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Pride's Revenge

Canticle of the Haunted: 5th Chapter


"Pride goes before destruction,
and a haughty spirit before a fall."

- Proverbs 16:18


Author's note: Everyone please welcome my beta reader, Kelli. She has actually been helping me for a long time and gives me tons of valuable advice. Just wanted to let you know that she is officially helping on the fic and also it is her birthday today!

How do you even give shape to such a huge aspect as culture and make it so real?

This is such a great question. It is kind of difficult to answer so I hope I can answer it well. I think I have spent my whole life studying cultures and languages. It's something that has always fascinated me. When I was a kid I would check out books on ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome from the library and I liked to watch documentaries on different cultures (yep. I was a huge nerd.)

When I went to high school I started working and saving all of my money so that I could actually travel to these places and I went to a few countries in Europe as well as India and Japan. I always tried to stay away from other Americans and immerse myself as deeply in the cultures as I could. I think there are particular things that stick in my mind and that I want to represent my fics. The bit about the ceremony in the last chapter drew from many different traditions (the ceremony itself from the Navajo, the incense from Buddhist temples, the paint from India).

I guess I'm not really sure why I choose different things for each of the different cultures in the fic. I think it is kind of a subconscious thing but I do think that they key is in understanding what symbolic representation or meaning that particular thing has for the culture it is from. So like, with the ceremony itself, at this point in the fic Celeborn and Galadriel are obviously at odds with each other and whatever harmony and balance had existed between them before was ruined so they were at a point where they needed some sort of thing to restore them to this harmony and balance not only with each other, but with some sort of community (because they had been living in isolation for so long which obviously was not good for them).

I was thinking about this idea and then what can I do that represents this or what do I know that culturally represents this and I started to think about the Navajo song ceremonial complex, which has two parts and serves the purpose of driving out whatever spirits are causing the disharmony and then restoring that harmony. Then within that I think about what are some symbols that cultures use to show welcoming, inclusion, or restoration and I incorporate similar things. I think a lot of things have cultural equivalents in many cultures of the world (I have alsways loved Joseph Campbell's work on mythology) so I guess it is kind of about finding the commonality in these signs or symbols, understanding what they represent, and then applying them appropriately.

I think if you work the other way, like if you see something cool in a culture and then try to force it onto a story, that is probably not going to come out very natural and might at worst seem a little offensive to the culture. But I think if you first think about what you want to represent and then find cultural equivalents that function in that capacity you will get a more natural and respectful result. I think it is about showing the importance of that thing to the culture and not just doing it because it seems cool to you or whatever. I hope I explained that ok. It is kind of a difficult thing to explain. In the end, I guess I mostly draw from my experiences.


It was noon on the third day before they crested the ridge of shallow hills that lay before the mouths of Sirion and, for the first time in decades, saw a settlement spread out beneath them. It wasn't much, a smattering of crooked wooden houses and narrow alleys, a quay with ships bobbing in the water, the smoke of kitchen fires rising up to the clouds above, a village shrouded in the mist rolling in from the sea, but as Galadriel gazed upon it she felt a wave of nausea sweep over her. Beyond this village, beyond this coast lay the Isle of Balar and thousands of Sindar who hated her, and in the village below the survivors of Gondolin, the remnants of her people who would soon learn how she had flouted the customs of the Noldor, and with a dark elf no less.

She could feel her heart hammering frantically in her chest as they approached the town, her throat as dry as sand, her hands trembling ever so slightly. She squared her shoulders, pulling herself up to her full height and fixing her gaze ahead. Why should she be frightened? She was the same woman who had dared to cross the Helcaraxë, the same woman who had defied gods and princes. And perhaps she could fool herself, perhaps she could fool others, but she could not fool Celeborn. He had sensed her anguish and she felt his fingers curl around hers even as his mind enveloped her in its warmth.

We have nothing to be ashamed of, he told her. As ever, he knew her better than she knew herself, for she had only just begun to wonder what the rest of them would say when they saw her as she was. She looked down at her muddy and calloused feet, at her short, worn, dirty nails, at the dirt that she was just now noticing seemed embedded in the cracks of her hands. And her hands had never had wrinkles before but they did now, and callouses as well. Her index finger was adorned only with the silver engagement band but not the gold one to signify an honest marriage. But they would all know the instant they saw them; they would know they were wed and how.

