Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeframe: Late spring and summer, T.A. 265.
Rating: PG-13 for themes and inexplicit descriptions of rape.
Chapter XX: Dreamflower
Arandulë returned with the last days of spring, at a gallop swift as the summer winds that carried her. Findur saw her approach through the gossamer curtains of his bedroom window. Immediately, he set down the figure he was idly carving—a dragon—and started for the nearest door.
He found Arandulë on a back porch, sitting on a bench across from Elrond and Liniel. As he approached, he overheard scraps of their conversation.
"—just as he said, a good man—modest but determined, not afraid to defy those loathsome Gondorians. If we in Eregion had known, we would never have thought it fit—"
Elrond said something quietly, and Arandulë laughed. "Oh, of course. And a number of the former Arnorians did stand by him. Things might have become very grave indeed if a few of Dolgubêl's own Gondorians had not balked at the prospect of fighting Arnor without Eregion's assistance. They confessed to everything. That was the final nail in Angmar's coffin."
A victory. Findur released the breath he had been unconsciously holding, feeling faint but relieved, even as he saw that he, too, had been conquered.
"What news?" he asked, stopping a few yards from the benches.
"Findur!" Liniel stood, beckoned him forward, and, to his surprise, embraced him.
"It worked," she said. "The letter was delivered. There was a coup. Don't worry," she added. "Force was not required. What with the number of Maedir's supporters and an actual confession from some of Dolgubêl's underlings, he and his followers were easily outnumbered and overtaken. The colony will deal with them as they see fit, and those who remain in Angmar will take control of the colony on their own terms."
"Word was sent to Arnor, and to some of Lord Dolgubêl's more... unusual allies in the east and south," said Arandulë. "It is over."
Findur doubted that any of this could really be over. Nevertheless, the rest of the afternoon was positively pleasant in comparison to all that had gone before. After Elrond had asked his share of questions, they spoke of Maedir and of the fates of Angmar and Eregion. Arandulë seemed especially good humored, and Liniel and Findur soon learned the reason: her husband, Halion, had accompanied Amroth to Eregion.
"We spoke for a long time," Arandulë said. "All we could agree on was that it had been miserable, being apart. And that was enough."
"I am glad for you," said Liniel, but as she spoke, an odd look came into her eyes: bitterness, he thought.
He had never expected to ever welcome the sight of Liniel screaming.
Relief wasn't the first word that came to mind, of course. Sitting mutely on his bed, his wife's eyes flashing and hands clenching beside him, her voice coarse and brittle as she began to enumerate every error he had made for the last two hundred years, he felt as if he were sitting next to an enraged Warg, ready to strike. Only as her screams began to shift in emphasis, with curses falling on Curuan, Dolgubêl, Sauron, and even Master Elrond, did it occur to him that this was probably as emotionally healthy an action on Liniel's part as it was well-deserved on his own. The peril had gone. Now was the time to be horrified at what might have been.
She had not screamed at him like this since the day he had left Greenwood.
Now, staring intently into the rectangular mirror that hung across from the bed, Liniel began to consider herself in terms of the bigger picture. Working the chain of her necklace between her fingers, she muttered, "And I... if I had known... if you had told me... To have listened to that traitor... redeemer of the Silvan people indeed... Oh, of course he told me just what I wanted to hear, just after I had lost that idiot mother of mine to the same war he intended to rekindle... to think, that I was so weak as to believe him and his ridiculous lie!"
"We've discussed this," said Findur. "You couldn't have known. He deceived us both."
Liniel wheeled to face him more swiftly than should have been possible, considering her condition. "You?" she screamed. Her face contorted with ghastly anger. "You wretched traitor, what can you possibly know of it? Do not patronize me. You were not there. You know nothing. You have never asked; you have never understood me or even wanted to and now, now you have the audacity to presume to be a formidable reference for what I could or could not have known? Deceived, you say? You knew exactly what he wanted to make of you, and so did I... I tell you, we should have known. What, is over-eagerness your defense? A mere error in caution? Oh, yes, you've made plenty of mistakes, Findur; I can see that you're regretting a few of them even as we speak. If Curuan had been a woman, would you have gone as eagerly to his bed as you did mine?"
Findur scarcely had time to feel anything but horror, for a sudden change was coming over Liniel's countenance. Her face, flushed with color from the exertion of her screaming, was growing pale. She gave a gasp, shivered, and broke into frantic tears.
Findur, without thinking, stood and went to embrace her. The form that would have shrieked and clawed at such a gesture a moment before sank into his arms, clutching at his clothing like a child. He felt the weight of her head on his shoulder, and watched the world dissolve in the haze of his own tears: not silent, as they had been hitherto, but real sobs to compliment Liniel's own. He cradled her in his arms and thought of all the truths in the words she had spoken.
After enough tears had been shed, a calmness came to them, giving Findur the presence of mind to retrieve a handkerchief from his pocket and dab away Liniel's tears. Neither spoke, but Liniel straightened her posture and took the handkerchief from him, finishing the business herself. When she was done, she drew Findur into her own embrace, kissed his forehead, and rested her chin on his shoulder, beside his ear.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"I haven't been a very good husband, have I?" said Findur, taking a seat on the bed.
