AN: Trigger warning: if you ever miscarried a child, experienced child death or had other pregnancy/birth related issues, or even if this is a sensitive topic for you...this might be a chapter to skip, or perhaps the part until the first break at least. There's no miscarriage or child death here, but the material covered in the first part is nevertheless very heavy, and related to that.
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Chapter 50: Mother
Year 1075 of the Second Age, Hollin
Today, the first Passing of the Sceptre of Númenórë at which Galadriel would not be present was taking place. And it was made more ironic by the fact that the sceptre would pass to the island's first ruling Queen.
Galadriel had visited the island only a few times since the founding of Hollin, for the royal weddings and funerals and when Aldarion received the sceptre. There was no royal household to speak of now, no family in Armenelos where she would be welcome as there used to be. Aldarion's sisters were friendly enough to her in a distant sort of way, but they lived away from the capital with their partners. She could not even go there as an advisor, because Aldarion never grew any wiser and for the entirety of his rule listened to no one except, perhaps, for Artanáro. Even Elrond struggled to keep his steady support of the royal line, and his visits were now only as frequent as hers had been after Elros' death. "I know I gave my word to help them," he said when he last spoke to her about it, "but the futility of trying wears me out so much..."
"Then limit yourself to Andúnië," Galadriel had suggested.
He shook his head. "Once I am there, I cannot help but try and stop by in the capital...and then, I regret it painfully."
Galadriel herself had last been there a few decades ago, and she only spent two days in the capital. Two days were enough to assure herself that Ancalimë was dangerously unstable and needed help, not queenship, but that she would not accept it; and that her son was scarcely better. She recognized the situation was beyond anything she could help with and departed to Andúnië instead, where Silmariën's son gave her a warm welcome and where she could remember her friend in peace and tell stories about her to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
After this visit, Galadriel for her part decided that the kingdom of Men would have to do without her. It was too far to travel these days, and she had too much to do in her own realm to even visit Lindon more often than every few years. Travelling to Númenórë was simply not worth it under these circumstances. But still, on this day, her mind was with the new Queen of Men, and on how she would be accepted by her subjects. It required a thousand years of experience with her leading them in various ways for the elves to accept that Galadriel could wear a crown. Would the new human queen have it easier? Presumably so, for the Nolde still remembered Haleth. It just seemed unfortunate that the first queen would also be, in all likelihood, such a bad ruler.
Galadriel personally had other matters on her mind, and the true reason she did not journey to Númenórë even for a Passing. After so many years of tarrying, she finally found the strength to stop the excuses, grant Celeborn's wish and agree to conceiving a child. She herself still felt no desire in that way: even beyond the sacrifice that would be required of her and which she did not expect to enjoy giving, she would not have. Her realm was her child, and apart from that, there were Artanáro and Elrond, and all those she had lost: Elros and Elwing and Eluréd and Elurín. But she knew that Celeborn never had such a strong bond with any of them, except perhaps for the Doriath princes who died so soon, and she understood his desire for a child of his own, and felt she could not rightly refuse him.
So now, she was with child. And from the moment she knew it, she also knew why Ohtarwen never wanted another child, and she also knew that she had made a terrible mistake. For however many things could be said about her, one was certain: she was no Míriel.
She was no Míriel, and so when she felt the child drawing on her own powers, she felt no compulsion to give it more – and in fact, the first time she felt it, the most terrible instinct ran through her: to cut it off.
She was horrified beyond words, and if she had any thoughts left for it, she would have been glad that she was alone in her chambers at that moment, for she collapsed to the floor in silent terror. She knew what it would have meant, had she followed that instinct. The child within her depended on her strength to sustain it. Had she cut it off, it would have died.
Her eyes stared, unseeing, outside hew windows, the pain and guilt wrecking her like scarcely before. Am I monster? She wondered. It was strange enough that she did not desire a child, but to even have such a thought pass through her head was impossible, inconceivable, unacceptable. I always knew I was selfish, but this, this is beyond anything. What kind of creature am I, to contemplate...She could not even think clearly, her revulsion at her own instinct making her shake and her stomach turn.
She sat there, on the floor, for hours, only managing to be thankful that no one came during that time as she slowly forced herself to pull herself together enough to rise and sit in a chair and pour herself wine, though she was still afraid to drink it, for her stomach could revolt. Sitting on the ground, she told herself firmly, would do no one any good. I have to come to terms with what happened. Yes, it is true. I am a monster.
She took the thought and examined it from all sides, trying to discover a fault with it and finding none. There was no excuse for this.
She had contemplated killing her own child.