Her feet stopped for a moment, seemingly of their own accord. "We have nothing to be ashamed of," Celeborn said softly, turning towards her, some sadness lingering in his eyes though she knew not the source of it. "Our love is honorable, Galadriel. There is no shame in it. Such a marriage is valid under Ilúvatar's laws. Amongst my people it is a common…"

"And what will my people think of me?" Galadriel hissed, tearing her hand from his and wrapping her arms tightly around herself. She wanted nothing more than to flee back into the forests but retreat now was impossible. She could only imagine the things they would say, what they would think about her, the rumors they would spread. She would not have minded so much had her clothes not been filthy deerskin rags, had her skin not been covered in grime and burnt to the consistency of leather, had her hair not been a tangled nest snared with burrs. If she were dressed in fine clothes, if she had jewels and gold, if she still wielded any sort of real power then she wouldn't need to feel so ashamed, she tried to convince herself. But now…as she was…how would any of them give her even a modicum of respect.

"Perhaps they will think that you have married a man that you love," Celeborn said, his face darkening in anger.

"A dark elf," Galadriel said, the words flying from her mouth before she could stop them. The tone with which she had spoken them had told Celeborn all that he needed to know and he recoiled as if she had struck him, confusion and pain swimming in his eyes, his lips thinning to a line.

"Damn your pride," he said, his voice low, a tremor running through it, and before Galadriel could speak another word he turned, stalking off towards the settlement.

She followed at a brisk walk, her arms still wrapped about herself, her throat tight, tears brimming in her eyes. The thought had lingered in her mind these past decades but she had never meant for it to come out, and yet there was no excuse in the world that could make what she had said right. Trying to reach Celeborn through their bond was futile; he had shut her out completely and she could not blame him for it.

The brambles and weeds caught at her feet as she slipped her way down from the hillocks after him, stumbling over rocks and uneven terrain. She could feel the sting and prick of thorns, the sharp edges of the long dry grass cutting her ankles. Now that she had said this terrible thing, this wretched awful thing that she had so long guarded in her heart, she saw it for the poison it was, saw it and knew it to be false, but it had already worked its malice and she could not undo it. She knew she was bleeding and yet she cared not at all. The only thing she wanted to do was to gather her husband in her arms, to assure him she loved him, that she had not meant it, to fix what she had done, but that was no longer within the realm of her power; it was now Celeborn's choice when he would forgive her, if ever he would.

Celeborn had reached the gates of the settlement and strode through them unhindered, though he drew the curious stares of many onlookers. And why wouldn't he? He was dressed in naught but a pair of buckskin breeches, his hair hanging in a wild braid wrapped with Avarin talismans of bone and wood and clay beads, striding into a foreign city as if he owned it. Galadriel followed him equally unhindered, so distracted by the pride screeching in her mind at how disgraceful they must look, what a spectacle they were, that she had not a moment to take in her surroundings until a familiar voice caused her to halt in her tracks.

"Artanis!"

Her heart leapt into her throat, fluttering with hope like some small fragile thing. She hardly dared believe it, perhaps it was just an illusion, her mind playing tricks on her but no: there he was. Celebrimbor wore the brightest smile she had ever seen grace his face, his eyes shining with disbelief and the beginnings of tears as he ran towards her. Here in this hellhole of filth and squalor there was at least one person, one person who was glad to see her, who cared not that she looked nothing more than a pauper.

"It's too good to be true," he gasped, sobbing, pulling her into his arms, and Galadriel embraced him tightly. "I thought you were dead. I thought…I thought for certain they had killed you." She could feel him trembling as he held her against him, his tears falling into her hair. "Eru…" he breathed, "only Eru knows how I worried…how much I feared…" There was, had always been something about Celebrimbor that was so familiar and she treasured it all the more now, now that there was so little left to remind her of her old life. "Nobody knew what had happened to you…"

But then she felt Celebrimbor still suddenly, heard him go quiet, and then felt him stiffen, step away from her, his eyes no longer joyful but filled with pain now as he met her questioning gaze. "I should have known…" he whispered, shaking his head. "I should have known…"

"Celebrimbor, known what?" She asked, confused, reaching out to touch his hand but he pulled his away.

"I can see it in your eyes now," he choked out, his own eyes flashing with a confluence of pain and anger. "I thought on first glance there was something different…something…" he stopped, swallowing hard, "only I thought it was because I hadn't seen you in so long but…" he fell silent again, looking over her shoulder now accusingly. "I can't believe it," he spat, half an exclamation, the other half a refusal.

