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The Hour of the Wolf

Canticle of the Haunted: 3rd Chapter


"This is the story of how I never stopped running.

This is the story of how,

when the wolves knocked,

I met them at the door

and I became the beast, instead."

-Ashe Vernon, Belly of the Beast


Author's note: Just a quick note to say that I will be using the names Noldor, Sindar, Mithrim, Falathrim, Green Elves, Avari, Teleri, etc. for the different elven races. My initial thought was to use the name that each group called themselves, however, this quickly became very complicated and difficult to keep track of as the perspective changed with each character. Given that I don't want to alienate readers, I decided against this.

Also please note that the storyline in Aman and the storyline in Middle Earth do not occur concurrently. The Aman storyline is taking place several decades ahead of the Middle Earth storyline at this point. Eventually these two storylines will sync up.

Anything in particular that you guys want me to talk about in my author's notes?


"You're not gone," Celeborn sighed to himself as he stood at the base of the camphor tree, eyeing the sleeping huddled mass of buckskin, sunburnt flesh, and dirty blond braids that was Hwindan. "I knew you wouldn't be," Celeborn grumbled a bit more loudly to himself. Still Hwindan slept soundly, as young elves were wont to do, occasionally reaching up to scratch at his sloppily plaited braids, and Celeborn contemplated him, crossing his arms over his chest, taking a deep breath and letting it out.

Night was slowly seeping into dawn, the pinpricks of the stars mellowing and fading as soft golden luminescence began to wash across the sky from the east, the hum of cicadas already rising in the air along with the mists that floated up like ghosts from the mirrored surface of the pond. Celeborn squared his shoulders and dug his toes into the young elf's side. "Oi!" Hwindan grunted, dark eyes squinting open to blink accusingly at Celeborn. "Ain't poked and prodded me enough eh?" He grumbled, rubbing at his side as he curled into the tree.

"Come on then," Celeborn said with a rough gesture of his hand. "If you're going to stay then you're going to have to earn it. We've got enough work around here without an additional mouth to feed." Hwindan stared at him for a moment with suspicion but gradually his curiosity won out and he pushed himself up from his earthen bed, brushing off the seat of his leggings and shouldering his bow and quiver.

It was a very light bow, Celeborn noted, thin and willowy as Avarin bows commonly were, better used for deer and small game than for war. The Avari had never been a warlike people, not the way the Sindar had been. He clutched his own bow, thicker, sturdier, designed more to kill orcs and wargs than squirrels and hares. And, in the end it had killed elves; he was overcome by the sudden desire to cast it away as if it had burned him but instead he strung it over his back and trudged towards the woods.

"Come on," he said, turning back and gesturing towards the younger elf again and Hwindan stared at him for a moment before he came scampering towards him wearing a lopsided smile, the assorted accouterments in his wild nest of hair jingling and jangling. "Anybody ever told you you're bad at listening?"

"Oh aye, my father tells me every chance he gets, don't he," Hwindan laughed.

"I take it you're not keen on taking his advice then," Celeborn said as they made their way through the thick undergrowth.

"I tried on a time or two," Hwindan told him, ducking beneath a low hanging branch, "but I ain't got much of a knack for takin advice."

"Would serve you better if ye did," Celeborn said, startled to find that he had slipped into the rustic accent that came along with speaking the tribal tongues of the Avari, and quickly corrected himself.

"If it means I turn out like you then I think I'd rather not," Hwindan said with a barking laugh. "Ain't no fun in being a, how do your people call it, a straight-laced man."

"Straight-laced?" Celeborn laughed more because the description startled him than for any other reason. "Don't think my uncle would agree with you on that. He was always getting after me for drinking, getting into trouble, chasing women." He felt an odd twitch in the pit of his stomach. What would Thingol think of him now?

"Hard to imagine that," Hwindan said with a grin.

"And why is that?" Celeborn turned a questioning glance toward the lad, unable to deny even to himself that he had taken some small measure of offense at the statement.

"Ye know," Hwindan shrugged, seeming to have realized that what he had said had not been welcomed, "you're uncommon serious and the like. Don't usually see serious lads getting up to trouble, trouble is reserved for the likes of me. Reason why my father likes serious lads and he don't like me."

The song of a whippoorwill danced through the early morning air and Celeborn paused to breathe in the deep musk of the forest at morning, looking up at the soft white light that glowed upon the green leaves of the trees. "I wasn't a serous lad," Celeborn said. "There was a long period of time where my Uncle doubted his decision to make me the prince, thought he'd made a mistake, didn't think I'd amount to what he had hoped I would. That was following an incident where my brother and I threw water on the palace dancers at a summer festival. We'd balanced big buckets of water over the gates to the city and when they came out…" he made a gesture with his hand as if he were pushing over a bucket. "They were wearing all white. You know how white fabric…"

"I know," Hwindan said with a toothy grin and a laugh. Celeborn shook his head, unable to suppress a grin himself.

"Admittedly, it wasn't just that one incident. It was predicated by years of pilfering from the kitchens and the like. My uncle could never prove it was me, but he knew."

Hwindan laughed. "Maybe ye weren't so bad after all," he said. "What happened to change ye?"

Celeborn pursed his lips. "Come on," he said with a jerk of his head and ducked beneath a branch, striding through the forest once again.

"Oi!" Hwindan laughed, crashing after him. "Ain't ye gonna tell me?"

"You know what happened," Celeborn snarled, turning on the boy. He hadn't meant to snap at him. He knew that Hwindan didn't intend any ill will, that it had been an innocent question, and yet he had instinctively taken it as an attack, his lungs constricting within his chest, his hands itching for a weapon to grasp. Somehow it felt almost as though he had left his own body and floated away, viewing the scene from above.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, waiting a moment before he spoke again, waiting until he returned to himself, reaching out ever so briefly to brush his soul across that of his wife. The touch steadied him and he took a deep breath, his chest and hands relaxing, his breathing steadying. "My apologies," he said, "I know you meant no offense. I should not have taken it as such."

But Hwindan seemed unfazed, merely cocking his head and giving Celeborn an inquisitive look. "My father does that too sometimes," he said. "It's alright. I know it ain't got nothing to do with me." And then with a grin he was leaping ahead again, mimicking the whippoorwill's call as he went, and Celeborn followed, still disturbed by himself.

