many spare bedrooms on the southern end of the first floor. It was sparsely furnished but elegant. Findur sighed and set his traveling bag on the floor. His cloak fell beside it, and he placed his sword and scabbard carefully on top of the cloak. Then he took a seat upon the bed, and tried in vain to analyze this unexpected reception.
He did not know what he had expected. To take Imladris by surprise with his return? As much as he hated to admit it, it was Elrond who had the upper hand. He still did not have a clear idea of why he had been summoned. Could Elrond have already known that he, Findur, would be coming? If not, then what, after all these years? Did Imladris fear Ost-in-Edhil's prosperity, its growing control over Eregion, its amity with Khazad-dûm? He wouldn't be so surprised. They did tend to be a paranoid folk.
He lay back on the bed, one hand against his abdomen and the other beneath his head, wondering and waiting until exhaustion sent him into a deep sleep.
He was woken a little past sunset by a knock on the door. "Come in," he said as he rose.
It was a woman this time, one of Celebrían's friends, although Findur couldn't recall her name. She carried a tray laden laden with dishes and tureens, all delicious smelling.
"This is your dinner," said the woman matter-of-factly, entering the room and setting the tray on a table. "If you require anything else, do not hesitate..." Her voice faltered. She looked up, her eyes betraying unexpected emotion.
"It's really you," she said.
He nodded once in the affirmative, not daring to speak.
"Well, then," she went on, her voice once again businesslike, but curter, "I'm not supposed to address you like this, but you know where the kitchens are, and I tire at repeating it. My chambers, if you have forgotten, are at the end of the hall. If you need anything and can't get it for yourself, come and find me."
Elbrennil. Her name was Elbrennil.
"Did my sister send you to spy on me?" he asked quite suddenly.
Elbrennil laughed. "You must be joking. If Celebrían wanted to see you, she would come herself." She paused, and added softly, "Elrond will see you in the morning."
"You weren't supposed to tell me that," he observed.
"I see little reason to keep you in the dark. " Elbrennil shrugged indifferently. "Good evening, Findur." She turned and left, leaving him alone again.
"Good night," Findur murmured to no one. He sat down before his meal, lifting a few of the lids and evaluating his options. Unbidden, Elbrennil's words returned to him. If Celebrían wanted to see you...
She hadn't come. His sister didn't want to see him at all.
Findur woke a few hours after dawn. He wanted to be ready when they sent for him. Elrond rarely held councils of any kind before ten o'clock unless they were unofficial or especially urgent. This would give him more than adequate time to ready himself.
He dressed carefully. He had bathed the night before, and now put on a fresh tunic of fine green cloth and leggings of a darker hue. His sword he left beside his bed, but the golden circlet was upon his head as always, glinting amidst his dark locks. It would be an excellent counterpoint to Elrond's silver band.
There was a knock at the door again. Findur called for him to enter. It was Erelas this time. He silently set down a breakfast tray, taking the remnants of last night's dinner. Findur barely heeded him, but as Erelas turned to leave, Findur's curiosity got the best of him.
"Erelas," he said. "Erelas, you remember me, don't you?"
Erelas turned slowly and regarded him with the same stony expression he had worn yesterday.
"Good day, Master Naurhir," he said quietly, and left.
Findur frowned, sat, and began his breakfast. He was vaguely annoyed by Erelas's unquestioning obedience. Not that he was opposed to obedience. He thought of how furious he would be if someone under his command disobeyed his orders. But his were reasonable, intelligent orders. Elrond's ridiculous silence at his presence, on the other hand... what was the point of it? It was stupid. Couldn't Erelas see that?
He thought of Celebrían. Of course she wants to see me, he decided. But Elrond has forbade her, and she's fool enough to obey that idiot husband of hers.
He was tired of this. He felt like a mannequin in a tedious play. Figures hurried past him, ordering him around, telling him to wait, leaving him utterly helpless to act. Why, he had half a mind to storm up there right now and demand to be told what was happening...
There was another knock at the door. "Come in!" he cried, almost shouting.
Familiar blue eyes appeared at the door, framed with silver hair.
"Elrond will see you now," said Celebrían. "If you'll come with me, I'll escort you to him."