"Neither of us have performed spectacularly when it came to marriage," said Liniel, sitting beside him and letting her head fall on his shoulder. "Not for lack of love."
"I never apologized for that business with the river water," said Findur.
"It's all right. I don't remember."
"That's why I'm sorry," said Findur. "You deserved it, I can assure you. You said some very cruel things."
"I probably meant none of it. I never do."
"You meant to say them, though."
Liniel sighed. "Are we such terrible people, Findur?"
"In parts, maybe. I suppose we are to change. To shuffle through ourselves, and discard of all that is rotten."
"That must be what death is like," said Liniel. "Going away, and coming back rearranged." She paused. "There is something I have wondered. About... Curuan."
Findur stiffened. To hear her say that name was the most horrible of acknowledgments.
"I wonder," Liniel went on, "if he heeded the summons of Mandos, or..." Her voice trailed off. "I don't like to think of the alternative."
Findur was taken aback by the question. But then he thought of Curuan, grinning brokenly and tumbling to the ground. He thought of the voice—this was not my doing—
"He would not have remained," he said. "He would have fled from Sauron's presence. If Mandos's call was the only escape—"
Liniel nodded sharply, and he did not go on. Instead, he heard his wife whisper something in the Silvan tongue, words uttered so fleetingly that they were more like wind.
"This is not possible! An eyewitness report, with the weight of the lord of Imladris himself behind it—"
"Findur, pray sit down," said Elrond. He had already taken a seat by the window, through which a fragrant breeze was wafting, giving Elrond's study the calming air of an arboretum.
Findur did not move. He was still clutching the letter from King Durin. He had read it three times, and had come no closer to comprehending it.
"This is ridiculous!" he cried. "Does it not concern him that, at any moment, his entire kingdom might be destroyed!"
"Come, Findur, you cannot go so far as that. Your Balrog is confined and, by all accounts, inert. It is Durin who finds the situation ridiculous: that a creature whose kind was destroyed at the end of the Third Age might be lurking beneath his city, discovered by a stranger when his own people have seen naught of it."
"Do you even believe me?"
"Of course," said Elrond. "But believing a report from an anonymous elf who, as far as Durin is concerned, never stepped foot in Khazad-dûm, is quite another matter. You know that the Dwarves keep meticulous records. You were smuggled in, and so they are convinced that Kali returned alone to Khazad-dûm thirteen years ago."
"I will go, then," said Findur. "I will make them listen. I will lead them to it, I—"
"Think carefully of what you are saying," said Elrond. "You have met with representatives of the Dwarves. They would recognize you as Naurhir. What reason would they have to trust you?" He shook his head frustratedly. "Even if you were to lead them thence: what then? You would only risk agitating the creature. There is no offensive to be taken. To attack a Balrog is madness. Defeat is almost certain, and a chance victory can only mean death for both monster and slayer. You will note that I did exact a promise that his people be cautious in their digging. They will be, at the very least, on their guard. I fear that, even if Durin were to learn the truth, he would still not abandon his mines. We cannot force our will upon him. We have done our best, Findur."
Findur looked frustratedly about the room, at the simple furniture and scattered possessions. It was an environment so alien to the entrapment he now felt.
"This is not your fault," said Elrond.
Findur looked up at the master of Imladris. His earliest vivid memories of Elrond involved various episodes of childhood mischief that had resulted badly for the general household. He could still recall the tone of his voice as Elrond chastised him for uprooting the gardens, breaking a window, and, on one occasion, actually setting a tapestry on fire. These incidents had been more-or-less accidental, and Findur now saw what his memory had conveniently censored: that Elrond, so apparently humorless at the time, had been amused by his minor misdeeds. What he had mistaken for grimness had been fairness, and for dry intellectualism, a deep-seated wisdom mingled with lively curiosity.
"Thank you for doing what you could," he said.
To shuffle through ourselves, and discard of all that is rotten...
He looked up at Elrond.
"Can we have this argument again next week?" he asked, with such sincerity that Elrond could only laugh in reply.
For two months Findur had delirious dreams of running feet, shining blades, scarecrow trees. Time blurred and overlapped. He had killed Curuan. He had forged his first sword. He would run away... from what? No language existed in his dream world; fears remained inchoate. He only knew a dark woods... a valley in flames... an unending white city beneath a starless sky.
He always woke in a dazed stupor, thoughts of flight or conquest flitting through his brain. They formed an opaque film around the dark places in his memory, a forgetfulness. It would be easy to lapse into this state, to deny all that he had learned. Repentance was ridiculous. What a vanity! Of course he would not change. He had done too much. He desired too much.
One night he dreamed of his mother's rape, which Sauron had shown him briefly the morning of his conversion. The images were too painful: nails digging into flesh, tanned, callused palms working their way against snow-pale skin, the agony of sea-blue eyes. At times he witnessed the scene detachedly, but just as often he was Sauron, bearing down on a smooth, still body, delighting in another's pain. Or he was Galadriel, struggling beneath the weight of her captor, a broken-winged bird trapped beneath dead mass.