"Your woman is very fine!" Hwindan called back, flashing him a grin, and Celeborn laughed and shook his head.

"Aye, she is indeed," he said.

"You have a lot of competition?" Hwindan asked, stopping to wait for Celeborn to catch up to him.

"For her hand?" Celeborn asked him. "She had quite a few suitors in the past, or so I heard, but it never concerned me. Something told me from the first that she would be the woman I'd marry, though I cannot rightly put my finger on whatever it was that made me think it." And, despite his ire of a few moments earlier, he could not help the smile that blossomed on his face.

"Are they all like that, Noldorin women? Do they all look like her, all glowing and all?" Hwindan asked. "I ain't never seen nothing like it in all my days."

Celeborn laughed at that, bemused by Hwindan's choice of words and his habit of attempting to make himself sound older and more worldly than he likely was. "All your days?" He asked with a chuckle. "And just how many days have you seen Hwindan? I would reckon you were born after the coming of the sun."

"Oh aye, so I was," Hwindan replied, stopping briefly to peer at a toad before continuing on. "But I know right well enough a good looking girl when I see her."

Celeborn shook his head and laughed again, realizing that his point had gone clear over the younger elf's head. "Well the truth is," Celeborn said, "I haven't met many Noldorin women but I'm inclined to think that Galadriel is rather unique, not just amongst her own people, but amongst elven women in general."

"But do ye think I could get me a lass like her?" Hwindan asked, his dark eyes all a glimmer, and Celeborn noted they were flecked with gold, something that made the young man look all the more cat-like.

"Well you might have to clean yourself up a bit," Celeborn said, noting Hwindan's sloppily woven braids, his muddy leggings, and the grime that coated ever inch of him visible to the sun.

"I am clean aren't I?" Hwindan said, looking surprised.

"Hwindan, ladies like a man who doesn't smell like bear scat," Celeborn said with a laugh. "And, on that note, if you are indeed planning on staying with us, I would be much obliged if you bathed when we return, or else my wife will be complaining about the stench."


Galadriel held her hands steady over the surface of the pond, her eyes fixed upon the gently trembling water and yet she tried to keep her gaze soft, to keep it open to all the possibilities of what she might see. The surface rippled a mere inch from her fingers, the vibrations echoing through her body, the coolness of the water beginning to enter her mind, stretching out across the horizon, vague images like shadows barely visible in its murky depths.

"Nearly there…" she whispered, her heart leaping into her throat. She nearly had it! She could feel it! This time she would succeed, this time…

And then all of a sudden her orientation in relation to the ground was drastically and unexpectedly altered as she felt what could only be a foot pushing gently at her backside in the instant before she tumbled face first into the pond with a shriek that was quickly muffled by the water. Furious, she fought her way to the surface, choking on the water she had swallowed, heart hammering in her chest with shock.

"CELEBORN GALADHONION!" She roared as she breached the surface, wiping water from her eyes and gasping for air. She could hear his muffled laughter and spat out water as she struggled for the bank, clawing at the grass and pulling herself back onto dry land, shaking her golden head, hair heavy with water. Two shapes went whizzing past her, plunging into the water with two loud splashes that soaked her again.

"What on earth has gotten into you?" She snarled as she turned to see two heads bobbing in the lake, one of silver belonging to her husband and the other a mess of matted blond braids. She crossed her arms over her chest, chewing on her lip. I thought you were the one who wanted him gone, she said with a pointed look at her husband.

He doesn't have anywhere to go and he's not a bad lad, she heard Celeborn's reply in her mind and rolled her eyes.

That's what I told you last night, she replied and Celeborn at least had the decency to grin sheepishly.

It might be good to have him around, he said. He was a great help hunting this morning and he could help with the cooking, or the talan.

You've grown fond of him, she said and Celeborn was silent for a moment.

Only a little, he replied and Galadriel sighed and rolled her eyes once more.

You were the one who wanted to keep him last night! Celeborn protested but Galadriel turned and made her way to the campfire.

"The both of you had better smell like roses when you're finished!" she called back at them, while privately musing that Hwindan would be one more mouth, and likely a very hungry one, to feed. She sighed, shaking her head, and made her way to the ruins of the fire, striking the flint and breathing the small spark to life. The flames grew as she fed them with dry sticks and leaves until they were crackling merrily, sending little tufts of gray smoke into the pale morning sky. Setting the pot to heat over the fire, she quickly skinned one of the hares they had brought back and tossed some of the meat in to cook, paring several potatoes with her little knife before adding them to the crackling, oily rabbit.

Galadriel felt a smile begin to tug at the corners of her lips as she crouched beside the fire, looking up every now and again to watch them and occasionally stirring the pot that crackled before her. It wasn't long before she felt the familiar presence of her husband at the edge of her mind again, entreating entrance, and she allowed it.

Are you angry with me? Celeborn asked. After last night I thought you would not be adverse to letting him stay here with us and he spent the night here, curled up against the base of the tree. I don't know what he's running from but somehow it didn't seem right to…

Celeborn, I understand, she replied. If he wants to stay with us then let him stay. He must have some reason behind leaving his people. Just as she had her reasons for wishing to avoid her people, maybe Hwindan too had done something to merit the scorn of his tribe. She felt gently through Celeborn's mind, trying to decipher if her husband's sudden change of heart was due to the same reason, if perhaps Celeborn wished to avoid his own people just as surely as she did, but she was met with resistance and at last with coldness as her husband pushed her from his mind altogether.

She pondered the flames in silence, the old dark thoughts creeping back until the scent of something charring jerked her into the present and she stood, kicking sand over the fire, quickly spooning the food into three rough-hewn wooden bowls as the men approached, taking their seats beside the fire and happily accepting the bowls.

Hwindan balanced his breakfast on his knees and, instead of eating straight away, reached up to pick at his damp hair, deftly undoing the braids and working the beads and ornaments loose of it until they had formed a pile at his feet.

Thank you, she heard Celeborn say in her mind, his tone conciliatory, and she smiled, his gratitude for the meal warming her heart. She could imagine how her mother would laugh to see her proud and stubborn daughter content to mind a hearth. Her husband snorted with laughter suppressed, his eyes meeting hers over the rim of the bowl as a small grin spread across his lips, and she knew he had heard her thought. Have I domesticated you? He asked her and she rolled her eyes before narrowing them at him, a smile curling her lips.