"Celebrimbor…" Galadriel stammered, confused.

"All the lords of Arda at your feet and it had to be him – that arrogant, illiterate, savage…. Animals, the both of you!" Pain and anger lanced through his voice as it cracked and fell. Galadriel wished the ground would open up and swallow her. She felt as if she were standing in a sea of eyes, all turned to her, all of them able to see her shame; she had never felt more naked in her life.

She was vaguely conscious of someone wrapping a shawl about her, a firm but gentle arm going about her shoulders, seeing Celeborn talking to Círdan as if from a distance, and then that same someone was leading her away, through muddy alleyways and dilapidated clapboard houses, past grimy windows, and at last through a doorway and down a crooked dark hall to a dimly lit and tiny room.

A few moments later she was sitting on a lumpy mattress while servants dragged a copper tub in. Then everything was a parade of kettles full of steaming water and at last vaguely familiar hands were gently undoing her clothes and helping her into the tub. Even in the midst of all of this horribleness, the steaming water felt like paradise and she sank beneath the surface for a moment, eyes closed, before she rose to the surfaced again with reluctance.

Idril had her arms crossed over the edge of the tub, her chin resting on the crux of her wrists, and she only lifted her chin slightly so that she might free her arm to hand Galadriel a bar of soap. "Thank you," Galadriel whispered, too ashamed to meet her cousin's eyes.

"You're welcome," Idril said, a whisper in Quenya this time, her eyes meeting Galadriel's, and then before Galadriel even knew what her own feelings were, she felt her lip tremble, and then a torrent of hot tears streaming down her face as she shook with sobs. She wasn't sure how long she cried, but Idril waited patiently by her side the whole time until at last the tears abated.

"You'll feel better after you wash," her cousin said and Galadriel merely nodded numbly. And then, once she had scrubbed herself clean, the deluge of words began to flow, slowly at first before the current overtook them.

"It was horrible down there in the dark," she said, staring into the water, "all of the never knowing and the waiting…and when they found us I had no idea what they'd do, if they'd kill us." She took a great heaving breath, leaving the thought unfinished. "I…I didn't know," her teeth were chattering now despite the heat of the water, "if Celeborn was alive, if they'd killed him, if I would ever see him again. And when I thought of what they would do to his body…"

She reached up to scrub away tears with her fingers. "And I knew when we came here, I knew what people would say, what..." she tried to continue but choked on her own sobs instead. She knew that the words spilling from her mouth were disjointed phantoms of half-formed thoughts and yet her cousin listened patiently.

"I heard what Celebrimbor said and it wasn't right," Idril murmured as she reached out to take her cousin's hand, holding it gently.

"Of all people I never thought that he would judge me for it," Galadriel said and Idril raised a golden eyebrow as if she were skeptical about such a statement.

"He has always loved you," she said, "ever since we were children. That has not changed with him. Do not delude yourself."

"I am married now and he should forget it," Galadriel said, her eyes hard with anger. Idril only took a deep breath and let it out, gathering her cousin's long golden hair into her hands and gently wringing it of water.

"Not all of the Noldor bear you ill will," Idril reminded her softly. "You are not so alone as you think, Artanis."

"Galadriel," she corrected her softly.

"Galadriel…" Idril said after a pause, tasting the foreign syllables for the first time. "There are some who do not look fondly upon the love that Tuor and I bear for each other. It is a difficult road…"

"Do even you doubt me?" Galadriel asked, turning red-rimmed, accusing eyes towards her cousin. Idril looked taken aback, a hint of annoyance in her own eyes.

"That isn't what I said at all," she replied, her thin golden brows swooping down into a look of displeasure, but she nevertheless offered Galadriel her arm, helping her from the tub. The silence dragged on for a long while as Galadriel toweled herself dry and rankled with her stubborn pride.

"My apologies," she said at last, in a voice so low that it was nearly inaudible, but Idril accepted the apology with a short nod of her head, quietly helping her cousin dress in a white cotton chemise and a simple, long-sleeved, scoop-neck gown of dusky rose broadcloth. Galadriel looked down, noticing that the hem of the gown was slightly frayed, not to mention it was too short for her. She felt the heat of a blush begin to warm her cheeks.