Liniel woke him early that morning, wiping tears from his unseeing eyes, and whispered that he had been crying in his sleep. He came to himself, listened to the concern in her voice. He placed his hand very gently against her abdomen, tracing the scar there, and told her his dream.
"You cannot blame—" she began.
"I know it was not my fault," said Findur. He was tiring of the expectation of guilt on his part for Sauron's wrongs. "But... I am afraid all the same."
"Not trusting yourself?"
He shook his head, and sat up, his dark hair forming a curtain around his face.
"I was willing to accept my mother's fate. A few years more, and I might have been willing to accept yours."
Liniel's face darkened. "Findur—"
He ignored the denial in her voice. "That is where I am now," he said. "Between two worlds. If I weren't so tired..."
He let his head fall into her lap. He felt neither vulnerable nor strong. He was only Findur. She was only Liniel. What a desperate game it was, to be alive in a world of limitations.
One morning, after a month of speech confined to introductions and would you please pass the tea?, Arwen began chattering to him during breakfast as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Findur could feel his sister's eyes on him as he smiled and nodded at the appropriate places. He knew she was not afraid, merely curious as to how he would respond to this unexpected token of acceptance.
Findur did the best he could. After they had eaten, he accompanied Arwen to the stool by the window where she most liked to sit and dutifully engaged in conversation with her. He recalled that he had taken life very seriously at her age, that even the carefree frivolity of childhood had been a troublesome time, too easily upset by the machinations of adults. And so he found it very easy to speak with her, answering her usual impertinent questions and asking a few of his own: about her family, her interests, her dreams. He listened to her talk of climbing trees and learning to embroider her own stockings and reciting poetry. She recited parts of the Lay of Leithian as best she could, and asked him whom he liked best from the story.
"Finrod Felagund, I suppose," said Findur.
"I like Luthien best," said Arwen. "She was very brave. She must have been terrified... and yet she went on."
She sat on the floor, pulling her knees to her chin. "And Beren," she said thoughtfully. "Yes, I like Beren very much."
Imagine, to have a child: a small life separate from his own. Small hands, laughter. Not a possession, not merely created—more vibrant, more beautiful, than the most finely crafted diadem.
He turned to look at the others. Celebrian smiled at him; Elrond nodded. But Liniel's place at the table was unoccupied. She was gone.
He found her in their room. She was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, knees drawn up to her chin. She had a curious pensive expression on her face, one he had never seen before.
Perhaps once before.
Liniel saw him and straightened up. She beckoned him forward. She was wearing a white dress, her shoulders bare. Her hair, braided and coiled, appeared black. Sunlight, darting through the shifting leaves beside their window, played upon its strands, revealing in patterns its natural color: a deep, rich brown.
"I want to talk to you about something," she said.
"You left because you wanted to talk to me?"
There was no sarcastic response, no roll of the eyes. "I had to think about some things first."
"And have you?"
Liniel shrugged, looking frustrated and miserable. "The answer will be no. And I suppose you have the right to say it—even if your reasoning is absurd—"
Findur sat in a chair across from her. He perched on the very end of it, so that their knees met in the center. "You can't argue with me before we have the argument," he said. "That's definitely one of the rules. I at least deserve a chance to properly earn your criticism."
"Ah, but we have had this argument before," said Liniel.
Findur blinked, swallowed. How odd, that their thoughts had run parallel, uncovering the same memories, the same fears. He tried to think of how to proceed.
"You're right," he said. "I did say no. Though I did a very fine job of fixing the door afterward."
Liniel looked startled.
"Sorry to divert your climactic build-up in midstream. But you must admit, an air of mystery isn't very effective when everyone involved is in on the secret." He took her hand, felt his face unaccountably redden, and told her, "I was thinking about it too."
"Of course I didn't mean right away," said Liniel. She was speaking quickly, as if afraid she might lose this intimation of consent as quickly as it had come. "We are hardly ready to—and I don't only mean you, we both need... well, time, and—"
"There is no need to worry about it," said Findur.
"That's what I mean; you shouldn't worry about it. I only wanted to make sure that you—that you—"
"Liniel," he said. "I want to have a child with you. I want to have a family. I can put it in writing and sign it if that would reassure you."
She smiled. It was a rather trepidacious smile. "You're really not afraid?"
"Of course I'm afraid," said Findur. "Even if I manage to recover from this rut—it is no small responsibility."
"No, it's not."
"There will be details to be worked out."
She nodded, seeing the seriousness in his eyes. Then she grinned. "Any child of ours is going to be spoiled terribly. I can see you now, carving your little figurines once a week, lavishing gifts on every occasion..."
"Only to make up for your insufferable miserliness."
They both laughed, and Liniel leaned forward and kissed him. With the embrace, a flood of images rushed forth from his memory. Greenwood in winter. A frozen garden on the other side of glass. He remembered his long-ago vision, Liniel's rose petal words: the shadow is gone. Your fate is your own. But the shadow had only grown stronger, and his future was too entwined with the chances of the world to ever claim such independence of purpose. That was what love meant.
Imagine: a family. It did not mean salvation, or an end to struggling. But now, in Imladris, it was enough.