If I were domestic that would take all of the fun out of things, she replied.

That's precisely what I'm worried about, Celeborn told her, his green eyes glimmering with mirth as he hungrily spooned food into his mouth. Glad that the tension of a few moments ago had passed, Galadriel began to eat as well. By then Hwindan had set his mind to eating at last, abandoning the wild dripping tangle of his hair, glancing at Celeborn out of the corner of his eye as he lifted his bowl to his mouth and began to slurp down the contents.

However; it was only a matter of minutes before Hwindan's look of delight turned into one of disgust, and he began to cough and retch. Celeborn, seemingly nonplussed, reached over to pound the young elf on the back with his fist. Hwindan managed to recover after a few minutes and, turning incredulous eyes towards Celeborn, spluttered, "you eat her cooking?"

Celeborn merely nodded, the two men exchanging some look of empathy and commiseration that Galadriel did not quite understand. "There's nothing wrong with my cooking!" She insisted, golden brows swooping down into a scowl even though she knew perfectly well that her cooking left quite a lot to be desired. Celeborn and Hwindan at least had the wisdom to stay silent, obediently finishing their breakfast, but Celeborn watched his wife over the rim of his bowl as she ate.

He knew she wasn't truly offended, but he could see that her pride had been stung a little and he smiled, shaking his head quietly, which earned him a sharp look from his wife. It only made him smile all the more as his love for her welled in his heart, inspired by her little eccentricities, by the way she pouted now for show.

With a wink that caused Galadriel to roll her eyes, he stood, making his way over to the boards that would finish talan, stuffing his hands into the worn pockets of his breeches as he surveyed his handiwork. It had already been too long. Any longer and the wood would begin to rot; it was not good to leave it resting on the earth, and the Ents would not be returning soon: just one more problem.

He rubbed a hand over his forehead. Now that Hwindan had found them… they couldn't prevent him from returning to the Avari if he so desired and if he went he would tell them. Word would spread, albeit slowly, but it would spread, and before long the Sindar would learn that he and Galadriel were alive, that they had secluded themselves here. And once they knew that…well…things could go very badly. They were already bound to go badly once they learned…

"Let's put it up then!" Celeborn turned, pulled out of his somber thoughts by Hwindan's cheerful voice, and he found himself wishing that he was still so young and carefree, that he could still see the world as he had so many centuries ago.

"The talan?" He asked with a grin.

"Yes," Hwindan replied. "The Lady said you were waiting for the Ents to return but with three of us we should be able to do it, shouldn't we?" Celeborn nodded slowly.

"We should," he said.

An hour or so later found the three of them seated on the deck of the completed talan, sweaty but grinning. "I imagine it's quite like a ship ain't it?" Hwindan said, his enthusiasm only momentarily quieted by the difficult labor they had just finished. "Except it's like a sea of green." He stood, looking out over the treetops while Celeborn and Galadriel exchanged amused glances.

"Have you ever been on a ship, Hwindan?" Galadriel asked him and he turned to look at her with a wild smile, laughing.

"Who, me?" He asked. "Me on a ship? You must be mad, woman! My people ain't got no liking for that sort of thing. Can't imagine me father approving of anything of that sort. I been on little boats, aye, canoes and the like, but a ship…" He laughed. "Oh that'll be the end of my days, me on a ship!"

"My mother's people are a seafaring people," Galadriel told him. "She has a great many ships. I learned to sail when I was very young, under her instruction and that of my grandfather."

"Did you like it?" Hwindan asked, turning to her.

"Very much," Galadriel told him, laughing quietly to herself. "I even had a boat of my own. My mother helped me build it," she paused, remembering the little boat, remembering the last time she had seen it, how the sails she had stitched by hand had been painted in blood, how corpses had been strewn across the bow that she had so carefully crafted with her mother's assistance, a vessel created in love that had been ruined by hate, as so many things had been. Celeborn must have seen the sadness in her eyes at the memory, or else he had felt it tremor through her heart to his, because she felt the gentle brush of his fingers against her own and looked down to see that his hand now rested atop hers, lingering in the last rays of sunlight that glanced across the smooth floor of the talan.

"Did you take it out then, into the ocean, all by yourself?" Hwindan asked with an air of incredulity, not as if he doubted her skill, but as if he imagined that none but a madman would dare venture into open water. "Maybe ye are a sorceress after all if ye dare to venture out into the ocean," he said with a nervous chuckle.

"I was raised amongst my mother's people, a seafaring people," she told him, "and I would spend my days out on the open sea. I liked it that way…by myself. I would leave in the mornings, early before Laurelin shed her first light, and sail out as far as I could go, watching the way Telperion's fading glow lit the sea foam with silver. I would sail out," she said, "until I had almost outrun the light, until I found myself staring into the darkness of the far side of the world, and there I would stop."

Hwindan shivered as though he could think of nothing less enjoyable than sailing out into the ocean, but Galadriel continued. "I would sit out there waiting for Laurelin's light to turn the waves to gold and in the meantime I would imagine what lay on the other side of the sea, all of the things and people that my grandfathers had told me about."

"Were we as you imagined?" Hwindan asked, cracking a grin.

"Not at all," Galadriel said with a laugh, her eyes sparkling in the glow of the setting sun. "No, not at all." She turned to cast a lingering glance over her husband but his eyes were fixed on the sunset, the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

"Better rather than worse I hope," Hwindan said with that barking laugh of his, his legs crossed, rocking slightly back and forth, intent upon her story.

"Better," she said, favoring him with a smile, "much better. This is a world with curiosities I could never have imagined, a place beyond the power of words to describe." Her voice tapered away into silence as they watched the golden disk of the sun sink below the canopy of the forest, and she remembered Doriath as she had first seen it, the rising wall of mist that was Melian's girdle, the marvelous etching upon Menegroth's walls, the beauty of that place, fantastic and surreal, as if it were something out of a dream, and now it sometimes felt as if it had been just that, all mists and ghosts, a fantasia of sensations that lingered in her flesh so that waking from sleep she sometimes imagined she could still smell the incense in her hair, or taste the cool fresh waters of silver fountains, or remember the velveteen soft touch of a flower's petal. Doriath was engraved upon her heart and she could not forget it.