She shook again as she made herself think that clearly. Yes, that was the kind of person she was.
She would have perhaps abandoned the world then, not feeling like she deserved to live any more, but that would have killed the child too, and so she held on even in her disgust.
She would not fade, and that meant she had to go on. She had to go on and pretend to be a worthy queen of her people while knowing this about herself. She had to lock it deep inside, as a secret no one could ever find out, because if they did, people would turn away from her in disgust and her realm would fall apart.
Truly, no one could find out – not even Celeborn.
For the first time in centuries, there was something troubling her she could not share with her husband, for how could she tell him of such a thing? How could she go to Celeborn, who had dreamed of having a child with her for a millennium and a half now, and tell him: that child you so desire...I wished to kill it just now, and I still might in future, if I do not control myself.
She now remembered with a bitter laugh that time when she blamed Celeborn for not telling her his thoughts about the Select. Where is the intimacy between us? She had asked him. Well, now it was truly and irrevocably gone. There could never again be the complete openness that had marked their relationship for so long, because there would never be a day when she could reveal this to him, not if she did not want to see revulsion in his eyes.
And so she finished her wine and stood and straightened her dress and hid her thoughts deep in her mind, and left her room to go look over the latest trade agreement with Lindórinand with Aseanettë, feeling like a deceiver of the worst kind as she did so. I pretend to still have some light in me, she thought, and yet I am all darkness now.
She considered trying to reach the light of the West to find out if she still could, but she was too afraid to find out.
And so she fought within herself, every minute of every day, to give her child what it needed, and thought of Ohtarwen more and more. Was this why Findoiolosse was weaker, easier to bend to another's will, than Artanáro? Because her mother could not find it in herself to give any more of her? That thought was what made Galadriel to let go of little more of herself, but it went against the grain and even as she did so, she wondered: was this why Ohtarwen died? Had Findoiolosse never been born, would her mother have been strong enough to survive the battle?
Her thoughts ran in circles, and the pretence of being simply happy in her pregnancy was taking its toll on her. She wished, desperately, hopelessly, for someone to talk to. She could not tell Celeborn, and while she loved Artanáro and Elrond dearly, this was not something one could discuss with those one saw as one's own children. And especially not with Artanáro.
And even Tindómiel, who could have perhaps been the best choice...how could she ever understand, how could she ever give Galadriel anything beside the confirmation that she never should have had agreed to this? And she was too young to burden with such terrible knowledge, too. Ambë was older, but she had no children of her own either, and Galadriel did not feel quite close enough to the lady to open her heart and soul so much. What if Ambë turned away in disgust, as she surely should? What if she told?
Itarillë, Galadriel thought desperately, how I miss you! Findekáno or her uncle, she knew, could perhaps ease her mind too, but only Itarillë, who bore a child herself, could ever understand. And she was lost to her forever.
But then, perhaps Itarillë would have judged her? Being a mother, she would surely find this even more repulsive. And her uncle, too, who loved all his children...no, she could never tell them.
Findekáno would not turn away, though she knew that. He had killed himself, in Alqualondë, and she had not turned away from him either, not with finality. He who was closest to her heart...she always said that he was the one most like her, but only now, she glimpsed the similarity in full.
He would not have helped her much, though, not with his hidden but deep guilt. He would have listened, and understood, but he would have not eased her burden in most ways.
No, for that, she would have needed more, and so she thought of Lady Melian – but there, too, she would have been turned away in disgust, perhaps. So in the end, there was one friend she longed for the most: Lord Olórin, with his ever wise words.
She thought of him and missed him desperately every day, and in this state of mind, on the verge of collapse, Galadriel wandered to the edges of the Great Forest.
The Eldest was already waiting for her.
"Should come to me more, you should," he said when he saw her. "Your mind is too heavy."
Truer words, Galadriel thought tiredly, have never been spoken.
He sat with her on the edge of the forest and listened to her woes. "A fleeting thought," he said then, "is not the same as an intent. You would never have killed your child."
This was not the kind of speech one normally heard from The Eldest, and it roused Galadriel from the dark place where she was a little. She gave him an intent look. "How can you know that?" She asked after a while.
"I know," he replied simply, and her heart grew a little lighter.
Galadriel visited him often during the rest of her pregnancy, for in his presence and some time afterwards, it was always easier to let go of herself and give something to her child. Nevertheless, she could not have been more relieved when the time of birth finally came, and she scarcely felt the contractions and the pains through her relief that this torture would finally, finally be over, that she would no longer be in danger of committing the worst atrocity.