"I know it is too short for you," Idril said, her voice low and not unkind, though there was still a hint of irritation in her tone, "but none of us have nice things anymore…in case you haven't noticed." Galadriel remained silent, duly chastised, as Idril laced up the gown. The daughter of Turgon paused for a moment before she finished tying the laces.

"Galadriel, I know what it's like, not knowing if I would live or die, watching those I loved cut down, fearing for Tuor's life. Maeglin held me captive, threatened to kill my son," her voice trembled. "And Tuor fought him fiercely, a life or death battle." Galadriel turned at her cousin's words, meeting her eyes before she dropped her gaze again, ashamed of herself, saying nothing.

"Sometimes you can really be very selfish you know," Idril's voice had a bite in it and she crossed her arms over her chest uncomfortably. "All of us here have lost someone, something we cared about. For Eru's sake, this is a city of refugees. We all had to make difficult choices. Why did you assume us all so coldhearted as to judge you for yours?"

Galadriel could not bear to meet Idril's eyes, ashamed of the way she had acted, ashamed of the things she had said, and most of all feeling a sharp stinging pain in her heart, longing for Celeborn's presence. He felt wholly absent from her heart and she was now realizing how very lonely her soul felt without his beside it. And, when she thought of what she had said to him, of how it must have made him feel…

"You're thinking of him," Idril's voice, soft now, shook her from her thoughts and she nodded, taking a deep breath. Her cousin seated herself on the small, lumpy bed, and motioned for Galadriel to sit at her side.

"I said a terrible thing to him," Galadriel admitted, "all because of my pride, all because I… was ashamed."

"There will be people," Idril began, "who will judge you Galadriel, who will think all of the most terrible things you can imagine, and there will be many who will not, but surely this is not the first time you have encountered such sentiments. I know that we have not seen each other in a very long time, nor do I know your husband save by reputation, and yet the words of those who disapproved of your betrothal reached us even in Gondolin."

"You're right of course," Galadriel said, pausing for a long while, playing with a loose thread in her lap. "I…" the truth was she did not know what to say, nor did she even know for herself what to call the feelings churning in her heart. "I don't know…how to be married to him," she said at last.

"Has he wronged you?" Idril asked, seeming confused.

"No, never! We argue frequently, and we never used to, but…" Galadriel was quick to reply before her voice faded. She waited on the verge of a sentence, pondering whether or not to tell her cousin the truth, but at last it spilled from her lips. "Idril…they held a knife to my throat down….down in the caverns during the attack." It was out at last, the long held secret. Her hands trembled violently and Idril reached out, placing her hands over her cousin's, stilling them.

"Our cousins?" She asked quietly, her eyes full of deep concern.

"No, the Sindar," Galadriel gasped, feeling a surge of tears pressing at her eyes. Idril was silent. "They wanted to kill me. They wanted revenge for what was being done to them. They thought I would turn, that I would betray them." Her teeth were chattering so badly that she could no longer speak and so she fell into silence, trembling, while Idril drew her into an embrace, pressing her face into her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," her cousin whispered, "so very sorry Galadriel." It was a while before she spoke again, but when she did she said, "Celeborn doesn't know, does he?" And Galadriel shook her head.

"How could I ever tell him?" She said, drawing back and taking Idril's hands in her own, tears still flowing down her face as she shook her head. "They're his people, Idril. They give him life. I thought for a while, when we were living in the forest, that we could be happy that way, simply man and wife, apart from the world. But, he is not well. He has not been well ever since Doriath's fall. I tried to heal him, Eru knows I tried, but the wound in his soul runs deep and there is no remedy for it save his people, even my love could not suffice. And yet what will they say when they know we are wed? If they turn against him I could not bear it. It would destroy him. It would drive him mad. And what will I become if I travel with him to the Isle of Balar? I'll be nothing more than his wife and I will be confined to that role, forced to abandon what dreams I had."

Idril was silent for a while, sighing deeply and rubbing her cousin's hands. "There is only one thing to be done Galadriel," she said. "You must speak to Celeborn of it and you must tell him everything."


Círdan wasn't sure whether or not he ought to bring up what he had just observed. Like most of the Sindar, he had never truly been one to stand on formality, and yet to pretend for the sake of politeness that the scene he had just witnessed had not happened seemed awkward beyond measure. The mariner felt much more comfortable with boats, which were far more reasonable and far less mercurial than people. Ships acted predictably… elves did not always do so.

