Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeframe: T.A. 265. Late spring.
Rating: PG-13 for the usual.
Chapter XIX: Homecoming
Darkness greeted the weary eyes of Maedír, guard of Angmar, as he drew back the curtain of his sleeping alcove and peered out into the narrow corridor of the quarters of the Second Company. He rose silently and stretched tired arms, staring blankly into nothingness.
Maedír had dwelt under Lord Dolgubêl's rule for five years, but he was still not accustomed to the seasons of the Far North. At home, in his little village on the North Downs, the sun would already have begun to rise, affording even the earliest morning watchman a little light. But in the northern wastes of Angmar, the days lengthened slowly. A morning in late spring might as well have been midwinter.
Maedír frowned, and would have glared defiantly at the ceiling - signifying sky and relevant gods at once - if he had been able to see it. Instead, he began a blind walk to the chamber at the end of the hallway, where basin and chamber pot were waiting at his disposal.
After he had finished his business, he returned to his alcove, changing quickly into the light armor he would wear during his shift. It was of Elvish make, lightweight and finely crafted, and seemed to do more against the chill air than the thin, rough tunic and leggings he wore beneath it. Lastly, he jammed his feet into his boots - sturdy, finely-crafted boots of black leather; he had bought them in Fornost a long time ago, during one of his few visits to the city - and went out into the street.
Outside, it was no brighter than within, and a great deal colder. A lonely wind swept across the northern plain. Angmar almost seemed the jail its name implied, a barren skyline interrupted by blocky buildings and the occasional scarecrow tree. Across the way, he saw Îbal, a fellow guardsman of somewhat higher rank, emerge from an identical building.
"Morning, Mae," called Îbal with his usual careless familiarity. They met in the middle of the empty road and began walking towards their post at the city's fortifications.
"Morning?" Maedír repeated with a laugh. "A good night, I think, would be more appropriate."
They talked as they went - about the rationing that had been imposed in anticipation of the upcoming war, making breakfast a luxury, and about the war itself.
"And to think that there would be no war at all, if Arnor had not acted with such hostility," said Maedír in conclusion to a detailed analysis of the war's causes. "They speak of raids on their borderlands. Little have they cared about those lands, and the people who dwell there, in the past. No, they fear us, fear the challenge we present to their rotting aristocracy. Everyone knows it."
He could not, at that moment, have said whom "everyone" was, only that they existed and were correct.
"You can be sure of it," Îbal agreed, and began to complain at length about Arnor's - particularly young King Eldacar's - hypocrisy. He was a Gondorian, and ridiculing the leadership of both realms was one of his favorite subjects. Maedír nodded, trying to look thoughtful, as Îbal listed Arnor's sins against its people, complained about its "aggressor's war", and ended with a smile and a declaration: "But I don't know why I go on like this. Arnor is as good as damned anyway. They may have a few Elves on their side - or what's left of their useless, self-absorbed nobility - but we have the upper hand. We have Eregion, the real thing, and men from Harad and the East if needs be."
They had come to the White Tower. The golden sun had finally begun to mount the horizon, stripping away the darkness that wrapped about the Tower like a cloak. The gate of the city, a stone and iron monstrosity wedged between mighty stone walls, stood not far from here.
Îbal fell silent and adopted a sterner face, preparing himself for the long shift. As they made their way to the gate, Maedír thought about what Îbal had said. He had heard a little of Lord Dolgubêl's dealings with men from the South and East. Strategically, it made sense, but the principle behind it troubled him.
Maedír was no Dúnedan, and he was the first to admit it. Oh, his grandmother had been a true Númenorean, a lady of Annúminas who had unaccountably fallen in love with a rustic, but the blood made no difference. He was a man of the North, flaxen-haired and broad-shouldered, and was not in the least ashamed.
Nevertheless, something about Angmar filled Maedír's heart with fire. Not the place so much as the paradox: the recreation of a Western island in the Northern wastes, the rechristening of a people - Dúnedain and Hill-men alike - in anticipation of something dynamic and powerful. Arnor and Gondor were rock-hewn extensions of the past, while Angmar, Angmar was...
Not iron jail.
Maedír was no Dúnedan, but through the apparatus of a windy, barren colony, he had become a true citizen of the Númenor that might have been. In his mind, he saw a dream-Angmar spreading south and west like a tidal wave, overcoming the hills and fields and plains, piercing the heart of Annúminas itself. In that Angmar, every peasant maiden of the Downs would be a lady of the Court.
Surely even Haradrim and Easterlings were capable of becoming part of this wondrous new reality. But would they? They were old allies, friends of the subversives of Gondor. Whatever their aims, the recreation of Númenor was not one of them.
And what, after all, were their aims? Surely Lord Dolgubêl would not treat with men of darkness. Still, Maedír secretly wondered...
Was it right for Númenoreans to fight alongside men who had once served Sauron?
He shook his head, chiding himself, and began the assent to the top of the wall beside the gate. In his mind, he wrote off his thoughts as Unfounded and Seditious, and therefore Unthinkable. They likely would have remained thus defined if, a few minutes later, Angmar had not received a most extraordinary visitor.
An especially keen-eyed guard standing at Maedír's left was the first to speak. "A rider approaches," he cried. "Look there!" He motioned at a point in the distance.
Maedír squinted. All he could see was an indistinct white shape, barely visible in the half-light of dawn. Only as it approached could he make out horse and rider, and hear the rapid sound of hoofbeats striking the ground at a gallop.
"Have an arrow at the ready," commanded Îbal, just loud enough for all the guards to hear. Maedír placed an arrow on the string, but did not draw. He doubted this lone rider could be much of a threat. He looked up at the rider once more, and squinted into the darkness. There, upon the white steed's back, he could see a dark head and a cloak of uncertain color, whipping in the wind.
The guard to his left was leaning over the wall, peering intently at the rider. Finally, he said, "His dress and sword are of Eregion. An ally."
"Albai, then," muttered Îbal with an ironical smile. (1) Maedír did not know the word. It did not sound like Adúnaic. He had no time to speculate about its meaning, however, for the stranger was now nearing the gate. Soon, he stopped, looking up expectantly at the guardsmen.
"I bring word from Lord Naurhir," cried the rider. "May I enter?"
Maedír and the others shared a communal look of disbelief. The speaker's voice was high and clear. Had Naurhir sent a lone woman as his messenger?
Îbal was the first to shake off his surprise. With a brisk nod, he assented. Down below, two guards pulled the gate open. The woman dismounted and led her steed through the space, not flinching as the gate slammed shut behind her.