She would not meet his eyes as they walked down the hallway.
The shock at seeing her again after all these years did not quite dispel his annoyance. "So you're one of them too," he muttered. "Stringing me along in this insane masquerade. Is this Elrond's idea of a game?"
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about," said Celebrían softly. He thought he could detect an edge to her voice.
"Of course you do! Treating me as if you have never seen me in my life. Why, Erelas won't even acknowledge me. It's all Naurhir this and Naurhir that..."
"That is your preferred name now, is it not?"
He couldn't believe this. Celebrían, his sister, the only person in Imladris he was sure he could trust... hostile beyond recognition!
He shook his head. "You won't even look me in the face."
Celebrían glanced over at him as they ascended the staircase. "Quite frankly," she murmured, "I'm afraid of what I'll see."
That quieted him... the intended effect, he supposed. And why should she trust him? He was a monster, he was...
No. No good. No evil. Only destiny or oblivion.
They made their way up to the second floor. Findur realized that they were heading in the opposite direction of the council room. "Where are we going?"
"I told you," said Celebrían. "You will be speaking with Elrond."
"But the council room—"
"You'll be meeting with him in his study." They turned a corner and began down a long, sunlit hallway. Outside, the rain had stopped, and a blue sky beamed over the damp valley.
Findur was dismayed. A mental image of himself sitting at one end of a long table, staring at Elrond intently while a dozen chief members of the household looked on, promptly vanished.
"Elrond," Celebrían went on, "worried that certain sensitive details might be discussed at this meeting. Details that would best be kept private."
"He needn't worry. Obviously he has all of you well-trained to react to unusual circumstances in any manner he sees fit—"
Celebrían stopped and turned to face him. "Findur!" she cried. "I didn't escort you because Elrond asked it of me. Why, the only reason he allowed it was my insistence that I would go with or without his approval. I came because I wanted to see you. But you've never understood that, have you... Everything is ulterior motives to you. No one could possibly act out of simple, unselfish love."
Before he could respond, she closed her eyes and sighed. He hesitated, waiting for her to go on.
"You know the rest of the way yourself," she said finally.
He watched her retreating form disappear around the corner before he turned and went on to the study.
Elrond opened the door himself, as if welcoming an old friend. He did not smile, but neither was his expression hostile. Curiosity, perhaps, was the word that best described his intent. Keen eyes ran over Findur's form appraisingly, and behind those eyes, Findur could see Elrond applying logical processes, running over hypotheses, trying to understand the man that stood before him.
Normally, Findur would respond in kind, instinctively shaping his actions and words in a way that would best appeal to Elrond's fears and expectations. Not now. He was weary of diplomacy, of the deceptions and double entendres and sins of omission that made dialogue virtually meaningless. Whatever crimes Elrond might accuse him of, dishonesty would not be one of them.
"Hello, Findur," said Elrond. The silver circlet glinted on his brow.
Findur merely nodded and pushed past him into the room.
Again, it was not as he had expected. The thought of Elrond's study had conjured up memories of childhood disobedience, sitting mutely before the enormous desk while Elrond chastised him for disruptive pranks and broken windows. But, now, the desk was pushed up against the wall. A small circular table had been placed in the center of the room. Three chairs were drawn up to it. Elrond sat in one, motioning for Findur to take a seat in the second.
Findur did not sit at once. Frozen in place, he watched as the third occupant of the room slowly turned away from the far window. Celeborn met Findur's gaze only briefly. He was unchanged, really. Surely, his pained expression, thinly disguised with a veil of stern indifference, had always been there. Surely grief had always mingled with the courage and frankness and determination in his eyes.
"Hello, Findur," Celeborn said also, but his eyes remained averted. He took a seat beside Elrond.
Findur still hesitated. He found that he was afraid, perhaps even more afraid than he might have been if Celeborn had actually looked at him as he spoke. He felt the distance between them like an accusation. He closed his eyes for a moment, and with difficulty, remembered the Voice once more.
There is no good. No evil. Only destiny and oblivion...
He silently took the third seat.
"Before you begin the interrogation," he said aloud, "it might be helpful to know of what crimes I am being accused."