His feet crunched over the gravel and mud as he walked. This was no great city as they had had of old with sweeping pavilions of white marble and elegantly frescoed walls. Rather, this camp was a haphazard conglomeration of clapboard houses built this way and that, tumbling one over the other, rudimentary stone chimneys belching cloudy smoke into the already stormy gray sky. Círdan most ardently hoped that it did not rain due to the fact that each time it did, the streets of the settlement were turned into a veritable bog of mud and horse manure, but the sky portended a downpour.

It was no proper way to live, the old elf knew, and as for himself he did not truly mind; so long as he had the sea and his ships all was right with the world. But, he worried about the people, worried what would become of them, worried for their safety, both in the distant and the immediate future. These houses…if even one of them were to catch fire… he sighed, shaking his head. And yet what could be done? Every day more and more refugees flooded in, people who had been wandering in the wilderness, who had lost the path, and were only just finding their way back to civilization, if civilization this could be called.

He glanced back at the younger and taller elf he had bid follow him and a smile cracked the mariner's salt-chapped lips. Celeborn adopted the aura of a woodsman, and yet he cut a fine figure, tall, strong, and imposing even looking half the wild man he did at present, wearing only buckskin breeches. And of course there was that silver hair, paler and brighter, a more true silver than Cirdan's pewter. The older elf chuckled to himself and scratched at the stubble forming on his chin. The lad could never have passed himself off as anything but nobility, yet Círdan doubted that Celeborn himself knew it; that would be a lesson he would learn with time, perhaps.

"Where are you taking me?" He turned back once more at the younger elf's gruff question. Impatient, easily aggravated: Celeborn resembled Thingol in more than his looks.

"To Gil-galad," Círdan replied. "Here, come walk beside me instead of hanging back there." He gestured and the young elf acquiesced. And yet, unlike Thingol, Círdan mused, Celeborn seemed to most always have some good reason behind his irritability; he was never angry simply for anger's sake. Perhaps that would be his saving grace; perhaps that would keep him from meeting the same end as the King of Doriath. Círdan did not know the lad very well, only having met him a handful of times either when the Doriathrin court had sojourned in the Falas or else when Círdan himself had attended the court in Menegroth, but he could see that the boy had a good head on his shoulders, even if it was occasionally a hot-tempered head.

That he had gotten from his father. Strange, the shipwright mused, that he should have been more acquainted with Galadhon than his own son was, but Celeborn had been so small when his parents were taken and Círdan had always wondered how much the young man remembered of that night. Of course, that wasn't the sort of question one asked, even if one was very impertinent, and Círdan was not. The other question that nagged at his mind regarded the whereabouts of Galathil and this was a question that he knew he must ask, eventually, even though he had the ominous feeling that the answer would not be a joyful one.

"Orodreth's son lives?" Celeborn asked and Círdan found himself looking up into piercing green eyes. He had forgotten that about Celeborn, the way it felt as if the younger elf could look straight through you. It left one a bit shaken, as a ship that has just passed through a storm, and it was not a trait the Falathrim possessed but was, perhaps, one of the most notable distinctions between the Sindar of Doriath and those of the Falas. The Falathrim preferred things a bit calmer. Círdan chuckled to himself, and yet all of the Noldor presumed them the same.

"He does indeed," Círdan replied. "Rather young to be a king, unsure of himself, constantly seeking advice, but a good lad. There are others who survived. Idril of Gondolin, your wife's kinswoman, and her husband Tuor with their son Eärendil." He paused for a moment, intending silence before he said the rest, but Celeborn filled the silence with words, as elves of Doriath were apt to do.

"Yes, we heard of the destruction of Gondolin from the Avari," Celeborn said, "though they did not know the particulars. I am sure that Galadriel will be glad to know…" He allowed his voice to trail off instead of finishing his sentence, unlike the elves of Doriath, Círdan noted, and most likely indicative of the recent and very public disruption with his wife, something which Círdan sensed ran far deeper than Celebrimbor's inappropriate feelings towards Celeborn's wife. Some feud must have erupted between the newlyweds.