She turned her mind away from the melancholy as best she could and Hwindan's questions helped her do it. "And your father?" Hwindan asked. "Does he sail as well?"

"No, not him," Galadriel laughed, tossing her golden head back. "He's not the type for it, more of a scholar and besides, he's terrified of open water."

"At least one person in your family has some sense about them!" Hwindan crowed with a fierce grin.

Celeborn laughed. "You never told me that," he said, turning twinkling eyes towards her. In truth, Galadriel had hardly ever spoken to him of her parents and, whenever she had spoken of them, it had almost never been about her father. His wife turned to look at him, her eyes glimmering in the afternoon sun.

"When my parents first began their courtship my mother took him out in her boat," Galadriel said, her face lit with a smile. "He never said anything, never told her how afraid of boats he was, how afraid of the water, until they were well out into the ocean and she turned around, saw him leaning over the rail, vomiting with a look of terror on his face."

"What did she do?" Hwindan asked with a laugh.

"She wanted to take him back to shore but he kept insisting he was fine," Galadriel said, shrugging and laughing. "And my mother, well she told him that if he was going to be that stubborn about things then he deserved whatever consequences that the ocean might visit upon him." She smiled, shaking her head, and they were silent for a moment.

"Do you miss your parents?" Hwindan asked, impertinent as ever. For some reason the question had caught Galadriel off guard and she pursed her lips in thought for a moment.

"Sometimes…" she said softly, "but what is the use in contemplating that which cannot be?" The question was rhetorical, inviting an end to the conversation rather than an answer, and Hwindan seemed to have sense enough to understand that, in fact he said nothing at all and, looking down at where he lay sprawled on the deck of the talan, Galadriel saw that his eyes were glazed over in sleep, his breathing slow and even, his mouth hanging ever so slightly open.

"Is he asleep already?" She said with a quiet laugh, turning to Celeborn, who laced his fingers all the more securely through hers.

"Astonishingly enough," he murmured, "it appears that he is."

"I envy him his peaceful sleep," Galadriel said as she inched close to Celeborn, leaning her head against his shoulder with a soft smile, her gaze resting gently upon Hwindan. The slow and steady rise of Celeborn's shoulder beneath her cheek was a comfort, a vehicle that carried her away from the memories of the violent dreams that haunted her sleep and the visions that lingered in the dark recesses of her mind.


"I'm fine! I'm fine," Arafinwë stammered, the weakness in his voice surprising even himself. He bent to pick up the two diamond studded pins that had clattered to the floor. "I'm fine, please, I can dress myself. You are dismissed." He closed his trembling fingers over the pins and stood, then opened his hand again to look down at the two silver swans that sat in his palm, their diamond eyes glittering in the light of late morning.

Clearing his throat, he deposited them onto the table, picking one up and pushing it through the white cuff of his shirt before he fastened the back on it. These had been a gift from Eärwen so long ago, a lifetime ago it seemed, when his life had seemed so perfect, when he had had four beautiful children and a happy marriage. He turned, glancing towards the bed as he fumbled with the second pin. It was hard for him to believe what had happened the previous evening, even harder for him to understand his wife's motivations.

The touch of her hands on his chest, the gleam of her silver hair in the moonlight, the feel of her lips firm against his own, the image flashed through his mind and the second pin tumbled to the floor, tinkling across the marble. Finarfin cursed under his breath and bent once more, fishing it out from beneath the bed. He could still feel her touch and, after five centuries of abstention from such pleasures of the flesh, the memory of the previous evening was driving him mad, having caught him between a strange juxtaposition of love and grief.

So long ago his brothers had poked fun at him for his inexperience with women and the jokes that they had made at his wedding feast still caused his ears to flush red to this day. Strange, he thought, that the memory of their chiding had outlived them. Strange, he mused, that such vibrant men were now dead. Strange, he pondered, that of all the guests who had attended his wedding feast, only a handful now remained.

He straightened, watching himself in the mirror as he pushed the pin through his cuff and fastened it, wondering how it had all come to this, how any of it had come to this. He could hardly believe that he was truly the man he saw in the mirror – this man in the brocade lamé cape with a crown on his head and armor of glittering gold – this man the father of children who had passed to Mandos's halls.

He had never wanted this. He had never wanted any of this. He was no warrior; who was he to lead an army into battle against Morgoth? It should have been his brothers doing this, either of them, they were more prepared than he was, either of them. They had been the battlefield commanders, the indomitable leaders, princes who wielded power as if every fiber of their being was imbued with it. But now they were dead. That's what the messengers had said, the same messengers who had come to tell him that his sons were dead.

And Artanis, nobody knew what had happened to her. Eärendil hadn't even been there when it had happened. And Elwing…she'd met Artanis years ago she said, briefly and once. Artanis was wed she said, or what passed for wed in Middle Earth, to a Sindarin man, a prince of Elu's line. Finarfin bristled at the thought. He couldn't quite make sense of what exactly had happened to his daughter and Elwing's confused and convoluted tale hadn't been much help in that regard. Apparently she'd gone to the Isle of Balar with her…husband. Fianrfin grit his teeth.

It wasn't that he didn't trust his daughter's judgment…except that, yes, it was that he didn't trust his daughter's judgment, Artanis who had gone off to Middle Earth on a fool's mission, Artanis who had laughed in the face of forces greater than herself, Artanis who had scorned the wise. Or perhaps it was that he simply could not imagine his daughter as wed, as a wife, and he certainly could not imagine what sort of man she would marry, that was if any of this was accurate in the first place.

In the past few hours since the messengers had come he had wondered if it had been a marriage of opportunity, if perhaps his daughter had seen marriage to a native prince as her singular hope for attaining a kingdom of her own. Certainly the Noldor would not have helped her in that regard and he silently cursed his people. Perhaps if they had been just a little more willing to condone her ambitions rather than condemning them she would not have felt the need to engage in the rebellion, to seek out far-off lands in which her ambitions would at last be allowed to mature and bear fruit. But the thought of his daughter in a marriage of convenience brought him very low indeed. Such a spirit as hers, so full of fire, deserved a suitable crucible in which to burn, a spirit that was in every way her equal.