"This is not an interrogation, Findur," said Celeborn firmly. Apparently, he took offense to the very idea.
Elrond was not so dismissing. "Nevertheless," he agreed, "you deserve an explanation of why you have been summoned." The keen eyes studied him again. "And yet... have you not guessed at it yourself?"
What meaningless aversions! "I am afraid my skills of perception do not approach your high expectations," said Findur with mock gravity. "More to the point, how could I guess? You have summoned me without explanation, treated me as if I were a stranger upon my arrival, and now you invite me here as if none of it had happened, and ask, have you not guessed at our motives? Do you expect me to take your question seriously?"
"I understand your frustration," said Elrond, although Findur doubted that he could. "But as for our treatment of you, it is you who prompted it. You advertised yourself as Naurhir of Eregion, and outside of this room, I think it fitting that you remain Naurhir of Eregion."
"And in it?"
Celeborn spoke before Elrond could reply. "This is the room where the truth will be spoken," he said. "All of it."
Truth! As if he knew anything of truth. "Oh, I see," said Findur. "Then it is I who have been dishonest."
"We make no charges," Elrond began, but again Celeborn interrupted.
"No, we make no charges... but we are not without questions ourselves!" Real fury began to show itself on Celeborn's face, but he carefully maintained an even tone. "Findur... you disappeared from our knowledge for two hundred years. Without explanation, you appeared once again in Imladris... and fled just as quickly. And now, little more than a decade later, you reappear as the ruler of a quickly expanding settlement amongst the ruins of a long dead Elven city, under a false name..."
"Peace, Celeborn," murmured Elrond.
"No," said Findur. "Let him speak. But I fear I have no answers to give him, save this: it is none of his business. What interest has he shown in my welfare since that day two hundred years ago? And even if he had pursued me, what claim does he have over me? I am not his son! I am none of his concern."
He had been sure that Celeborn would respond, but instead he sat motionless, unspeaking, insensible to the world around him. Leave us then, father, thought Findur. I hope you find peace there, wasting away in your own private hell. Mourn for her, your precious Galadriel. Suffer with her if you like. But do not grieve for me. You have lost nothing. I was never yours to begin with.
Elrond, seeing that Celeborn had turned inward, spoke instead. "None of our concern?" he echoed. "I think it will be very much our concern, if what we have heard is true. But I will not begin with accusations. If you are indeed honest, and blameless, you will readily tell us all you know of a small settlement of Men in the north of Eriador, beneath the Gray Mountains, that has recently caused Arnor a great deal of trouble."
Findur tried to conceal his disbelief. Although he had not intended to keep his alliance with Angmar a secret forever, he was unnerved that Elrond had learned of it without his knowledge. How, and why, he could not fathom. What interest had Imladris ever taken in Arnor's affairs? He began to formulate denials, but a moment later, he stopped himself. What was there to prevent him from being honest?
"What would you like to know?" he asked, with an air of indifference.
Elrond was obviously taken aback. "Then you are familiar with it?"
"Yes."
Findur could hear the hesitance in Elrond's voice. "What is your relationship with this settlement?" the elven lord asked, surely silently wondering why Findur was being so straightforward.
Findur knew that his honesty could only go so far. They are merely a tool, he would like to say. Some of the weaker puppets of Sauron, but nevertheless useful to my plans. Arnor is crumbling anyway. Why should you care?
Somehow, he doubted this answer would appeal to Elrond.
Instead, he worded his answer carefully, using diction that could only convey a positive image. "They aided me greatly in rebuilding Ost-in-Edhil as a refuge for the people of Greenwood. In turn, I gave them supplies to assist them in their endeavors."
Elrond was still not satisfied. "And did these supplies include weapons?"
Findur found himself unalarmed by the question. He was doing well. What could Elrond ask him that he could not answer? He gave him a look that seemed to say, Come, let's be reasonable. "We live in dangerous times. Orcs and things of evil yet roam Eriador. Yes, I gave them weapons."
"And are you aware that these settlers," Elrond continued, "Black Númenoreans and Hill-men, have used your gifts against Arnor? That they have been consistently attacking that realm for the past six years?"