"Elwing survived as well," Círdan said, "and she is here." He had known that sentence would get the boy's attention as much as it would dredge up unwanted memories, and Celeborn's head snapped up, his lips thinning, eyes curiously unreadable. "She was but a babe, Celeborn. Do not blame her for her father's actions," Círdan said, his voice quiet, sea blue eyes meeting inquisitive green ones. Celeborn could be oddly unforgiving, a harsh man, that too he remembered. But perhaps Finarfin's daughter could provide a counterpart, could mellow him, imbue his spirit with a bit more compassion than he was naturally possessed of. He considered telling Celeborn of the Silmaril but decided that it could wait. They still had much to discuss and he sorely needed Celeborn's support. He couldn't risk infuriating him so early on in the conversation. In fact…perhaps it would be best if Celeborn did not learn of the Silmaril at all, that was, if he was not already aware of it…but it seemed that he wasn't. And that meant…that meant that either Galadriel had never told him…or she had not know herself where it had been hidden.

"I am glad to hear it," Celeborn replied. "It is a blessing to know that Thingol's line survives." Yet, Círdan had never before heard Celeborn couch his speech in words of worship and so he suspected that, there too, lay roots of discord that ran deeper than he could yet surmise. But the mariner did not trouble himself overly much with such thoughts; he would get to the bottom of things, eventually, but for now there was a more pressing matter.

"Here," Círdan said with a jerk of his head, indicating a small stone house at the head of the quay, and, putting his shoulder against the rough wooden boards of the door, pushed his way into the house. Celeborn had to duck to enter and then surveyed the one room house with thinly veiled surprise, though there was no disdain in his gaze. A woodsman he might be and yet millennia as the prince of Doriath had given him more of a taste for fine things than he admitted or, perhaps, realized. Sindarin curiosity took over and he moved about the room, taking the ceramic lid off of a pepper pot and replacing it, brushing his fingers over a leather sheaf of weather-worn navigation charts, toying idly with a brass compass that lay on the table.

Círdan knew his house wasn't much to look at – indeed, it could hardly be called a house at all. It comprised merely a stone fireplace in which a fire was crackling merrily, a rough wooden table with a few mismatched chairs set about it, and a sleeping pallet in a corner, but it was better than nothing and better than most here in this settlement had. Once Celeborn had explored the place to his satisfaction, a curious trait of the elves of Doriath that was much akin to the way a wolf might survey his territory, he seated himself at Círdan's table without invitation, another trait of the elves of Doriath, not that Círdan minded. Celeborn generally presumed he was welcome wherever he went and, even when the contrary was apparent, had a habit of feigning as if he had not noticed.

The older elf smiled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. It had been a long time indeed since he had met kin from Doriath and it did his heart good. "Can I offer you something to drink perhaps?" He said, which was precisely when his woman entered. Her name was Rhossell and she was rather short, dressed in brown homespun, bearing a basket of firewood under her arm. She was a buxom elf, her hair dark brown and streaked with gray, a trait that often led humans to mistake her for one of their own. Not a great beauty, nor had she the manners of a noblewoman, but Círdan had found comfort in her and she in him.

Celeborn had leapt to his feet upon her entrance and she gave him a strange look, not understanding the Doriathrin tradition of standing upon a lady's entrance. But the gesture of respect pleased Círdan. There were many among the Sindar and among the Noldor too, who thought it strange and somewhat misguided for Círdan to have taken up with one of the Mithrim when he could have had any fine lady he liked, and there were many more who were always prying and asking questions, trying to discern the nature of their relationship and whether or not they were wed. Círdan enjoyed frustrating them by giving deliberately opaque answers. But then Celeborn knew quite a good deal about associating himself with women whom others did not deem suitable.

"Rhossell, my woman," he said simply with a nod and a grin and Celeborn smiled back.

"Celeborn," the younger elf said by way of introduction. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Rhossell grinned, revealing several missing teeth. "Jumpy fellow ain't ye?" She nodded in greeting before busying herself with the fire. Círdan rummaged about for a moment, producing some cured pork, cheese, and a bit of slightly stale bread, which he set before the younger elf. Celeborn dug into the food with no preamble and Rhossell chuckled as she watched him eat, taking her seat beside Círdan. The young elf's enthusiasm did not abate until he had consumed the entirety of what had been set before him.

"It was that way for me too at first," Rhossell said with a kind smile that made the corners of her dark eyes crinkle. "I came down out of the north when the great wars started, then into the safety of Doriath, and then when the girdle was gone I came down further south, as far south as my legs would carry me, and so I came here, hungry, dressed in tattered rags."

Celeborn was thinner, more wiry than Círdan remembered, and the thinness did not suit his big frame. His wife too had been thin, tanned dark by the sun, not the thinness necessarily of hunger, but of hard work, exposure to the elements, and eating a great deal of meat and fish with very little else to substantiate it. "Many of us thought you were dead," he said.