He shook his head. He didn't even know this man and yet here he was judging him, judging his motivations and those of his daughter. Perhaps that too had played no small part in her decision to leave – the constant questioning of her motives while those of her brothers went unchallenged. Was it my fault? He asked himself. If I had been a better father could I have prevented this? But it was all speculation, his mind warned him. After all, he didn't even know if this rumor of her marriage were true. For that matter, he wasn't even entirely sure that she was alive after all. His interview with Eärendil and Elwing this morning had been less of a discussion and more of a harried few words in passing.

Balar…Balar…he closed his eyes and tried to conjure the image of the map Eärendil had drawn. It wasn't far, or so Eärendil had said, from the Mouths of Sirion, but then what did Eärendil know? He was no cartographer. Perhaps it was further, perhaps it was a guarantee that Artanis was safe. Or perhaps it was as close as Eärendil had made it out to be and who was to say that the Fëanorians hadn't continued onto the island once their work at the Mouths was finished? They'd been known to steal ships before. Finarfin had no doubt they would notbe averse to doing so again. Who was to say they hadn't gone on to mop up the remnants of Doriath? Who was to say whether Artanis was truly alive? There was every possibility in the world that she was dead.

Finarfin took a deep breath, only just now realizing that he was trembling, that his chest felt unusually tight. He reached for the edge of the table, his fingers knocking a porcelain jar of powder to the floor where it shattered in a bloom of freshness, and he cursed, his breaths shallow and quick despite his efforts to settle them. He closed his hands tightly around the ornately carved edge of the table, trying fruitlessly to steady himself, closing his eyes for a moment as he felt the hot wetness of tears at their corners.

His attention was caught by the sound of the door clicking closed and he turned, still breathing hard, to see his sister standing there. She merely looked at him for a moment, shaking her dark head. "I knew you weren't going to be ready," she whispered, her lips trembling, tears in her eyes. "And you're not, are you? You're not ready."

He swallowed hard, shaking his head, rubbing his hands over his face. "How could I be?" He said. "How could I be? Findis I don't know what I'm doing. Battle? I've never led men into battle before. I've never been to Middle Earth. I don't know the territory. I don't know anything."

His sister rushed forward, her face crumpling as she drew him into a tight embrace, shaking with the beginnings of tears. "Just come back to me," she whispered, a sob tearing its way loose from her throat. "Come back. You're all that mother and I have left."


Summer had passed to fall, fall to winter, and summer turned to winter yet again before the Ents returned to Nan-Tathren. By then a thin blanket of snow lay upon the ground, the black wiry branches of the trees encased in glittering ice, but within the heart of Nan-Tathren the winter was more mild, the silvery leaves of the willows still clinging to their branches, the grass gone but supplanted by a thick coat of pale green moss, the flowers blooming here even in winter.

Galadriel had never been one for the cold, even before the bitter experience of the Helcaraxë, and she wrapped her arms tightly about herself as she passed through the external perimeter of oaks, bow slung over her back and a pair of partridges tied to her quiver. Game was growing scarcer and she doubted it was entirely due to winter.

Celeborn had noticed it too, even though he hadn't said anything about it. But the way that he paused just a moment longer than usual when they encountered bear scat, the fact that he had warned Hwindan off of hunting does in the spring, had led her to conjecture that his observations were in accordance with her own: animals were fleeing from Beleriand and those who remained were those who were too old, or sickly, or weak to make the journey.

The rustling of branches caught her attention and she turned to see a pair of cardinals, one bright red as blood, the other a dusky brown, playing in a holly tree. She smiled, watching the male groom his plumage before the female, and then her breath caught in her throat as she heard the crack of a twig underfoot and turned, her hunting knife already unsheathed, ready to strike.

"Celeborn," she said with a sigh of relief at the sight of her husband standing there before her, his great bow strung over his back, a wolf skin thrown over his shoulders for warmth. She sheathed her knife and gave him a wry grin. "Sometimes I wonder if you mean to give me a fright, sneaking around like that."

"I like the look on your face when I catch you unawares," he murmured, his green eyes dancing with some sort of mischief, and Galadriel tried to puzzle out what it might be. "All these years with the Sindar and I am still able to catch you off your guard."

"One of these days I will get the jump on you, mark my words," she told him, but her voice quivered ever so slightly and faltered. The image had swum to the surface of her mind unexpectedly, the feel of the cold stone of Menegroth's walls at her back, dripping with blood, and the frigid steel of a blade at her throat, the image that she always saw in her dreams.

I say we slit her open! A voice crowed in her mind. If elves are killing elves now then why shouldn't we take our vengeance? Light flashed in her mind, the pulse of Celeborn's eyes, dark and murderous in their intent, swimming through her thoughts for a moment before she returned to the present.

"Planning to fight me were you?" Celeborn whispered as he stepped forward, his lips hot against her neck. Her husband placed one hand on the small of her back, pulling her close, and with his other hand he brushed his thumb over the curve of her cheek before he drew her into a deep kiss, a kiss that reminded her of one so long ago, beneath the willow meads of Doriath.

She felt her heart flutter for an instant and then the strange and wonderful sensation that she always felt when Celeborn kissed her, as if the world was suddenly swelling with life, leaves bursting on trees like fireworks in an array of glimmering green, the fading stars of morning drawing so close that she felt she could nearly pluck them from the sky and string them on a glimmer of gold. And then he drew away, leaving the imprint of warmth upon her lips, but the memory of Menegroth's corridors remained as well and the memory of a Sindarin knife at her throat, pressed against the skin where Celeborn's kiss now lingered.

"It has been so long," Celeborn groaned, his teeth nipping now at the skin of her throat. His hands were firm but gentle, pushing her back against the bole of the tree, and then she heard the clatter of his belt buckle being undone as he pressed quick kisses to her lips. "Having Hwindan around surely does put a damper on things, doesn't it?" He laughed.

But all that Galadriel could feel was fear pulsing through her veins, the echo of memories constricting about her mind, choking the life out of her. I say we slit her open! If elves are killing elves now then why shouldn't we take our vengeance? All she could see was black and blackness pressing in about her, covering her eyes, smothering her.