Findur smiled and shook his head. "They are dissidents, not necromancers. We have here a handful of Gondorians who wished to be their own masters, alongside rustics who fear Arnorian expansion. They were hungry, not hostile. I have asked them to stop the raids. They are of no concern to Imladris."
"You seem to have considerable influence over these people," Elrond observed.
"Your point?"
"My point," said Elrond calmly, "can be seen if the situation is looked at in a rational light. Why would Gondorians flee so far from home, only to face conflict with Arnor? Why would they leave at all? Gondor is prosperous at the present. Its political and social structures, although strict, generally allow dissidents to voice their opinions as long as they are not overly disruptive. I ask again, why would they leave?"
Findur stiffened inperceptively. This was not the direction the conversation was supposed to be going in. "You cannot expect me to understand the reasoning of mortals," he said sullenly.
"Ah, but I do understand," said Elrond softly. "Elrond Peredhil I am called, and my comprehension of the minds of Men is not wanting. Yet I can see no reason for these Men to migrate northward... unless they chose it because of its proximity to Arnor." (2)
"I don't understand."
"Don't you?" It was Celeborn who spoke now, loudly and without reserve. "Arnor has not thrived many years. But neither has it faltered. Only in the past twelve years has the North Kingdom faced serious political instability, with rival factions emerging, and rebelling against the kingship, and quietly making friendships with Arnor's new enemy in the meantime. Or so people say. Meanwhile, the raids have continued—"
"Then you accuse me of trying to overthrow Arnor!" cried Findur.
"Not only Arnor," said Celeborn. "You say that this new Eregion is a haven for the people of Greenwood. But what interest do you have in their affairs, you who accuse us of extending our gaze too far? Greenwood is slowly emptying, and its people are under your control. There is too much you have left unexplained, Findur. Too much that cannot be explained, not without falling back upon Elrond's conclusions. Whatever your claims, Findur, it becomes increasingly clear that benevolence is not your aim." He paused. "Findur, I know you too well to deceive myself. I would be astonished if it were."
Findur could not escape an inexplicable sensation of having been betrayed. He was surprised that Elrond did not interrupt. Surely Celeborn was overreacting.
"So when your dissidents call you to their defense," Celeborn continued, "and Arnor calls us to theirs, we will not raise arms - but neither will we idly watch as you wreak havoc upon the tenuous peace that Middle-earth has reclaimed at such great expense. This can go on no longer."
Elrond saw Findur's eyes widen. "Yes," he said in a voice that was almost gentle after Celeborn's rage. "Arnor declared war, only a few days ago. Lindon has already gone to its aid, sparing supplies, if few soldiers. Which side will you chose, Findur?"
But before Findur could answer, the door behind them was flung open, and a figure rushed into the room. Celeborn frowned, and Elrond stood, and Findur turned to see Narion panting in the doorway.
Elrond and Celeborn exchanged unsettled glances. "What is it, Narion?" demanded Elrond. "You interrupt a private audience. Whatever your reasons for intruding—"
"You don't understand," said Narion. He seemed uneasy as well as out of breath. What, Findur, wondered, had impelled him to run the distance to Elrond's study?
Narion went on. "It is essential, absolutely imperative, that I speak with you. Right now, here, at once."
"Can it not wait?"
"Oh!" cried Narion. "But you do not understand! Now, it must be now. For you see, I have a confession, I must make it at once, it's been far too long..."
Findur felt himself grow tense.
Elrond looked perplexed.
"About Findur!" Narion exclaimed. He glanced at Elrond, and then Celeborn. "It might," he murmured, "be better related in private." He nodded meaningfully in Findur's direction.
"I will not leave if it concerns me," said Findur defiantly.
"He will stay," Elrond agreed. "I fear that too many lies have been sown already. We will all hear what Narion has to say."
Narion nodded and sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Elrond rose and shut the door again. "Speak," he said when he had returned to his seat.
Narion looked up, his face still partially hidden behind his hands. "I am ashamed," he began. "I do not know where to begin..." He stopped, receiving impatient glares from both Celeborn and Findur.