Setting her eyes on the child, however, such a powerful wave of guilt swept over her as she had never known before. The girl was beautiful and innocent, and that Galadriel had perhaps made her less than she could have been by her selfishness was almost too much to bear in that moment. And yet, she could not say in full confidence she would not do it again – for she still remembered how almost impossible she found it to let go of anything of herself.
Her eyes welled with tears. A monster, she thought again. A monster. My own mother must have given so much to all of her children – we were all so strong of spirit – and yet I am incapable of giving up anything, anything at all. Had I not been a monster, this child could have had the world at her feet. But now, who knows? Perhaps she will be weak and frail, perhaps she will fade at the slightest provocation and cause her father infinite grief, only because I, her own mother, am a monster.
Celeborn came in, and his face was bright when he looked upon his daughter. In fact, he could scarcely take his yes off her, and so he did not notice anything out of ordinary about his wife. "Have you decided on a name?" He asked after a long while of silent admiration.
Galadriel shook her head, quickly hiding her feelings in the shadowed crevices of her mind, as she had been doing for a year now. "Traditionally, that's your prerogative first," she said, striving to sound as happy as she could. "I wouldn't rob you off it."
He sat down on the bed and looked at the baby. "She has your beauty," he said, "but the silver hair of the Teleri. She won't be like high noon sun like you, I think, but still there's something of you in her. I shall name her Celebrían."
Galadriel found the last vestiges of strength somewhere and smiled. It was a beautiful name. She knew that she, herself, would never be choosing one. She had no right.
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As years passed, Galadriel's guilt did not abate.
Celebrían was beautiful without question, beautiful and full of light. Celeborn saw echoes of his brother in her, and though Galadriel supposed that was true, she herself never knew Galathil well enough for the comparison to occur to her. She saw traces of Nimloth and Elwing, but even more so she saw Oreth, as far as she was able to judge. She also remembered Lúthien in Celebrían's intense love for the forest and things that grew. But sometimes, she saw Findoiolosse in her daughter, and that made her uneasy.
Celebrían was not broken by tragedy, of course, and so she was stronger and lighter, but still there was something particular in Celebrían's reserve, even as a child, that struck a chord of memory, and of fear.
Fear because every time she looked at her daughter, she wondered if Celebrían could have been stronger, if she could have been more, if only Galadriel had not been so selfish. Would Celebrían pay for this some day, as Findoiolosse paid for her own weakness by being ensnared in Túrin's doom? Would Galadriel's selfishness one day cost her daughter her happiness? The thought was unbearable, and it soured every one of Celebrían's smiles.
And adding to her strain, too, was keeping all of this from Celeborn, who loved their daughter in a way uncomplicated by any guilt or fear, who spent much of his waking time with her, walking her through the forests and teaching her all there was to know about trees and flowers and all things that lived, and telling her stories of Doriath and the family that was lost.
Galadriel sometimes told her stories as well, stories of the Noldor, but most of the memories were so entwined with guilt for her that she hardly found pleasure in it, especially combined with the guilt of knowing that Celebrían could have been the greatest of all the Noldor if only she, herself, had not been such a terrible, cruel creature.
Sometimes, she found a shade of consolation from all of this, though, and not only in the company of The Eldest. He could bring her calm like no other, but at other times it was simply the little things, the throwaway sentence someone said in her presence. One day as she was drinking lemonade with Sarnel, taking a break from examining some proposed changes to the first draft of their offensive strategy, they watched Celebrían sitting at a lower terrace and drawing for a moment before Sarnel said: "You must be very proud of her. She is such a strong, clever, talented child."
And that was it, that was that tiny moment of consolation, of hope. As always in such moments, the thought went through Galadriel's mind that perhaps she had not given so little, perhaps it was enough, perhaps… But then, with the same regularity, the next thought followed: yes, but you could have given more. You know you could have. That was all there was to it, really.
"She truly is very talented, is she not?" She said, to Sarnel. "I suppose I am not the best person to judge this, though...nor the other epithets."
"Of course she is all that! Well, she is your daughter, after all, how could she be anything else?" This question was like a stab through Galadriel's heart, and it took much effort to keep her face unperturbed. "There can really be no doubt about cleverness, and as for strength," Sarnel continued, "have you ever seen her with other children? They are all afraid of her!"
"And are you certain that is not only because she is my daughter?"
Sarnel snorted. "That is part of it, to be sure, but she can be truly impressive when she wants to be. I suspect you only see her meek side because no one dares standing up to you."
"You do not know how much I sometimes wished that was true," Galadriel muttered in response.
"Come, now, who in this kingdom would dare to stand up to you when you are truly determined?"