"Do you remember that night, that first night you danced in Doriath?" She heard Celeborn's voice as if from a distance, felt his hands upon her hips as if they were not his own. "Valar, I wanted you so badly that night I thought I would go mad," his kissed were hot against her throat and then before she quite knew what was happening she was pounding on his chest, screaming, fighting, and Celeborn was stepping away, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender, and the world sprang back into view, everything around her suddenly clear, the haziness of a moment earlier gone.

"I'm sorry, Galadriel, I'm sorry!" Celeborn was saying and she blinked to see him before her, having taken a few steps back, his eyes wide with fear and concern. "Galadriel…" he shook his head. "Galadriel I didn't mean to….I…I…I'm sorry if I misread…I thought…I…" Rarely had she seen Celeborn so shaken, so obviously on the verge of tears. "I hope you know I would never intentionally hurt you," he murmured, his voice a ragged gasp.

She wanted to say something to reassure him, to let him know that she had no idea what had just come over her, that whatever it was, it was no fault of his. But she couldn't find the words to explain feelings that she did not understand herself. "Just…pull up your pants and let's go," she said, her voice hoarse and far colder than she had intended. He did as she had told him and she looked away, unable to meet his eyes for some reason. Arms crossed over her chest she began to head back to their camp, feet crunching over the thin layer of snow. The world passed by in moments of black and frigid white.

Everything was silent for a while, eerily silent, uncomfortably silent, until at last she heard Celeborn draw a shuddering breath and say, "Galadriel, I'm sorry." His voice was still hoarse, on the verge of tears, and she could feel him carefully keeping his emotions from reaching out to her through their bond, clearly making every effort not to further encroach where he knew he was not wanted.

"I know," she said simply, struggling to find more words, any words that could put him at ease, but given as she was not at ease herself, she was unable to conjure any remedy for the situation. Galadriel closed her eyes, blinking tears away, her heart torn by the strangeness of it all. Out of everything that had happened, none of it had been Celeborn's fault and yet she could not understand why in her heart she blamed him more than she was willing to admit, why in her nightmares it was always her husband who held a knife to her throat when it had in fact been Celeborn who had saved her life, rescued her from Curufin's treachery.

Hwindan was not an unusually perceptive fellow, and yet one would not have needed to be very perceptive to sense that something was amiss when they returned to the camp. The young man looked between the two of them with some strange furtiveness in his dark eyes, his silence but one more indicator that whatever it was that had happened between them, and Galadriel still did not understand what that was, it had caused tension to hang so thick in the air that it could nearly have been cut with a knife.

"Want me to clean these for ye?" Hwindan asked, helping her off with her bow and quiver, taking the two partridges. "We'll have a nice supper tonight won't we!" He was overly enthusiastic, seeking to smooth things over in his awkward way, and it seemed that their nervousness had transferred to him, making him twitchier than normal, anxious.

"You don't need to do a thing, see?" Hwindan said with a lopsided grin, holding up one already cleaned partridge as a sign of assurance that he was, in fact, capable of preparing their dinner. "Just you take a little rest now Lady. Besides," he laughed nervously, "I'd wager money that my cooking will prove tastier than yours eh?" His attempt at light-hearted humor fell flat, though Galadriel had tried her best to manage a small smile for him.

"Ah but…" Hwindan said, looking suddenly up from the pot he had set over the kindling coals. "Ah, I almost forgot. Treebeard done come by, he did. Says he wants you to come talk to him, says it's something mighty important."

"We'd best go now then," Celeborn said, his voice gruff, "or the Ents will keep us there all night talking."

"I'll have the food done then when ye get back," Hwindan said, his voice overly cheery and tinged with more than a little nervousness, as Galadriel pushed herself to her feet once more and, tugging her cape more securely about her shoulders, trudged off after Celeborn. They walked in silence for a while as twilight slowly began to descend, stars peeking out from behind dark clouds, and at last Celeborn stopped, turning to her, concern flitting across his face.

"Galadriel, what was that about back there?" He asked her, his voice soft but his eyes firm, demanding answers.

"I don't know. I don't want to talk about it," she replied, shaking her head and looking away, crossing her arms over her chest as if that could somehow protect her from the past. She knew exactly what was the matter of course, but what was the use in talking about it? What was the use in breaking his heart? How could she possibly tell him that to return to the Sindar was to plunge her once more into the midst of a people who would rather she be dead, who would forever despise her. Celeborn would never accept that there were some things that even he had not the power to repair.

"Which is it?" Celeborn asked her. "You don't know or you don't want to talk about it?" He hadn't meant to be antagonistic; she could tell by the tone of his voice that that was not the way he had intended it, but she took it as such nonetheless. Without the summer hymn of cicadas, the woods were eerily quiet in the winter and there was no noise to breach the silence that stood between them now like some insurmountable wall.

"I need time," Galadriel said at last, a bit more forcefully than she had intended. She wished that she could convince herself that she had no idea what was behind the nightmares, what was behind the sometimes fear of her own husband, why it was his face, contorted in rage that haunted her dreams, except that she knew exactly why and she could not deny it, no matter how hard she tried, just as she could not deny the sudden migration of the animals out of Beleriand nor the fact that she very much suspected that the same motivating force was behind Treebeard's request for them to meet him this evening. Their days in Nan-Tathren were numbered. She knew it. And she dreaded the decision that awaited them.

As you wish, Celeborn replied to her in his mind, startling her from her thoughts as his eyes met hers for an instant. He dropped his gaze and then just as quickly looked back up. "I love you," he murmured aloud before he turned, making his way through the forest once more, and Galadriel followed silently, arms still crossed over her chest. She needed something to focus on, something other than the worries that plagued her, something other than the dreams of Celeborn with his knife at her throat, and so she fixed her eyes upon the back of his silver head, watching the way that the ornaments of bone and wood and beads rattled and swayed ever so slightly in the evening breeze.

Hwindan had done it, happily chirping as he threaded the ornaments through Celeborn's silver hair, each one of them hand carved by the young lad. It had made him happy to do it and it had made Celeborn happy too, for a while. But she had woken in nights that Celeborn sat awake, perched on the edge of the talan, his eyes fixed upon the stars above, and she knew the thoughts that flickered through his mind, the feelings that surged through his heart like the deepest currents of the ocean, imperceptible, only their ripples surfacing.