"I will start with the crux of the matter," he decided. "You see..." He hesitated. "It was I who placed the Lady Galadriel's letter in Findur's bedroom on the eve of his departure from Imladris."
The stunned silence in the room was tangible. Findur felt uneasy, and tried to look surprised, but feared it was not convincing.
"How dare you," Celeborn finally muttered, staring at Narion with a gaze of undisguised hatred.
Findur saw Elrond, surely disturbed but at the moment impassive, glance over at him and study his response. He found himself automatically looking away.
Then Elrond looked up, and placed a hand on Celeborn's arm. "Wait, and let him explain, if any explanation there is." He eyed Narion pointedly.
Celeborn grumbled and acquiesced, and Narion hurried on. "You cannot know how I regret it. I was a fool. Now do I see that. But I had reason to believe—"He sighed, paused, and launched himself into the full narrative.
"Many years ago, shortly after the war had ended, I was in Osgiliath. I was attending a meeting of craftsmen, and smiths from many lands had congregated in the city. Amongst them, I met a man, a mortal, I thought, though a strange one. He said he lived in Osgiliath, but he spoke Sindarin with a veritably Silvan accent, and wore his hair strangely, and though his hair was graying, his eyes eyes shone with a light that no mortal possessed, even if they themselves could not tell the difference. His name was Curuan.
"We became friends, and soon I discovered his secret - he had been imprisoned in Mordor during the War, and was Elven, not mortal at all. But the slow torments of the Dark Lord had left him thus, ever aging and weakening, though never dying.
"I learned another thing, a strange obsession of his that seemed to distract him from the reality of his condition. He had heard rumors during his imprisonment, rumors that Sauron had created a child, an heir, the offspring of an elven woman and his own flesh. He had spoken with uncouth figures in Osgiliath, and found confirmation to the rumors. Curuan, like myself, was a smith, and had a deep love for beauty. He should have been a Noldo; creation and perfection were his arts. Not metal and jewels only. We both saw the slow waning of Elven influence in Middle-earth, and Curuan was certain that this heir, gifted as Lúthien, wiser and more powerful than any mere elf, could become the leader we so desperately needed.
"Of course I remembered Galadriel's pregnancy, and Findur's birth, and knew a little of his temperament, though he was still very young at this meeting. I returned to Imladris and investigated, not a difficult task for one who lived in his household, and discovered the truth of his birth. I remained in contact with Curuan in the meanwhile, and shared my findings. We both agreed that the boy could not remain unaware of his heritage if he was to become the ruler we sought. He had to know. I could not tell him myself; he would never believe me, and would resent me for what he would deem slander. So, when I judged the time was ripe, I found a letter of Galadriel's amongst Celeborn's possessions, the very letter that had confirmed to me Findur's identity. I placed it where he might find it. I did not think it would cause him to flee. I did not intend to hurt him, not to that extent."
"Curuan was furious. What would we do now? I began to hear less from him, and when we did communicate, his bluntness made me question his goodwill. I began to distrust him. His mortal friends in Gondor, for instance, seemed suddenly suspicious to me. He said that they had told him much of Sauron's heir, but when I spoke to them myself, they said it was Curuan who had told them all, and they had known nothing of the heir beforehand. A keen interest in necromancy, and the Dead, and the unseen, I also detected, and at times of idle conversation, Curuan's speculations often bespoke familiarity with these realms.
"Most troubling, though, was this... Curuan said that he had been imprisoned in Barad-dûr itself. Yet he had returned to his original home in Greenwood, by all accounts, before the siege was over. I knew he could not have escaped Sauron's stronghold, as his friends in Greenwood blindly assumed, and he had not been liberated by the invaders. He must have been set free. It became clearer to me that Curuan was no innocent, trying to better the future of Middle-earth, but that he had been set free for a purpose, he had been assimilated into Sauron's ranks during his imprisonment, and that he had been deceiving me from the start. He was not trying to help the heir... he was trying to bend him to the Dark Lord's purposes.