"No one now, I suppose, except Celeborn. But it is always only in moments when it truly matters that this stops working."
Sarnel gave her a questioning look, but Galadriel shook her head. She did not want to burden her niece with that knowledge.
"We have been thinking of having children with Tyelperinquar as well," Sarnel changed the topic, "and seeing Celebrían, I feel the desire very strongly."
Galadriel paused in bringing her glass of lemonade to her lips and turned to her. "Sarnel...are you certain?"
"What do you mean?"
The Queen shook her head. It was not her place to dissuade anyone because of her own selfishness, and yet… "Only that you should not unless you were completely confident this was what you wanted. Bearing a child takes a toll, you have to give it much of yourself. Unless you truly wish it, it will become a great burden."
Sarnel seemed a little taken aback – clearly, she had expected warm encouragement from the relatively new mother, and words about children being a blessing of life. She promised to think about it in detail, but the slightly awkward feeling lingered and Galadriel soon requested they return to work.
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Sarnel decided, in the end, that her desire to have children was strong enough, and a beautiful pair of twins now ran through the halls of her house. They were like siblings to Celebrían, who was only ten years older than they were. Avorneth was her closest confidante and drew her out, and Mírdan always came up with ingenious plans for things they could all do together. The trio sometimes caused such mayhem in the palace that Galadriel was forced to make use of her sternest ruling voice and look. She was much reminded of Sarnel as a child
"Your children are clearly a bad influence on my daughter," she complained to her niece, who only laughed.
"She is the oldest," she pointed out. "If something, it is the other way round."
Galadriel shook her head. Sarnel knew perfectly well that was not how it was – Celebrían was, on her own, a very calm child, and it was only in the presence of her friends that she grew a little more wild. Mírdan, on the other hand, was wild whenever and wherever he was, and Sarnel was at this very moment attempting the impossible feat of calming him down enough to welcome their grandfather properly, for Artanáro was coming to visit.
Sarnel stayed dignified when he arrived, but as soon as he stepped to her, she put her arms around him in relief, and he embraced her tightly, holding for dear life. It was a very long time until he let her go and turned to finally met his grandchildren.
Galadriel allowed the family gathering to unfold in peace, and waited to the side until Artanáro familiarized himself with the children. Then his eyes turned to her, and he was there in a flash, holding her hands. "Aunt," he said. "I have missed you so much."
"And I you," she replied, embracing him. "One thing I did not fully realize before I experienced it was how us being both monarchs would limit the time we are able to spend together, and combined with having a child..."
"See? I told you you should have simply accepted my kingdom." He laughed and stepped back. "Will you introduce me to your daughter?"
With an echo of guilt she always felt in such situations, she motioned to Celebrían. "King Gil-Galad," she said formally, "meet my daughter, Princess Celebrían of Hollin. Celebrían, meet Artanáro Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth and the King of Lindon, and my dear friend and great-nephew."
Celebrían smiled calmly and curtsied as Artanáro bowed to her.
They went to sit together as a family before the official feast in the evening, where the children would not be present, so that Artanáro could enjoy the company of his grandchildren to the fullest. He sat with Avorneth on one of his knees and Mírdan on the other, and attentively listened to their stories. "...and I won that race," Mírdan was saying.
"Because Celebrían did not compete," Avorneth returned.
Artanáro laughed. "Why did you not wish to compete?" He asked the princess.
Celebrían gave him a look. "Why should I, my king?" She asked.
"Well, do you not like it?"
"No." She paused. "I do not like running."
"What do you like, then?"
Celebrían thought about it for a moment. "The forest," she said, "and drawing."
"Seems like you have little enough interests in common with my grandchildren."
Celebrían shook her head slowly. "Avorneth at least likes the forest as well as I do."
"And Mírdan?"
"Mírdan can be persuaded to go when it seems to him there will be opportunity for some mischief," she replied drily, and all the adults laughed.
"Such badmouthing of my son," Sarnel chuckled. "I am sure he is a perfect sweetheart."
"Are you perhaps thinking of some other boy?" Tyelperinquar asked drily, and there was another burst of laugher.
"So taking care of twins is difficult, then, I take it?" Artanáro quipped.
Tyelperinquar exhaled. "It cannot be described," he said. "Sometimes I wonder how..." He paused, and cast a guilty look at Celebron before he continued, "how my grandmother ever managed, with seven children and the youngest two twins."
Tyelperinquar always seemed to feel guilty to as much as mention his familial connection to the Noldor, so Galadriel sought to reassure him. "I have frequently wondered the very same," she said. "And given that the two youngest children were probably the most innocent of them all, until the end, it clearly did not prevent her from raising them properly."