"Savages, barbarians – they worship false gods – pay homage to the stars, rustic beliefs, primitive." Fëanor said with a merry laugh, carefully setting his gold fork down on his plate and nodding to the servant who whisked it away. He cut a fine figure as ever, unassailable in his red silks trimmed with ermine fur and perpetual confidence.

"You cannot be sure of that and even if you were, who is to say they haven't the right to disavow themselves of gods who abandoned them." Olwë's voice was quiet but steady as an ocean current, deep and strong, and Fëanor turned a look of loathing to the Telerin king who sat across the banquet table from him, his face impassive. At the time Galadriel had thought that anger was the seed of Fëanor's loathing. Only time had taught her that it was the fierceness of fear. Fëanor feared her grandfather.

"The gods weren't the only ones who abandoned them," Fëanor said, his eyes hard and unwavering, but neither did Olwë look away, "their own kin did as well."

"Brother, we are all of us family here," her father's voice, placating, ever the mediator.

"A fair evening, hm, to you, Glittering Garland and, hoom, Silver Tree," a familiarly throaty yet melodious voice greeted them, waking Galadriel from her memories of the past.

"A fair evening to you as well," Galadriel greeted Spring Blossom, looking around as the other Ents began to appear, slowly making their way out from the depths of the forest to the clearing. They took their time to gather, which was really not so surprising given that they were Ents, and Celeborn and Galadriel sat patiently, raising their hands in greeting to each of the Ents who arrived, quiet tension still simmering between them.

There was Touches the Clouds, a tall sycamore, and Laughing Brook, a slender river birch, Home for Birds, a thickly foliaged maple, Gnarled Roots, a large old Oak, and many others besides. The Entwives were more slender, resembling the fruit trees that they tended, but the Ents were tall, with thick boles and a wealth of branches.

"So hasty, hm, so hasty," Treebeard boomed with a slow laugh as he stepped out of the forest to join the gathering, slowly making his way towards Celeborn. "We weren't, hoom, expecting you so soon."

"Hwindan said it was urgent," Celeborn replied with a force smile.

"Did he now?" Treebeard laughed again. "I don't recall, hm, saying such a thing, hoom, but perhaps I did. So I did, perhaps. But what passes for urgent for elves, hm, is a far cry, hoom, from what we Ents would, hm, call urgent." The Ent smiled at them.

And yet, despite his smile, a looming darkness shifted over Galadriel's heart, for she had her suspicions, and the friendly but guilt laden gazes of the Ents that gathered provided only more evidence to substantiate them. "Now then," Fangorn began, once the creaking of bark and the whispering of leave on the breeze had subsided, "we, hm, have asked you here this evening because there is an important matter, hoom, of which we must speak."

"These past few months," Treebeard said as he began his tale, his voice a low rumble, "we have traveled, hoom, far and wide across Beleriand, tending, hm, to the great many of our trees who have been crying for help, who have implored us attend to them. But what we found, hm, was far more evil than we could have imagined." He paused, letting the solemnity of the moment linger, and it was evident from the sadness in the eyes of all the Ents gathered there, that the memories of what they had seen lay heavy upon them.

Galadriel felt a shift in Celeborn's heart, some dark turning, and glanced towards her husband to see his jaw clenched in anger, a vein ticking in his temple, his green eyes gone dark. Treebeard bowed his head but Many Branches, a motherly beech, continued the tale, her features rearranging themselves into a look of great sorrow. "Ah," she said softly, her voice falling, "such pain I have never felt as I did, hm, upon our return to see the, hmm, beeches of Neldoreth, hoom, the holly trees of Region, burned and charred, hacked to bits and destroyed. The Aros was polluted, hoom, littered with the bodies, hm, of trees we had raised so carefully, the rapids churning with the corpses of orcs, and elves, and beasts." She lapsed into silence and the silence persisted for a long while until Treebeard spoke again.

"We can stay here no longer," he said, his voice grave with concern as he raised his eyes to theirs. "The earth, hm, is like a great scar rent open and infection sets in, the filth of Bauglir and his creatures who have overrun Beleriand. There was no saving, hoom, the trees that we loved so dearly, hm. So many of them, hm, had themselves been corrupted, hoom, turned to the darkness of Bauglir, their souls blackened." Treebeard's face twisted with anger.

"He polluted what we had made fair, hoom." There was a rustling amongst the Ents as of wind in their branches and a low murmur that shook the earth. "What remains is beyond our power to save."

"Non-Tathren yet remains!" Celeborn sprang to his feet and Galadriel struggled to steady herself, overwhelmed momentarily by a pulse of white-hot anger that tore through her with a lancing pain, blinding her with its potency. It felt as if her skin was on fire, as if she were trapped in some crucible that was searing her body from the inside out, and she gasped fighting for air, hearing Celeborn's voice as if from a great distance. "Will you abandon these trees? Will you allow this place to be overrun by Bauglir's filth?"

"Silver tree, hm, we have great love for these trees, hoom, but I cannot ask my people to remain here any longer," Treebeard said. "To do so, hm, would be to condemn them to fire and the axe. But there are trees over the mountains, hoom, that struggle yet in their youth and inexperience, trees who are in need of our guidance and care. We will not deny them that in an effort to preserve that which we cannot save."

"Cannot or will not?" Celeborn fumed. "Where were you when Doriath fell? Where were you when the sons of Fëanor slaughtered my people and burned our forests?" Where were you when…"

It was rare that Ents ever interrupted, mostly on account of the fact that they did not speak quickly enough to interrupt, but Treebeard managed. "Might I remind you, hm, that is was my people who came to Dior's aid, who decimated the dwarves that slew your king!" The Ent bellowed, his voice like an earthquake, thunder in his eyes, and Galadriel staggered back, never having expected to see an Ent so angry and never having expected such anger to be so frightening.

But the rest of the Ents turned suddenly, or rather, they turned as suddenly as Ents could turn, and Galadriel turned, following their gaze to see that Celeborn was no longer at her side, but stalking off through the woods and into the growing twilight. "Celeborn," she murmured, as if the sound of his name could bring him back though she knew it wouldn't. She turned back towards the Ents, unsure of what to do, panic rising in her heart as she reached out to him through their minds. Celeborn? But the only response to her silent question was the dull, throbbing, numbness of pain that beat through his heart to hers like a drum.