A guard from the door of the Tower itself had heard the commotion, and came forth to speak to the stranger. Maedír and a few other expendable guards scrambled down the stairs to meet him.
"A message for the Lord?" he heard the Tower guard ask. "You have ridden swiftly, I see... Have you received the news of battle, then?"
But the woman did not answer. Instead, even as Maedír came to the last step, she turned and gazed directly at him, and smiled softly. She had pushed back her hood, and Maedír found himself looking into the eyes of the first Elven woman he had paused to really look at. He could not understand how he had never bothered to look before.
Nothing about her was extraordinary, not really. She was tall, but not exceedingly so, and slight of figure, her straight brown hair in braids. Even her pale oval face had the only the ingredients of conventional beauty: large gray eyes and a sweet mouth that twisted in amusement at the sights around her.
And yet, when he tried to look away from her, he could not. What was it? The light in her eyes, that seemed to pierce the early morning darkness like a flame? The rosy hue of her cheeks? He could not say. He only knew that she was lovely, almost refreshingly so. Nothing about her was commanding or even particularly voluptuous. He wanted to kiss her, but more so to contemplate her beauty: to wonder about its source for hours and never come to a conclusion.
Somewhere in the midst of his musings, Maedír forgot to regulate his motion. He stumbled down the last stair, and with a strong sense of his own humiliation, hobbled over to where the guards, the beautiful lady, and now Îbal, were standing.
The Elven lady was saying with a smile: "Oh, no. I am not here to speak to your Lord Dolgubêl at all. I have a message, instead, for one of his men."
And then, to Maedír's utter amazement, her eyes met his once more, and she addressed him.
"It's you, isn't it?" she asked. There was an energy to her voice that was quite overwhelming. "He described you to me, and I didn't think I would know you, but of course I did. Your eyes are just like he said they would be." Seeing Maedír's surprise and discomfort, she smiled and paused to retrieve a sealed parchment from the leather purse at her side.
"I have brought a message, you see, from Lord Naurhir," she said, holding the letter out for Maedír to take. "A message for Maedír of Angmar."
Findur and Amroth had talked for a long time the night before Amroth's departure. He had gone north with Legolas and the rest of the camp, leaving Findur behind in the custody of Elrond's sons. Neither could be sure when they would meet again.
"It might be never," said Findur, staring pensively into the heart of the campfire beside which he and Amroth sat. Liniel was silent only because she was sleeping, her dark head resting in Findur's lap. Findur rather envied her.
"Hush," said Amroth. "I have no intention of dying in the near future. If all goes well, no one will."
"And if all does not go well?" He shook his head. "It's not enough. If only I could do something..." He bit his lip, plucking a few blades of long-bladed grass from the ground, and idly began to knot them together, weaving a tiny web of green and gold.
"You have done all you could."
"Perhaps. But is it enough?" He sighed, still braiding the blades of grass. When he spoke again, his words rambled and ran together at a breakneck pace. "Is it even right? Even if this war is averted, there may still be bloodshed for Angmar. To be the cause of that... I don't know. Sometimes I suspect that there is but one path, that I have already chosen destruction and cannot turn back. What then? Shall I take everyone with me into hellfire?"
Liniel sighed in her sleep and shifted. One of her hands lay beside her face, clutching Findur's knee like an infant. Amroth did not speak.
Findur continued in a subdued tone. "I don't know. I don't know a thing anymore. I've believed it was hopeless for so long... and then he came to me, and I accepted everything like a child, too naive and self-concerned to understand the implications of my actions. And now I want to fix everything; I want to change, Amroth, if you believe anything you must believe that. But my every attempt seems forced. Every time I feel sure that I'm in the right, I falter, and remember, and... I wouldn't have acted at all, had not Liniel persuaded me to go through with our plan. If I could only erase the past, and fix everything at once, and then go away for a long time... " He did not know what he was saying. Too many thoughts crowded his mind, where intuition and impulse had once reigned. He shivered, although it was not a cold night, and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
"No one has that power, Findur," said Amroth. "I don't know what the Valar, or Sauron, or even you, are capable of, but I am fairly certain on that point."
"I know that," said Findur, but the inner storm did not subside.
He looked out at the diminishing camp. The meadow was a soft blue dream beneath the light of the sickle moon. Liniel's face was white and luminous against the dark leather of his leggings. Her gray eyes were soft and unfocused. He wondered what she was dreaming. Let it be something peaceful, he thought, from a time before the war. Perhaps she is standing in a rambling garden with her mother. Once she told me, not even afraid of the past: that they laughed together and ate blackberries from the bush, and that the door swung opened and her father, smiling, strode out and...
"Funny," he said. "When she first asked me to stay—to marry her—I refused. As if I already knew I would hurt her."
"Do you think she would have preferred that?"
"What she prefers usually comes down to nothing. She never wants anything that's good for her."
Amroth raised his eyebrows. "She never wants anything that's good for her?"
"That's not the point," said Findur. "I'm not good for her. For anyone, but especially for someone like Liniel."
"Because you are the child of Sauron."
"Yes."
"No, I can't accept that. You are the son of Galadriel as well of as Sauron. And... what does either matter?" Amroth shifted his eyes downward, smiling reflectively. It was a bitter smile.
"People in Greenwood and Lórinand," he continued, "tell the story of Emelien and Amdír Malgalad nearly as often as that of Beren and Lúthien. They think it romantic. I can assure you, it is nothing of the sort. I loved my father, but I will not pretend that my parents' choice was anything but a mistake. A noble mistake, a well-intentioned mistake, but one that resulted in my mother's death. People think it romantic, but when the subject of their king's less than stainless lineage comes up, they whisper, and make denials, and even pretend to be proud of a tryst that never should have happened. They know in their hearts that it is not a story of love, but of the shortsightedness of one proud king under the threat of Sauron's growing rule, insistent on marrying off his son and continuing his line, like a king of men, and all that resulted is nothing but horror." He sighed deeply. "I do not mean to compare my situation with your own. What I mean to say is... that... we are not our pasts, Findur, and certainly not our parents. You cannot change what you have done, but what good is it if your regret restrains you from living? How can you repent then?"
"I do not think you entirely understand what I have done," said Findur dubiously.
But at those words, the light went out of Amroth's eyes, and his jaw went firm. "I know," he murmured so softly that his lips hardly moved. But he stared out into the distance, still and unblinking.
Findur realized what he had said, and felt embarrassed. "If I could only undo..." he began futilely.
"You can't," said Amroth. "You are not responsible for Sauron's crimes. Nor could you ever undo them. My father decides his own fate now... and if things go as they did for Finwë and Míriel, that choice may be a hard one for us all." He shook his head. "I was stupid, as a child, to have taken him for granted. Promise me, Findur, that you'll not do that—that you'll value the present—and the debt towards me that you feel is yours will have been paid."