"I confronted Curuan at once, if only in the form of a message. Of course he denied everything, and called me a fool, and told me not to interfere. This last command worried me. It sounded as if he had found Findur already, and worried that I would interrupt his work. But I remained silent, and told no one of Curuan. I was afraid, and so convinced myself that he could not have found Findur, and that I need not fear. But if I was wrong, and the events of late are in any part the result of Curuan's poisonous lies... they are as much my fault as anyone's."
During the very long silence that followed, Findur tried to decide if Elrond and Celeborn would believe Narion's story. He realized they would. They trusted Narion, and they would eagerly accept any evidence that Findur had acted under the influence of a greater power.
Let them believe, he thought. They'll get nothing from me.
Elrond looked up from his musings. "Findur, is there any truth in this story?"
"I would not know," said Findur coolly. "It could be true. It could be a lie."
"Then you are not familiar with this Curuan?" demanded Celeborn.
"Accusations," Findur muttered. "Is that the only language you speak? What, are you testing me? Trying to decide if I've been seduced by evil?"
"Not evil," said Elrond. "Folly."
Narion's head was in his hands again. He was muttering to himself.
"Folly! Ah, so you think me a Celebrimbor, beguiled by promises of beauty. I'm not quite as dull as Narion here. The only thing I have in common with Celebrimbor Ring-Maker was the undeserved love my idiot mother gave us."
"Your mother—" Celeborn began angrily.
"My mother was a fool," said Findur. "Like you are fools, slow, short-sighted, eager to name names, less anxious to act on your convictions. If evil calculates, and judges, and is not blinded by prejudices and heroics and utter stupidity, then I will gladly take the title. Better that than a fool, who does not know where he strikes, or why he does it, but merely swings his arm about like the simplest of children!"
Findur saw Celeborn ready to lash back, and Elrond ready to calm him and ask another question. It was all set out for him to see, a game to the last.
"I think," he said, rising from his seat, "that this interview is over."
All of the anger drained from Celeborn's face, leaving it wan and sorrowful. "Findur. Don't."
Findur hardly heard him. "Farewell, Master Elrond. And you as well, dearest Father. I hope this parting does not grieve you too deeply." He paused and reached into his pocket, taking out the wooden bird. He tossed it onto the table. "Oh, and give this to Arwen. Feel free to send her my regards."
And with that, furious and ultimately, he knew, victorious, Findur strode out of the room. As he left, he could hear Elrond murmur, "Then we will contact Arnor, and ask Amroth to continue as planned. There is nothing more to do. He has chosen for us."
Less than twenty minutes later, three horses could be seen galloping away from Imladris. On one of the house's balconies, a man stood and watched them ride away. One of his hands rested on the railing, but the other was clutched to his chest, grasping a wooden figurine. There he stood for a long time, and wept bitterly at the departure.
Findur had thought the closure of the day's events would allow him to rest, but it was not so. Instead he slept badly that night, tossing and turning, occasionally slipping into delirious dreams that ended abruptly at the softest noise. A few hours after midnight, he drifted off once more, and slept for a long time, but his dreams were strange and troubled, and did not comfort him.
He dreamt that he was in a garden, a garden that he thought he had known once. Above, a dark blue sky was spread out behind a sprinkle of glittering stars. In the twilight, the flowers took on a sharp relieved quality. It was cool and still.
His mother was standing nearby. She was like a statue, silent and beautiful, golden hair streaming about her arms. Her eyes watched him keenly, almost mockingly.
She spoke aloud. "This is your garden, Findur."
"I don't understand," he tried to say, but no sound would come from his mouth.
His mother laughed. "Isn't it obvious?" Her golden tresses, her bright eyes shone against the backdrop of night.
But you were never like this.
The stars glinted like a thousand knives.
His mother sneered. "Ha! As if the child remembers what I was like!"
"No..." Findur shut his eyes. "You were..."
When he looked again, he saw that his mother was trembling, her head bowed. Her eyes glistened with tears. He remembered. He had tried to forget, but he remembered, now, that morning, long ago, in Imladris. He had ambled into her bedroom and found her weeping, her cheeks tearstained, her hand over her mouth to hold back pained sighs. At the sight of him, she had wiped the tears away and given him a reassuring smile. "Hush, my darling. I was a little sad, Findur... but it's over now."
He hadn't understood.
