E C H O
First in the Fallacy Arc
By Saeriel
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"When our memories outweigh our dreams, we become old."
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He remembered. He remembered the sound of the night wind through his hair; the subtle taste of flower blossoms in the spring upon the air; the sight of wide, uncaring spirals of golden leaves as they wove intricate tapestries with themselves and each other; the velvet feel of tender grass yielding beneath his back; the smell of a lover's hair as he slipped into her arms.
He remembered. He remembered the sound of the music of battle, with the proud trumpets and the low moans and the high screams; the taste of victory in a mouth that spoke of defeat; the sight of her smile when she did not smile for his sake; the feel of blood catching in the hollow of his throat when it had been shed by her; the smell of fire in a forest of memories.
He remembered. He remembered the echoes of a duel once the combatants had already fallen, dead, onto the on marble floors; the taste of tears after they have slipped through crusting of another's lifeblood; the sight of a sea that he yearned to yearn for; the feel of soft lips that had kissed a century ago; the lingering smell of another that could not be dispelled by flowers or spices.
He remembered. He did not wish to.
It was true that he did not have to walk alone; indeed, as Lord of the Golden Wood, others would be eager to have his company, and, had he been of a lighter mood, he them. There were fair minds of fair temperament in his woods; there were fair voices that could charm the mallorn to blossom in midwinter, fair hands that could coax beauty into a blade; fair faces that would let him forget, if only for a few moments.
Lórien the Fair, it was called. Lórien, the Valley of Singing Gold; Lórien, the Dream. Fair Lórien, where everything was fair in seeming and what flaws there were just made the whole place all the more fair.
He remembered her voice as she spoke longingly of another Lórien, Lórien in Valinor. She spoke of forgetting, of dreams in golden fields and silver lakes and mithril beaches. She spoke of how the jaded were eased; the bloodstained forgiven; the blue given comfort.
He remembered the longing in her voice when they first came here together, how they would make another Lórien to help others forget. A Lórien for those who were old, like her, so they could remember the stars of Doriath and the pride of Gondolin. So they could remember, escape and forget.
A thousand years they had helped Elves and Men alike forget in their woods, or let them remember what they only knew from song or wistful tale. Memory would forget itself, and all they would know would be peace.
Yet they could not. Lord and Lady, masters of the dreams of others, could not. They could not forget the past since it was before them each day, either when he woke to dawn and saw that smile on her face, or she when she woke from her dreams and remembered them with far too much clarity.
Those dreams. He could live with the terrible Kinslaying that her hands had so graced, as she had long years ago after that final innocence had been lost. She would look into the Mirror, poised and accepting, and see Alqualondë and not flinch. She remembered that without pain. It was healed, and had been since before they had exchanged the silver betrothal rings.
Those dreams! Oh, how he could hear her murmur names, names that should have been his alone, given to her dreams. Names that she had never uttered, never even offered with her eyes. Names implied by a kiss, a marriage, a child, but never truly given. Names he gave willingly, eagerly; which she received, but had not allowed entrance to her heart.
Dreams. She yearned for another penance, another chance. She had always known she would be able to redeem herself in the eyes of the Valar; she was still Artanis, still Nerwen, still a loremaster and still a warrior. She had always known she would return home, to the true Lórien she had so desperately tried to imitate.
And her doubt, her one uncertainty… That was her dream. She dreamt of the Sea, of redemption and of a Grey Ship only because those were certainties, necessary parts of a larger dream. Her dream. What she dreamed of every night, the only thing she would smile at with her entire soul.
Fëanor.
Spirit of Fire and Heart of Ice—a litany, a mantra that many had whispered and said in spiteful voices. One time, just once, that had been uttered in her presence—a young man in Undómiel's retinue, who studied the lore and thought it suitable conversation for those who had made it. He could see that anger in her eyes, the anger that never burned when he was slighted; only for herself. He could see it burn like a slow fire that smoldered beneath the forest floor that would burst into inferno on its own time. Her lips, those lips that whispered the name of the Son of Finwë every evening when he was not supposed to hear, set in a line that could not sing nor say a fair word. They were set with pride; set in stone; set in the jewels of the Two Trees that had been made in her honor.
She did not do anything to the rash Elf, though he was bidden to leave by Arwen, who knew her grandmother's anger, since she had done the same once as well. It was whispered in the halls that such was her hatred for Fëanor, that he had done her great wrong with the Kinslayings and burning the White Ships.
They were wrong. She regretted them, true—regretted opposing Fëanor, regretted that her conscience would not let her fight with her lover. Regretted that she had not thrown her pride to the side so she could admit love.
Oh, he knew they had not exchanged the silver rings—he knew that she had refused him the three locks of her hair, that pride had kept them apart. But he also knew that pride could not lie to the mind, only advise and argue—and that now, she had lost her pride.
He may have given her a name, a beautiful, beautiful name, but he knew that name was not his to give. He didn't even have the right to give her beautiful names. She had accepted only because she did not want to hurt him, and used it only so he would not weep with despair.
He remembered when she had first realized that he knew her heart. He remembered that long, sad look, how she looked away and how her hair fell to hide her face. So much went unsaid; he remembered how he could not say anything. Would not. They were each so afraid of hurting each other. Too afraid to say what needed to be said.
He wondered if it was the same with Fëanor and his Galadriel. He wondered how much went unsaid, and why—if it was pride, or fear. How deep did their love go? How could it last so long? When did it all start? Where did they meet—had he ever kissed her? Had she kissed back? Did they embrace, did they look into each other's eyes—did they plan to be together despite it all? Was it as bitter as theirs—yet how it could it possibly be so?
He was jealous. He was jealous, he was afraid, and he was afraid of being jealous. He was afraid of feeling like this. It wasn't because it hurt him—he had stopped caring about himself long ago. It was as if he never cared about himself. He only cared how these questions hurt her. She knew his mind. He knew that it hurt more for someone to not love one who loves them than it was to love where the love was not returned.
He could ask her all those questions, but they were water to the bitter red wine of another. Why.
He closed his eyes, letting the tears come. And after she had found her redemption, she left. Left to Valinor. And he had let her go.
He would question this for the rest of his life, and he knew it wasn't too late to go. Though all the Ships were gone, he could make his own—his hands had once labored besides Círdan the Shipwright's, and they remembered as well.
He knew he would be able to leave, if he truly wanted to. He would miss Middle-earth, yes, with all of his soul—but his heart was with her, and it would never leave, bitter though that stay was. Home was not reason enough to let her go.
He knew that he would never forgive himself if he left. It would cause too much pain for her; him going to Valinor would cause a choice, a choice at the End between him and Fëanor. A choice that would break all of their hearts; her because she would break a heart; him because he would be alone; and Fëanor because there was another, a hesitation.
He didn't want to put her through that. He loved her enough. Celeborn may have been a fool in love, but he was not a fool for love. Galadriel, his belovéd Lady of Light, would have her Fëanor.
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A few quickie notes:
The quote in the beginning is Bill Clinton's, found in my thesaurus' quote-section under "memories."
I realize the impossibility of Fëanor/Galadriel—I'm not daft. Their joining would be socially unacceptable since it's basically incest, they're both too insufferably arrogant, Elves don't marry people they don't really love, etc., etc.
Feel free to rip this thing apart. I asked Marnie and Bridiliel to edit it, who both did excellent jobs, but no story is ever perfect, even mine (LOL.) I'm deadly serious when I say this is my first fanfiction, so any advice is more than welcome.
Thanks for reading! Please review if you have any comments, since I do want to get better at writing, and I'm awful at editing my own work.
Anya Cole
:i: Saeriel