Three nights after Amroth's departure—two nights after their own journey north had begun—Findur took Amroth's advice to heart. They had stopped for the night on the plains of northern Eregion, and most of the small escort stood on watch or was asleep. By the light of a dying fire, Findur sat beside his wife. Neither spoke; both pairs of eyes were on the tiny flames. Their arms pressed together, but Findur moved no closer. To put an arm around her seemed a dangerous procedure. What if her reaction was not favorable?
I'm afraid of my own wife, he thought morosely, and then, This can't be. Not like before, a veil of silence, love as an unacknowledgment. That is how we came to this.
He felt his eyes tear, and swallowed his fear and inferiority. "Darling," he said, "we must talk about this."
Liniel started, half-asleep in her contemplation. "About what?" she demanded irritably, and then, after a space: "No talk. Not now. We should sleep."
"I've hurt you, and—"
"Findur, please, not now."
"When, then?" he demanded.
With an audible sigh, Liniel drew her knees up to her chin, staring blankly at the fire.
"Fine," she said. "Talk."
Findur wanted to retort that two people, not one, were required to talk for a conversation to take place. But arguing would only change the subject. Besides, if he knew her, she wouldn't be able to keep her mouth shut for long.
"I've hurt you," he repeated.
No answer.
"I've been an idiot. More than an idiot. I've betrayed you. I've—"
As expected, Liniel turned to face him. "Don't flatter yourself," she said. "I am to blame as much as you are."
That, on the other hand, had not been expected.
"You!" he exclaimed. The claim seemed outrageous. Quickly, Findur began assembling the list of his crimes. "Liniel, all this time, I have lied to a people, promising them hope even as I promised Dolgubêl his kingdom. I told myself it was a game—I no longer cared—allowing him to remain with us after I knew what he was—"
"What Curuan did," said Liniel quietly and tersely, "has nothing to do with any of that."
"Oh, it doesn't?" cried Findur somewhat more vehemently than he had intended. "Shall I go back to Sauron, then, and apologize for my overreaction?"
"Keep quiet." Liniel's eyes darted towards at the sleeping forms and standing guards about them. "Of course you should never have... but even he didn't want what... what could have happened." Sedately, she continued, "I was the one who allied myself with Curuan first. I was the one who ignored what I saw in him, because he had what I wanted. The one who lied to you. The one who told him of your identity after you confessed it to me—to me, your wife, whom you should have been able to trust. I never thought of it that way—but see where it's gotten us..."
"And I'm the one," said Findur softly, "who was becoming him, with all his callousness and cruelty, and didn't care until he tried to rape my wife." He looked at her. "Don't you see? I forgot what cruelty meant. I was forgetting to love you."
There was a silence that spanned ages. Alone with his thoughts, Findur could only revisit the waking vision that wove through his mind—Curuan's hand against Liniel's shoulder—his body pressing her against the wall—his shriveled lips against hers—
"Let's lay down," said Liniel suddenly. Findur felt in no position to argue. He allowed himself to be led to the grass, where Liniel laid out blankets and stripped down to a linen shift. It was a warm night, but Findur did not undress, removing only his belt and shoes. Then they both got into the makeshift bed, a layer of blankets separating they two from the rest of the world. Findur lay on his back, but Liniel turned on her side to face her husband. She reached out to touch his head, running her fingers through his hair, but came no nearer. She said nothing for a long moment, although her eyes were bright with thought.
"We are not," she murmured finally, in a somewhat abstract tone, "great people, you and I, Findur. We're clumsy, you know. We act in the most wretched of ways. We forget ourselves and each other. And all the time, we're certain that we're heroes. Larger than life. And we are, in a way. Everyone's this ridiculous, maybe, but we're more dangerous than the others. When we wound, it goes deeper. And that's why I chose you, Findur, I'm sure of it, because I knew I couldn't hurt you, and I don't want to hurt you. I've hurt everyone else but I knew - or I thought - that you were different."
Findur could not answer. He stared at the sky above him. It was partly obscured by cloud, but he nevertheless began naming all the stars he could find: Menelvagor, Soronúmë, Anarríma, Remirrath, the Valacirca...
"Well?" demanded Liniel, clearly disappointed with the reception of her speech.
Findur continued silently counting stars. He felt her fingers against his cheek like small icicles. "Are you such a fool that you don't even know what you're doing?" he asked finally.
"Doing? I don't know what you're talking about."
Findur glanced over at her. She was regarding him with a leonine air, dark hair framing an obstinate face. Beautiful and wrong.
"You make up these excuses," he said, realizing as he went along. "These poetries... none of it's real! Your crimson beaches and righteous indignation. Nothing's that perfect. We're not different. We're wretched and ugly and that's all. That's the end of it. There's no reasons. No saving graces. We're ugly like the rest of them."
Liniel looked down reflectively. She drew away her hand. Something in her eyes was strangely vulnerable. "But... you are different."
He sighed, rolling over to face her. "And so are you. But don't you understand? It's only because... because you make me feel differently." He had never framed love in such awkward terms before.
"I don't know what you mean... But it seems I don't know much of anything."
"Liniel..."
"It's fine. I'm fine. Let's not talk about it."
Findur felt drained. "I don't want to either," he said.
"Then we're agreed."
He tried to be satisfied by the silence that followed, but Amroth's voice came to him once more. Promise me, Findur...
"Liniel..." he tried again.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry."
"Please don't."
"I only..."
"Please don't."
I'd rather you hate me, he thought. Do you remember when we met again, in Gondor, and we made love, still trapped in anger? That was the worst thing I ever did to you, Liniel.
But aloud, he said, "We can talk of it later, then." And more quietly: "I love you."
Springtime, thought Celebrían, was no time for war. Taking a late luncheon beside an open window, she felt life to be in perfect balance. Sweet air floated in from the gardens, fragrant with the mixed scents of blooming flowers. Beyond, she could hear the clamor of the Bruinen rushing down the valley slopes and past the house, its waters abundant with spring rain. Arwen hummed as she ate, and even Elrond refrained from discussing the situation in the north, preferring to talk of the recent birthing of a new colt in the stables.
Only one at the table seemed impervious to the weather: unspeaking, eyes lowered, plate almost untouched. What a change had come over Celebrían's father since Findur had come to Imladris. Subtle, at the start: he still went through his daily routines, smiled when spoken to. Smiled too perfectly, really, his eyes empty. In his pain, he had retreated inward, abandoning himself to the learned courses of living. Now, with Findur's return imminent, the facade had collapsed entirely.