"I suppose," Tyelperinquar muttered, "that they were young enough to escape my grandfather's clutches."
"That was part of it, yes – with five sons, and your father such a favourite, he had no time left for the twins, from what Nelyafinwë said. Also, the twins had each other, and so they did not have so much space to be influenced by their unsavoury elder brothers."
"I wish I had had that sort of protection," he murmured.
"Beloved," Galadriel said softly, "stop it. You are a good and worthy person. You know you are."
"Rest assured," Artanáro added, "that I would not have consented to you marrying my daughter otherwise."
Sarnel smirked. "You truly believe you could have prevented the wedding, Father?"
"No," he said with a smile, "but I would have made my disapproval clear. Fortunately, there was no reason to."
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Later, as they were talking alone in Galadriel's chambers, Artanáro remembered Celebrían again and said: "She reminds me of my wife and my older daughter, I have to say."
Galadriel smiled, trying to ignore the usual guilt. "Thank you, for what higher praise could you give? I have thought about Oreth as well, yes, and she is one of those I sometimes think of when I look at my daughter."
"Who are the others?"
Galadriel looked away.
"Aunt?"
"Your sister," she said quietly.
Artanáro seemed shocked. "There is nothing but joy in Celebrían," he replied. "I have seen it."
"Yes, that is not what I meant."
He understood in that moment, and he shook his head. "You cannot compare her to yourself, Aunt."
"And yet she is my daughter. I should have been able to...if it had not been for my selfishness."
Artanáro looked puzzled, as he well might, but Galadriel did not want to explain herself. "Let us talk about politics instead," she said.
"If you want," he agreed. "How is the situation in the East?"
"Not good. Our spies report that Sauron seems to be building a fortress of some sort. He is recuperating."
"We knew that was likely to happen after Aldarion's death," he pointed out.
"Yes, though I had hoped it would not be quite so quickly."
"We are not the only ones who has spies."
Galadriel shifted nervously. "You think he has people in Númenórë?"
"Yes. Not people who directly serve him, but people who sell information to other people, who then...well. You know how it is."
She did, but she would have hoped realms like Númenórë would be free from this. But well...perhaps Númenórë under Elros. Now, it was a different realm. Ancalimë's rule was proving even more disastrous than her father's. He, at least, had done some good in Middle-Earth. She was ruining all of his work by her complete refusal to help. "Do you think he has someone like that here?" She asked.
"It is your realm, you know better than I," Artanáro replied in a neutral tone of voice, but it was clear he believed so.
"And in Lindon?"
"Very likely, yes."
"You seem very calm about it."
He shrugged. "Ever since I realized, I have been doing my best to keep my counsel as private as possible, and not to give anything away. I do not suspect anyone of those close to me, after all."
"That is all well and nice, but if he's building a fortress, we will need to stick to our plan and attack him within a few centuries, and that is very difficult to prepare in secrecy."
Artanáro nodded. "You are right, of course. What must be done must be done. We will keep secret what we can, and prepare for him knowing the rest."
"Khazad-dûm might be useful for this. The realm does not admit just anyone inside, so strangers cannot simply come there and settle on their land, as they can here. Some particular preparations, like making of special weapons or armour, could be done there."
"Well. Who knew? Your cordial relationship with the dwarves will be useful after all."
Galadriel rolled her eyes. "Have you not talked to Tyelperinquar?" She asked. "Trust me, he would be able to give you a very detailed list of every way in which the closeness of Khazad-dûm benefited us. Sarnel sometimes says that he would move there for months on end if he could."
"And to think, I have called him a good person only a few hours before!"
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AN: Well, being Galadriel's daughter was never going to be easy.
Apologies to anyone who thought Celebrían would be another happy occasion for Galadriel. If Tolkien chose to write such a repulsive bit of misogyny into his work as those super-draining elven pregnancies (see my AN in chapter 39)...well, then I'm here to fully explore its implications in their gruesomeness.
Also, the "she was no Míriel" line is a reference to "she was no Lúthien", which is from the brilliant story "the light of the dying day" by ncfan with which I agree completely (and you have heard me rant about that subject already, so I won't repeat myself, but just...go read it.)
Also also, we're now halfway through the story. Yes, there's a long way to go still. Twenty more chapters of Second age, and then the whole of third.
Oh and another thing: I've just realized that this could be read as very militantly pro-life, but...that is SO not the point I'm making here. I might get into this problem among elves and men in some later chapter, just to clear it up properly.