He watched her cry. She made no move to conceal her tears. Only stared at him through slits of eyes, unblinking. Look, she seemed to say. This is me, Findur. This is who I am. No more smiles, no more lies. You're not a little boy anymore.
He walked towards her, reaching out and placing a hand on her shoulder. And he knew: a dark cell. Footsteps. Laughter. The coldness of fingers against her cheek
"I should have died, Findur," she whispered. "But I lived. I lived for you."
Findur felt sick with anguish. He backed away. He tried to cry and found that he couldn't. Nothing would come. Not even words. He could not cry out to her. He could not cry. He was stone, only stone; there was nothing left.
He closed his eyes, and all was suddenly dark. Invisible arms around him. Nearby, a river flowed noisily into a clear pool. The arms were still holding him. He slid out of their embrace and looked up. Beside him, smiling softly, was a lithe woman with bright eyes and rosy cheeks. It took him a moment to realize that it was his mother. She watched him with warm eyes.
"Findur," she whispered, taking his hands in hers. He had forgotten the sensation of his hands being enveloped in those slim white palms. His hands were larger now. They didn't fit the way they used to.
"You've grown into a handsome man," she said softly.
"Like my father?" The words came out before he could stop them.
"Celeborn is your father."
"You know that's not what I meant." He shook his head. "I don't understand. You can't be real. This isn't really happening."
His mother smiled, resting her hand against his arm. "It's real enough," she said.
"But the others—"
"Were your misconstrued impressions of me. They were idols, nothing more. You would do best not to think on them."
"But they were right." He found himself staring blankly forward. "He hurt you. I hurt you. I hurt you. How you can look at me... and not think about... not see..."
His mother leaned towards him, smoothing a dark lock back from his brow. "I see you," she said. "I see my son." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her face suddenly contort into some unnameable expression. She took him suddenly in her arms once more, grasping him so tightly that he could feel her heartbeat like it was his own.
"He never loved you, Findur," she said, her voice husky. "He cannot have you."
Findur felt himself go numb.
"But he already does," he whispered.
And this time it was Galadriel who pulled away, staring at him with an amazed look.
"What do you mean?" she asked, the uncertainty in her voice betraying her fear.
"He already has me," he repeated. "Don't you see, he's always had me. It's what I am; you think you can love me but it's what I am..."
"Findur, no."
"I'm a sickness, Mother. I'm a disease and the disease is in me and I have always been this. It's been a lie, to think anything else, and for the first time I'm not lying anymore..."
"Findur, please, no."
"What?" Findur found himself screaming. He stood and turned away. He could not bear to look at her and the ugliness that was in her. "Did you think it would be different? Don't lie. I cannot stand dishonesty. When you sat in that cell with the disease growing in your womb did you not know? He called you Nerwende. I have seen it all. He called you Nerwende..."
"Findur, I love you."
"He called you Nerwende and he planted pain inside you and you gave birth to pain and called it your son. Did you think a name could change anything? Did you think I could be Celeborn's Galadriel's son? I was Nerwende's son. I was a whore's son."
"Findur, I—"
"Do you think I can pretend? I want it, Galadriel—" How bitter was that name! "I want what he can give me. What, do you think Ilúvatar watches us? Ilúvatar who permitted what... what he did to you? It will end in nothingness, and I want what he can give me. Why should I not rule? Why should I not take what you were not strong enough to take?"
"Findur!" It was a panicked shriek. He saw her shadow rise, try to take his hand. He pushed her away. "It's mine. I will rule at his side. I will have it. Our people are dwindling, dying; how can I not take it?"
"Findur..." A lower, graver voice. "Findur, I will always love you."
"It's mine."
"I will always love you."
"I'm going to save them. It's the only way. Save them. I'll save them."
"I will always love you, Findur."
Findur shook his head. "It's the only way," he muttered. But she wouldn't listen. She couldn't understand. Why wouldn't she understand? Again, he felt the rough isolated bulk of his own body. The meadow around them was fading. He was cold.
A moment later, he blinked, and found himself lying upon blankets in a field, staring up at the gray early morning sky.
1. from Galadriel's Lament
2. Peredhil Half-Elven