Celebrían knew the source of his pain, felt it as strongly. She, too, had seen the change in her brother, his old well-meaning ambition all distorted, reduced to basest haughtiness. Impulsive, controlling, untrusting... How cold he had been to her on the stairwell.
Something more, yes. Doubts, fears, and buried deep, a desire to cast it all away. But self-interest had come out the stronger.
A messenger from Eregion had stopped briefly in Imladris before riding north; Findur, she said, had given himself up. Something unexpected had happened, it seemed, though Celebrían could not gather what.
Having broached the subjects in her mind, she felt the sharp anxiety that she had held within herself all the day begin to surface. A knot formed in her throat as she thought of her sons, closer to battle with each step, and of Findur, and of the dewy-eyed woman who had ridden on to Angmar in hopes of accomplishing a task that, Celebrían's intellect told her, was unachievable.
All of a sudden, she was aware of a figure clambering into her lap and wrapping its arms around her.
Celebrían laughed, looking at Arwen. "You're becoming too old for this, dearest," she said, embracing her daughter.
"But you looked so lonely over here, as if it weren't almost summer." She twisted and looked over her shoulder, across the table. "And you, Grandfather," she added chidingly.
Celebrían followed her daughter's gaze, eyes resting upon her father, and knew that his thoughts must be even ghastlier than her own, self-recrimination not least among them.
"Yes, you're very right," she said, and slid Arwen out of her embrace, standing. "If we have all finished..."
"Oh, I am quite done," said her father mechanically, standing as if on cue.
"Then we can all go out to the garden," said Celebrían. "It's a lovely day; it would be ridiculous to waste it inside. Besides, my flowerbeds are more weeds than flowers; I've been neglecting them all week."
Father looked awkward. "I was in the middle of recording some of Lindir's recent poetry," he began.
"Let Lindir record his own poetry," said Elrond, following his wife's cue. "He is the one who should know it best."
Father managed to smile. "Ah, but he doesn't. That's why he always asks me to do it. He uses poor penmanship as an excuse, but in fact he tends to invert lines and drop words after the initial recitation."
Arwen was stacking dishware; she had evidentially already decided that they were going, and soon. "I like Lindir's poetry very much," she said defensively. "The one about Gil-galad - the one composed in Quenya - is beautiful." And off-handedly she began reciting, in the fluid Quenya that her grandfather had taught her, " 'Gil-galad was an Elven king...' " (2)
"Not now," said Celebrían.
But Elrond finished, " 'Of him the harpers sadly sing.' " He turned to Father. "You will come then, Celeborn? When my sons are home, they'll expect a wrestling match with their grandfather. Instead, they'll find nothing left but a skeleton clutching a book in its hands."
Celebrían waited stiffly for her father's reply.
"Yes, yes," said Celeborn after a time, "it will be pleasant to be out in the sun."
Arwen began for the door immediately. She was, thought Celebrían with a maternal smile as she watched her daughter clutch her skirts around her knees and sprint through the halls, at that ridiculous age between childhood and adolescence, a tall girl-child whose gentle kindness was only matched by her verbosity. The others followed her, though with less energy. Celeborn, at least, seemed to be heartened by Arwen's self-conscious performance, for he quickened his pace and began walking beside her, listening as she recited the rest of "The Fall of Gil-galad" with incongruous levity.
Celebrían and Elrond fell behind, taking in the color of the flowers and of the leaves with the sunlight shining through them. Elrond put an arm around her and held her close, and told her in pretty words that he loved her, and that he could not glimpse the sky without thinking of her gaze, and several other things besides, until Celebrían broke into peals of laughter.
"I am sure," she said, "that all of Imladris wonders what their grave lord says to his wife in private. It is, of advantage, then, to actually be that wife..."
"The only advantage, I'm sure," said Elrond with a smirk, and kissed her before she could retort.
They walked on silently. Arwen and Celeborn could be heard chattering in the gardens below, the music of their voices blending with bird song.
"Oh, I hate this waiting," said Celebrían finally. "It will be today, you know, if they left right away. I only wish I knew a time, and knew - knew what he'll be like - for Father's sake as much as my own..."
"I know," said Elrond. He too, Celebrían realized, was apprehensive.
"Well, let's go on," she said. "I would like to finish before sunset. The gardeners may be more capable than I am, but it is Mother's garden, and you know I like to tend it myself."
They went down amongst the flowers, and Celebrían began weeding, the others assisting by clearing away uprooted plants. The process would take some time, for a small forest of oak seedlings had taken root near the house and needed to be eradicated.
They had not yet finished when Elrond lay a hand on Celebrían's shoulder. She looked up and saw that both her husband and father regarded her with grave expressions.
She rose, feeling mildly dizzy, and brushed her hands on her skirt, not heeding the dirt stains she left behind. Stood still and listened, and heard it, the sound of hoofbeats and footfalls in the distance.
"Arwen," said Elrond, "Go inside and play in your room. Go to Elbrennil if you need anything."
"Stay here, Arwen," said Celebrían.
Arwen's eyes went wide. She instinctively stayed in place, waiting for further guidance in deciphering these two conflicting orders.
Elrond sighed heavily, turning to his wife. Quietly, he said, "I do not want her here when—"
"My brother surrendered himself willingly. He's done nothing to suggest that he is dangerous."
"I did not say that he was dangerous. Though, if you mention it: we do not know what he has done."
"Maybe not," said Celebrían. "But she's not such a little girl anymore, and Findur will likely be here for some time. Better she see him now than later. I'll have no more secrets in this house. No more than necessary, at least."
Elrond frowned, and Celebrían knew he had given in. Meanwhile, the approaching party had come nearer.
"Come close, Arwen," commanded Elrond. "Stay near to me, and stay silent."
Arwen acquiesced, running to her father's side and latching onto his arm with an iron grip.
Celebrían took her own father's hand. "Come," she said. "Let us meet them."
She did not pause to assess Father's reaction. Instead, she began walking, making her way down the garden path, to the tall meadow before the river. There they waited for the party to ascend.
A few moments later, figures appeared, walking and leading their horses up the stairs carved into the steep hillside. Celebrían saw her sons in the forefront, graver than they had left. A handful of Elves from Imladris, Greenwood, and Lórinand followed them. And, in the very back, head bowed, dark hair streaming before his eyes, was her brother. One look at his pallid face undid her fears and set new ones in their place. It was beyond anguished, almost skeletal in cast and countenance, a fire gone to ashes.