"I…I'm sorry…" she said, turning back to the Ents, not quite sure what else to say. "Treebeard, I'm so sorry. I am certain he meant nothing that he said. I…I'll go after him. I'm sorry." Feeling some strange mixture of embarrassment and grave worry she rushed off into the woods without a backward glance

She fled through the darkness of the forest, feeling very much a girl though she was a woman full grown, as a few stray tears escaped the corners of her eyes. She'd had no vision of it, but she had needed no vision to predict Celeborn's reaction; it was just as she had feared. The happy days of their marriage were to be short lived. Everything… their entire courtship had been sacrifice, and she had dared to dream that for just a few short years she might have Celeborn all to herself, the happy, mischievous, charming man she loved. All that was left to her was the battered, broken, husk of the man she loved.

But of course she had known this could not persist forever, that their life here in Nan-Tathren was nothing more than a fantasy that would sooner or later be brought to an end. They could not pretend as if their duties did not exist, as if they could forever avoid rejoining the Sindarin refugees. Only she hated the shadow that had shifted over Celeborn's heart, that had robbed him of his joy, hated seeing him in pain and knowing, even now, that he had chosen to endure that pain alone, that somewhere he was suffering.

She sniffed and wiped inelegantly at her nose but then suddenly she saw him ahead, the gleam of his silver hair unmistakable in the moonlight. "Celeborn!" She called and saw him pause for the briefest of moments before he continued on. She broke into a jog, leaping over fallen branches, her footsteps crunching through the frost that coated the ground.

"You can't run from your problems forever," she shouted, her voice a wild cry as she approached him. She wasn't sure what sort of reaction she had expected but the words had been clamoring for so long at the walls of her soul, that she could withhold them no longer. Celeborn wheeled about, eyes flashing with anger in the starlight, his entire body poised as if he meant to do battle.

"Me?" He spat. "How many times have I caught you staring off into space, or glimpsed you awaking from a troubled dream, or seen a flicker of fright cross your eyes? And when I ask you the cause of your troubles you tell me only 'nothing' and that, that is generous, for most times you say nothing at all or else deny that something is the matter. But do you think I can't sense it in you Galadriel? Do you think I don't feel it?"

"You need to control your anger," Galadriel retorted, ignoring his accusations. "Do you think I can't feel it in my body when your rage overpowers you? My skin still burns from the power of your wrath!"

"And my heart burns from your constant lying, from your continued resolve to hide the truth from me! What is it that you're not telling me, Galadriel? What?"

But her pride flared into flame, ignited by the harshness of his words, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "I am under no obligation to answer to you!" She spat. "Do you think that now because I am your wife that you own me, that you may exact answers of me whenever you wish?"

"By Varda's stars I have had enough of you," Celeborn snarled, turning on his heel and stalking off through the woods. Galadriel followed, her bottom lip trembling from the effort to hold back tears. She knew that she ought to tell him, that she should have told him a long time ago, and yet she could not bring herself to speak the words, to confess that when she had most needed to be strong she had failed so utterly.

A thundercloud moved across the sky, pregnant with crackling blue lightning, the wind whipping around in a vortex of dirt and dried leaves, and she wondered if this was Celeborn's doing as he brushed aside the branches of a willow, stalking into the clearing where they had made their home. Galadriel tried to school her features into compliance so that at least Hwindan would not know they had been fighting, but as she entered the clearing herself she saw that something was very wrong indeed.

The first sign was that there was no trace of the fire that should have been crackling merrily, that all was dark, and the second sign was that Celeborn had come to a dead halt, staring into the darkness in the way that a hunter stalks his prey. "Celeborn…" she felt as if her breath had been stolen from her chest. "Celeborn the…" He threw his hand out in a gesture for her to stop, deftly unsheathing the knife he wore at his lower back, and the tension in his shoulders was all too familiar to her. But she needed not sense his fear, for she could now see the signs well enough herself – the scattered coals, the overturned cooking pot, grass flattened and torn up, marks in the snow as if someone had been dragged through it, and, in the gleam of moonlight and the crackle of lightning, the crimson of blood littering the clearing.

"Hwindan," Celeborn gasped, and for the first time in a very long time Galadriel heard fear in his voice, true fear, not the fear born of the desire for self-preservation, but the same fear she had heard in his voice when Curufin had fallen at their feet and he had gathered her into the safety his arms, the fear of a man who has lost something dearer to him than his own heart. She could feel her own fear lurching in her chest as she stumbled forward in a near panic, fingers grasping at the dead leaves scattered about fire pit. Everything was Doriath all over again.

"Blood, Celeborn, blood," she stammered as her fingers came away coated in the slick red liquid. She wanted to believe that her eyes were playing tricks on her, but she knew the scent of blood, the taste of it, the way it felt between the fingers, she knew it intimately and she knew she wasn't wrong.

"The pot is still warm," Celeborn said, his hand pressed to it, "perhaps he isn't far." Galadriel could feel the franticness building within him, her own anxiety building upon his as Celeborn bent to the ground, following the tracks, his fingers pressed to the earth.

"Celeborn, do you think we were wrong? Do you think maybe it wasn't Hwindan that first time? Maybe it was someone else and now they've come back."

"I don't know what to think," Celeborn said, his voice trembling. His breath was coming in gasps, his eyes flickering strangely back and forth before they alighted upon her face. "Galadriel…I…the things I said before. I'm sorry…."

"We'll find him," she whispered, reaching out to take Celeborn's hand, her own hand trembling with fright. "I promise you we'll find him."

The moon was obscured for a moment, a cloud she thought, but then she felt the roughness of burlap being pulled over her head and heard Celeborn's shout. "Celeborn!" She cried, fighting against the hands that painfully wrenched her arms behind her back, kicking out against her unseen captor, feeling a cloth thick with some heady medicinal scent forced up into the burlap sack that covered her face. "Celeborn!" She shrieked, her heart frantic now with fear, but she could hear nothing save her own shouts and then felt something blunt and heavy collide with the back of her head before the world faded to darkness.