"It is really you," she whispered, and set to running, so that a minute later she was standing at the very edge of the bluff overlooking the Bruinen, holding her only brother in her arms.
Findur felt his sister's arms envelope him in a sudden, unexpected embrace. For a single overwhelmed moment, he thought of escape, but he put away the thought quickly. She was not speaking, but when he looked down at her face he saw that she was smiling and weeping all at once.
He had been sure, when he had seen her running towards them, that she was coming to greet her sons. After all that had passed... But her eyes had fixed on him, and now she held him close and whispered, "Oh, Findur. You don't know how we've missed you. You don't know..."
You don't know, thought Findur darkly. You don't know what I've done.
But he did not say it aloud - not out of cowardice, but a need to protect her from the truth. To protect: it seemed his highest calling. As he wrapped his arms around her, he found himself carefully assessing her strength and girth, making sure not to injure her. Instinct became a mathematical process. All the world was made of glass, and he was the man with iron hands.
"I was not kind to you when I saw you last," he said instead.
"You frightened me."
"Do I frighten you now?"
Celebrían studied his face, as if looking for her answer in its lines. He wondered what she saw in it, how he was changed from the ambitious young blacksmith she had once known. She, he decided, had only become more herself, gentleness and sternness alike brought out by the demands of motherhood.
"You don't frighten me," she said finally. "But I'm frightened for you, Findur." She allowed herself a careful smile. "You really look terrible."
Findur was about to respond when he saw his sister's gaze shift to a point beyond him. He turned and saw that Liniel had dismounted, and was now surveying the scene with a purposefully nonchalant air.
Findur felt himself flush with irrational awkwardness. "This is Liniel," he told Celebrían. "My wife."
Liniel looked up at the sound of her name, only in time to be heartily embraced by his Celebrían.
"And my sister, then," said Celebrían with a laugh. To Liniel, she said, "You are very welcome." If she recognized Liniel as a certain messenger of Lord Naurhir, she gave no sign.
"Thank you," whispered Liniel, who looked uncomfortable and grateful at once.
Findur stared at his sister and his wife, Celebrían's hair silver-gleaming against Liniel's dark tresses. The image was so unexpected that it rather strained his mind, a paradox in living colors before him. And yet it was real, or had become real, just as a burning valley had become opening eyes... Just as he had stood in this place with his mother, and the men of Imladris had ridden back from war, and Mother had said, Findur, this is your father, and in that moment fantasy and reality had entwined, and Menelvagor had leaped down from the sky...
"Findur," said a voice, and Findur jumped, his eyes actually going skywards before they turned and fell upon Celeborn's form.
He looked at Celeborn a long time before he could speak. Things he had seen before—weary eyes, slumped shoulders, a face so etched with grief that he was reminded suddenly and unsettlingly of Curuan, though Celeborn's face was quite smooth—became daggers in his now-receptive flesh. I've done this to him. Out of my selfishness and apathy and blindness, I have done this to my—
Dare he say the word?
"Hello," was all he could manage. Mortals, he had once heard, vomited when they felt especially unnerved. He wished his own discomforts could as easily be purged. Guilt weighed on his mind like a stone.
Celeborn did not seem offended by his silence. Nor did he give him an embrace like Celebrían's. Instead, he commented dryly, "Strange, how things have reversed since last we met in this field."
"You remember," said Findur.
"Do you think I could forget? I gave you my helmet to carry on the way up to the house. It was too heavy for you, but you insisted on carrying something."
"I wove Mother a crown of flowers," recalled Findur. "The buttercups were falling out and getting lost in her hair. She smelt like buttercups for days afterwards."
There was a pause, in which Findur wondered if memories were all they two could share now.
"Father," he began suddenly, voice strained, and then stopped, and realized what he had said, and feeling ashamed. For using that one word, father, all his previous omissions became glaring.
"I'm making an awful mess of this," he muttered.
But Celeborn placed a hand on his shoulder. "I am glad that you are here," he said softly, with obvious difficulty.
"You don't even know the extent of what I've done. You don't even know—"
"Let it wait. You are my son, Findur—you have always been my son. If you would allow me to be your father—?"
Findur nodded roughly, swallowing back the beginning of tears. And Celeborn embraced him, but his arms were like stones, and with the heaviness, Findur remembered his cold words to his father before the war had begun. I hope this parting does not grieve you too deeply, he had said with cruelest irony. And he knew that some things would not be so easily healed.
Then Celebrían gave Findur and Liniel each a hand, and like a goose leading goslings, brought them into the house. To Findur's surprise, she went down the old familiar hallway where his family's rooms had been clustered, and stopped before Findur's old room.
She opened the door.
Findur peeked inside, and had the acute sense that he was going backwards in time. His room was unchanged. There was his bed, a little neater than he had usually kept it, with fresh linens on the mattress. Beside it, a table covered with carvings and trinkets. Even his writing desk had the same collection of nibs and ink pots, arranged in a pewter tray he had forged himself. Through the window, he could see the old familiar view of gardens, the valley rising sharply in the distance. And beyond that, if he strained his neck, mountains...
"Thank you," said Findur, hardly knowing what to say.
"Well, go in," said Celebrían. "I'll return with water for the basin."
Findur walked into the room, Liniel following closely behind. He turned in a complete circle, taking in the sight, and then fell back onto his bed. The mattress responded beautifully to his weight, following the curve of his back as if it remembered him.
"This is your room?" asked Liniel, sitting beside him.
Findur stared up at the ceiling. Stars and vines that he had gazed upon for two hundred years were there, carved in the beams.
"It was," he said, as it dawned on him that he was home, whether he belonged there or not. Here was a world of people who knew him as Findur only.
"I can see it as yours," said Liniel. "I like the idea of you sitting in here... carving things..." She picked up a small wooden flute sitting on the nearby table. "You made this?"
"Yes. I was never very good at playing it."
"Hmm." It was a spasm of a laugh. Findur realized that she was afraid.
"You shouldn't be afraid of them," he said.
"Afraid?" said Liniel. "I'm not."
"You are. I can tell." He paused. "So am I."
"Then you have no right to persuade me to feel otherwise," concluded Liniel, and began to play his flute. She was not very good, either, though once she had sorted out the tones, the music began to stabilize into a wispy, rapid pattern, all dissonance, that reminded Findur of nothing more than a broken bellows.
That evening, Findur got his council room.
"I wanted to wait until tomorrow, that we might sit outside on the porch," said Celebrían as she accompanied them upstairs, "but Elrond thought privacy was a more pressing consideration than the weather. It is a gloomy room in which to wait the hours, though."
The room certainly was less welcoming than the rest of the house, with tapestries and dark carvings as its only ornamentation. Nevertheless, tall windows lined one wall, looking down over the valley. Now, they were filled with stars.
The three of them took seats around the long table that dominated the room: Celebrían beside her husband, and Findur and Liniel at the opposite end of the table. Between them sat his father, and Celebrían's sons, and to Findur's slight dismay, Erestor, Elrond's chief counselor.
The whole of Imladris may as well be here, he thought. And I am to tell them everything.
What's more, I actually meant to do so.
When they had been seated, Elrond walked to the door and closed it. Then he returned to his seat. His eyes were shrewd but not unkind.
"To begin with," he said. "I do not think I must repeat what seems self-evident—that the things uttered in this room should stay here, unless I deem their communication fit. It is imperative that the truth of Findur's heritage remain unspoken, and that no one beyond the borders of Imladris remembers that Naurhir and Findur were one and the same. It is a secret kept out of necessity. He must not be endangered or taken advantage of by outside parties. For that is what has happened, has it not?"
"How much do you know?" asked Findur uneasily.
"I know that a man named Curuan, the man whom Narion spoke of, has been your aide—your mentor, more precisely—for many years," said Elrond. "I know the nature of his attack on your wife, for which I am much grieved."
"Attack?" exclaimed Celebrían, regarding Liniel with concern.
"He tried to rape me," said Liniel, softly but without hesitation, before Elrond could interfere on her behalf.
There was an all-encompassing, overpowering silence. Erestor's jaw dropped. Celeborn's eyes were cold flames. Only Celebrían whispered, "How could he—how could anyone—"
"There will be time to wonder later," said Elrond, who obviously had been as moved by the account. "But we must come to a point. My sons would not relate the story further, saying it is a tale to be left to those concerned. I must hear that tale." He paused, and added: "We will not leave this room until I do."
"You will hear it," said Findur simply.
And so he gave away the only empty consolation he had left: his secrets.
Forgetting caution and fear, he told all he could remember, from the very evening he had fled Imladris. He described everything, the coldness of a windowpane against his palm, the light of stars overhead. Following the thread of memory, he ventured on, passing over mountains to a wood where a woman and a vision waited...
He told, and as the waking dream of his memory grew more vivid, so grew its terror. A blow to his wife's face. A haggard figure amongst old tools. Prince Lórimir's face, stiffening and emptying of life, his form crumpling and toppling to the ground. He trembled, saying the thing aloud, but Liniel grasped his hand and he went on, voice clear if not strong, to Imladris and Lórinand (omitting only Mithrellas, though he knew he would tell his wife in private, all the same—why can't I lie?...)
Then Khazad-dûm.
Findur felt his face become ashen pale. He had not heeded the faces around him before, and now he tired to ignore their questioning eyes, wondering why he had stopped.
"I am the only person alive who knows," he said aloud. "Except—no—surely he knows..." He looked up, and announced, "There is a Balrog in the deepest mines of Khazad-dûm." He said the words very quickly, and tried not to notice their appalled faces as he explained how he had discovered it, and the words he had used to calm it...
Naurhir," repeated Celeborn—his father—faintly.
"Naurhir or not, word must be sent to Durin," said Elrond. "A Balrog... this is worse than I dreamt."
"But surely," said Liniel obstinately, "there is nothing to fear? For if it agreed to sleep until—"
She stopped.
"Oh," she whispered.
"What?" asked Celebrían slowly. "Surely you do not mean—you cannot mean—"
"Let Findur speak," said Elrond.
Not yet.
Celebrían ignored him. "You said, Findur, that it would sleep until Sauron's return. That is what you said?"
Not yet. To tell them—to see their faces when the realize that I have—
But it was no good. He screwed up his courage once more, and forced himself to answer.
"Yes," he said softly. "That is what I said. And we are right to fear, for... for he has."
He had expected a violent reaction, but the room instead was draped with a kind of tangible silence.
Only Elrond spoke. "How do you know this?" he asked, in a carefully measured voice.
"You don't sound surprised," said Findur.
"We are not fools," said Celeborn sharply before Elrond could speak. "You know as well as I do that the One Ring, the seat of Sauron's power, was lost and not destroyed. Irrecoverably so, most likely, but as long as it exists in the world, Sauron's spirit cannot be wholly crushed. Yet we did not expect he would recover easily, if at all. More to the point—" And his voice, too, trembled. "How do you know this?"
Findur would have liked to tell them at once, but too much lay between Khazad-dûm and the morning of his first journey to Imladris. Voice strained and stumbling, he quickly recounted his first dealings with Dolgubêl and Greenwood, the resettlement of Ost-in-Edhil, the establishment of Angmar. Aloud, he berated himself, marveling at how quickly he had entered into the charade of loyalty to Dolgubêl's cause, though not believing a word of it. Surely Sauron could not return. And yet... if Angmar did survive, how convenient it would be...
"You must understand," he said. "I became a tool of Curuan's long before I discovered the truth—what Nauron told you about him. I was what he made of me, even if I was stronger than him. So when..."
He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking not of shame or himself but I must tell this.
"The morning I left Ost-in-Edhil for Imladris—after you had summoned me—I met Curuan, as he had bid me to the night before. And there was a presence with us, and it... it was Sauron. He is not very powerful. I do not believe he was communicating with Curuan for more than a few weeks before he revealed himself to me. And he showed me... myself. And what I had become. And I saw that he had meant for Mother to raise me; I was his contingency plan in the case of failure. And I had become exactly what he had intended for me to become, as Naurhir—and I found that I could not argue—that I did not want to—"
There was a moment of stillness before the world collapsed around him in fury and tears.
I have told them, he said without words to the stillness.
I hear you, said the stillness, and told him the rest of the story: a man who turns the world to dust with a touch, and in the end learns to die. For, as his mother had told him once, death is just another kind of life. Flowers bloom after winter. "And mortals are blessed," she said. "For they are privileged with a life beyond ours."
"And us?" Findur had asked.
"We are mortal as the earth. But in our end, like theirs, something more will come. Like the last stroke of a painting, that gives sense to the image as a whole. And then I will show you Beleriand, and we will walk together amidst trees that have gone under the wave." Then she had laughed at herself, smoothed his hair. "My little jewel-child," she had called him, and chided him for letting her go on about fantasies.
In remembering her, he found strength. It was enough so that he could look up. There, on the other side of the table, were his sister and father, consumed with fury and undone with disbelief. "How could you?" Celebrían was crying, even as his father demanded, "Do you understand what you have done?"
The strength was transitory. He felt himself plunge into the moment. He felt the seat beneath him, tasted the cool night air on his tongue. Reflection fell away. He let the shouting come, and took each exclamation like a dagger.
Standing under the shadow of the fortifications of Angmar, the morning sun beginning to make a tentative appearance, Maedír's heart was beating like he had just run a race. He took the letter with a shaking hand, his rough leather gloves briefly skimming across the Elven lady's smooth white skin.
"For Maedír?" exclaimed Îbal, looking down at the Elf in disbelief. "Surely there is some mistake... this is most irregular..."
But the woman give him an unexpected steely glare. "There is no mistake. I can assure you, the letter is intended for Maedír, and Maedír alone. If he wishes to share it with you, that is his perogative."
Maedír slowly tore open the parchment. It was undeniably genuine, set with the red seal of Naurhir. It was also, of all the ridiculous things, perfumed. A rich floral scent, almost like roses, was emanating from the parchment, moving through the still air with uncanny speed. Maedír thought it a preposterous accompaniment to a letter of business, and felt it as an affront to his masculinity. After a few moments of adjusting to the odor, though, it struck him that it was pleasant as well, a scent that would be right at home in his mother's herb garden. He thought of it no more, unfolded the parchment, and began to read.
To Maedír, esteemed guard of Angmar:
This letter will surely alarm you, as it contains many truths that have been hidden from you, truths terrible and perhaps unutterable. Yet they must be divulged. As you read, you must set your mind on trusting my word, and the word of my messenger. I do not lie. It is the past that has been woven with lies...
He read on, and as he did, his countenance darkened. He tightened his hold on the letter, tearing the edges between his forefingers, and then nearly dropped it with a frightened indeterminate cry.
I, Lord Naurhir, am no deliverer of the Númenorean people, but the Heir of Sauron, the son of his own flesh, born that the way might be prepared for the Black Hand's return.
"Let me see that letter," said Îbal, whose eyes had been following Maedír's moving lips suspiciously. He tried to grab the parchment, but Maedír moved away, narrowing his eyes at Îbal and reading on.
Lord Dolgubêl knows this, but has told no one but his most trusted men. He has deceived all of you, and believes wrongly that he will benefit from his scheming and silence. Indeed, he will die long before his line will profit from this evildoing. Even if this were not so, Sauron does not promise a renewed Númenor. Angmar will be a hated name, and its people will be nothing but slaves, animals in a sty.
You may be skeptical as to the implications of this confession. I would seem to say that Sauron, who was defeated more than two centuries ago, lives on! Indeed, his outward form was destroyed. But Sauron, whose spirit cannot be so easily quenched, is indeed alive. I have been in his presence...
He read quickly to the end, and looked up at the Elven lady with a look of pure fear.
"Do you know what this letter says?" he asked her.
"Yes," she assented with a nod. She looked very grave.
"Then—it's true?"
"I say, let me see that letter!" Îbal strode forward and tore the parchment from Maedír's hands. He quickly found the lines that had made Maedír cry aloud, and looked up with sharp eyes.
"Lies," he said curtly.
"You don't seem surprised at what it says," said Maedír. "That Lord Naurhir is—"
"There's no such thing," said Îbal.
But the words Maedír had meant to say did not leave him. "That Lord Naurhir is... is..."
"And even if it were true—" began Îbal.
One of the men, an Arnorian, had snatched the letter from Îbal and was in the process of reading it. With these last words, he looked up at their commander in amazement and horror. "What do you mean, 'even if it were true'? Do you mean he really is the child of... of Sauron?"
The small group—six soldiers and the Elf—was in an uproar. The letter passed frantically from hand to hand. Îbal looked furious. "I mean nothing! But even if he were the son of Sauron, what of it? Why not take advantage of his power? Why, Sauron certainly isn't coming back any time soon, whatever this rubbish may say to the contrary—"
A few soldiers tried to look amused, but they could not laugh.
"Have you no respect for the memory of Númenor?" continued Îbal. "We have a great mission, a great calling. What, are you not man enough to take a risk?"
Maedír felt himself momentarily swayed by the words. But a waft of rose-scent drifted past him, and he thought of his cottage on the grasslands of the Downs, of his parents and their peaceful farm. All of Îbal's harsh excuses were smoothed as if by long fingers. All seemed very clear.
"It can't be right," he said slowly. "Sauron wasn't right. If his heir wanted us to build this state and fight this war, then that can't be right."
"Don't be simple," said Îbal sourly. "Idiot ideas of right and wrong. How can anything we do to make Angmar great and strong and free be wrong? Do you doubt Lord Dolgubêl's wisdom?"
Under other circumstances, the other four soldiers would have grouped around Îbal at the very intimation of treason. Now, however, they were silent, waiting for Maedîr to answer.
"I don't know," he replied truthfully.
"Neither do I," said the last man to have read the letter. He still clutched it in his hands. "If it is true—which I still cannot say for sure—then Angmar will not be great or free, will it? More like a bent-over slave, waiting for Sauron's return."
"Traitors!" cried Îbal. "I will go to the Lord—"
"How can we be traitors?" demanded another. "If this letter's right, then we'd only be doing what's best for Angmar. Why, Maedír is no traitor; you know that."
Îbal shook his head and turned from the gathering. Something in him seemed finally subdued. "Surely this is some Elven witchery," he muttered, giving the lady a sharp glance but saying nothing more.
No one heeded his words, but all continued to discuss the possibilities of Maedír's letter.
Even as they spoke, the lady took Maedír by the arm and met his eyes once more.
"You read the end of the letter," she said. "This war must not occur. Do you believe his words? Do you understand what you must do?"
Maedír nodded once. Perhaps it was the scent that flooded his senses, but he felt at that moment that he would believe anything that this woman told him was true.
"Only one thing," he said. "Why was this letter given to me?"
The woman smiled. Her face was like the sun.
"He met you only once, a little more than a month ago, when he last came to Angmar. He was only in your presence for a few minutes. But he could have seen you for a moment and known. You have a beautiful soul, Maedír. If all men were like you, Angmar would be no iron stronghold, but a garden, carefully tended amongst the northern wastes."
She turned away, and smiled again, but this time it was a softer, sadder smile. A beautiful soul. It was, thought Arandulë to herself, the same thing she had seen in her husband.
Findur had apologized so many times over the past week that the repetition was beginning to worry him. Unable to trust his own motives, he could only wonder: Do I mean this? The words feel true when I say them. But what if I'm deluding myself, and this is only a way to ingratiate everyone before I betray them? How can I trust myself to change?
Celebrían was incensed when he alluded to these fears. Of all of them, she had reacted the most vehemently to his confession. Horror had been overshadowed by fury: not how could this happen, but how could you do this? Now, she exclaimed hoarsely, "What? Because of your parentage, are you unable to control your own actions? A poor disclaimer, Findur. You can go on as you like about the evil within you, but I think we all know the truth. It's nothing that dramatic. When I look at you, I see an irresponsible, ridiculous child, too wrapped up in trivial games to realize he is capable of actually hurting others—"
"Celebrían," said Elrond softly.
"It is only the truth," said Celebrían. "I will not spare him the truth. He would make it seem as if all our mother's suffering was in vain—"
"And now he has heard you," said Elrond, who was regarding Findur with something close to pity. It took a moment for him to realize that he was weeping. For it was true, and he hated himself for not realizing it, that all this self-fear was another layer of resistance. He knew what he was capable of. He knew that he could never consciously manipulate or injure others again, not without remembering Liniel. And now he realized a new thing: I could have stayed. I could have stayed, here, in Imladris, all the time. I need never have fled.
I will have to learn, he decided. How to watch myself. How to be careful in my actions. None of this can ever happen again.
"Findur," said Elrond, "perhaps you should wait in your room while we discuss a few things. My sons can tell me the rest."
Findur nodded quickly. He stood, wiping tears from his face with a shaky hand. He felt chagrined and relieved at once.
"I will go with him," said Liniel.
Together, they left the room.
While they were waiting, Findur took his wife's hands in his and told her about Mithrellas, and about the kiss they had shared in his mother's garden.
"I wasn't attracted to her," he told her. "It wasn't about that at all. I wasn't thinking clearly. I needed someone there—I needed you. Nothing made sense. It's no excuse. I'm very sorry."
Liniel leaned back on the bed, staring at the carvings of the ceiling. "I haven't King Amroth's capacity for forgiveness," she said. "And yet I find I'm utterly beyond anger."
"Not for me," said Findur. "It would be better if you were angry. I know you think you do things only for yourself, but you take them to extremes when the people you love are involved. Don't hurt yourself on my account."
Liniel looked up at him, surprised. "I suppose you're right. I didn't know that you knew that about me."
"I know," said Findur.
After a time, Elladan came to announce that the council had come to a decision. At least, Findur thought it was Elladan. He was not entirely sure. Enough time had passed since the emotional scene in the council room that he was able to find a little humor in this.
The room was considerably more collected than he had left it. Celebrían was unemotional, and the others looked merely tired. Findur and Liniel took their seats.
"We have discussed your situation, Findur," said Elrond. "And we have come to a decision. It is no simple matter. Even if the Eldar were accustomed to such arbitration, your actions defy simple judgment."
"I should think it quite otherwise," said Findur.
"Indeed," said Elrond. "You have allied yourself with men of evil, giving them the trappings of war in exchange for wealth. You have feigned, for some years, to be a loyal servant of Sauron. And, in these past two weeks, you have accepted the master to whom you have proclaimed allegiance to for so long, and led your people into a war that even now may not be averted. Only when you witnessed the corruption of your advisor and tutor, whose amorality you had shared in the past, did you realize what you had done.
"What does this make you, Findur? A servant of Sauron? Not wholly, for your path was wrought long before his presence was known. What is clear is your guilt in the matter. I understand what drove you to leave Imladris. It was a hard thing that you learned from Narion. But I cannot pity you for the blood in your veins. Galadriel's letter told you that you were the son of Sauron. It was you who decided what that meant.
"I have decided it best that you remain in Imladris, as long as I deem it necessary. Think of it not as an imprisonment only. Instead, let this valley be a home once more. If your repentance is sincere, your detainment need not be perennial. Once you have learned to command yourself and your abilities in a way that can never be detrimental to others, you may go where you will.
"Meanwhile—I shall watch you, Findur. Any ill purpose in your heart will be detected, any false move, hindered. You will bear no weapon without my leave—even if I thought your fighting in the war a fit burden, I would not allow it. Nor will you be permitted to engage in your work as a smith."
All eyes were on him—waiting for his reaction.
"I understand," said Findur, tempering his sense of loss with the weight of what he had done.
"And me?"
It was Liniel. The eyes that had been watching Findur swerved and stared.
"It is not for us to judge you, lady," said Elrond, a comprehending gaze surveying Liniel's face. "You have no allegiance to Imladris, and have committed no crime great enough to prompt our concern. You are free to go where you please."
"As if I would leave," muttered Liniel. Her stern forehead and narrowed eyes did not disguise, for Findur, the quivering of her lip as she realized that Elrond knew, and understood, and had forgiven.
In the days that followed, Findur learned what it meant to come home. It was a strange sensation, walking through the halls of his childhood with just that one name. Rediscovery, he found, was not a return. Seeing old faces, walking old paths, his reactions were colored by memories of his life in exile as well as recollections of the distant past. A mural or a flowering tree might be unchanged, but he was not, and he brought new things to each experience. Golden sunrises reminded him of the elanor of Lórinand, and his sister's hair, the hue of a Greenwood cloak.
Maybe a little of Morfindel would always be with him, after all.
The people of Imladris accepted him slowly, assessing and then embracing this strange, fragile replica of the young man they had once known. They were careful and kind and knew better than to ask too many questions. It was only a matter of time before Erelas embraced him and spoke to him of the years Findur had missed. A little later, Narion came to him with something like an apology. They talked together of Curuan and choices. It was a farewell—in the spring, Narion would go to the Havens.
He was not certain of his father. Celebrían was as overpowering in her forgiveness as in her condemnation. Her faith in his ability to change was nothing sentimental, but a force to be reckoned with. She demanded proof and progress, and was ready to strike whenever she found him being intellectually dishonest. But with Father it was different, and it took several visits spent in silence before they could have a conversation. When that day came, Findur spoke in the rambling confessional tone that had always been his parents' to hear. He said all that he could think of—the past, the prospect of war, his mother. He told him of the dream of Galadriel that had come to him the night after he had left Imladris for the second time.
"Do you think it could have been her?" he asked his father shyly. "I mean, really her?"
Celeborn thought a while in silence. The account had shaken him. "I do not think it impossible," he said finally. And then: "I too, will always love you, Findur."
It would be the first of many conversations.
1. albai - Black Speech for "elf". If you'll recall from chapter 12, Dolgubêl and his lackeys have a nasty habit of using the language disdainfully towards elves, even if out of amusement.
2. Quenya - In The Lord of the Rings, Strider says that Bilbo translated "The Fall of Gil-galad" from "an ancient tongue." Assuming that an elf wrote it, Quenya seems to be the most likely ancient tongue. Thanks to the Encyclopedia of Arda for deducing this.