Celeborn shook his silver head, eyes fixed on his clasped hands for a moment of silence before he looked up at Círdan again. "We fled south…" he began, his voice falling away. "But then," he started again, "perhaps that is not how I should begin."

"You need only say as much or as little as you like," Círdan said quietly. Celeborn pressed the tips of his fingers together for a moment and Rhossell rose, quietly filling a glass with water and setting it before the younger elf before she resumed her seat.

"Galadriel and I were trapped," Celeborn began, clearing his throat, his voice hoarse, but this time his eyes remained fixed on the surface of the table, studying the grain of the wood. "There was no way out. We'd been hiding for days by the gates but there was no way past the soldiers. They started…burning out the caverns from the deeps, retreating as they went. I think they would have planned to shut the gates and we would have died from the smoke. If there were any others remaining then the fires surely killed them."

He paused, reaching out to take the glass of water, but he did not drink from it, merely keeping it clasped between his hands, as if he would fall of the surface of the earth if he let go of it. "I had thought that Galathil had either perished already or escaped," he said, "but then he…he was there unbeknownst to me and he…" Celeborn stopped again. He had never told it before, never laid it all out like this, and he had not even spoken of it even to Galadriel though of course she knew.

"I think he wanted to die," he said at last, giving voice to a thought that had slept for years in his mind. But saying it somehow made everything final, as if, despite seeing Maglor driving his sword through Galathil's chest, he had still believed that his brother lived, that it had all been some horrible dream and that eventually he would wake to find that the horror had passed like a summer storm. Or perhaps it wasn't that he believed he lived, but that he simply couldn't believe him dead.

His hands were trembling and he sought to steady them, but he seemed to have lost control of them altogether and they slipped against the glass of water, the liquid inside shivering in response to his quaking before the glass tumbled to the ground, shattering, water spreading out across the dirt floor before it was quickly absorbed.

He sprang up, horrified with himself, muttering his apologies, but Círdan motioned him sit again as the woman swept over and, with a friendly smile, picked up the pieces. "It's quite alright," Círdan assured him and Celeborn nodded, but he felt numb. "You don't have to…" the older elf began but Celeborn interrupted him.

"He sacrificed himself so that Galadriel and I could escape," he forged forward through the mess of words, forcing them out the way that a healer forces poison out of a patient. "They hunted us," he said, "as if we were nothing more than animals." The anger held sway now rather than the sadness and it made the telling more bearable. Two little love birds up a tree! The gleeful shouts of Maedhros's soldiers still rang in his mind and he shut his eyes to ward them off, opening them again only when he was sure that the tears would not fall.

"And when we crested the Andram and I looked back…somehow I knew it would be the last time that I ever saw Doriath," he said. His hands were still trembling and yet they had stilled a bit. "We meant to come east, here to you, but they were burning the forest and the rivers were choked with ice. Crossing would have been impossible and so we went to Nan-Tathren."

"Fangorn," Círdan said softly, his gray-blue eyes meeting Celeborn's and the younger elf nodded.

"They were there, the Ents," he said, "but Fangorn told me they would be leaving soon. He senses something, some oncoming darkness. There was a tribe of Avari nearby as well, though we did not encounter them until later."

"And who was their chieftain?" Círdan asked.

"Amdír," Celeborn said, a wry smile playing about his lips, the first time that he had smiled today. "It was his son Amroth who found us. I had not seen him since he was but an elfling." He looked up, startled, as Rhossell set another glass of water before him.

"Perhaps you shouldn't give me another," he said with a quick grin, but the woman only smiled.

"Break as many as you like," she told him, and for some reason Celeborn felt as though a burden had been lifted from his heart. He drank from the cup, the water cool and refreshing, before he continued.

"Your marriage?" Círdan asked, coming to the question about which he was the most curious and Celeborn took a deep breath.

"It was the night we arrived in Nan-Tathren," he admitted. "An ill-advised decision perhaps." He looked up, meeting Círdan's eyes. "You know as well as I do what I must do. I must go to Balar." Círdan shifted, curious at the brevity in which the younger elf had described his wedding but chose to ignore it, for now.

"It is indeed for that reason that I brought you here to speak to you," Círdan admitted.

"But how can I ask them to accept her after what her cousins did?" It seemed so simple now to tell this to Círdan, and so impossible to speak of it with Galadriel herself. "I don't know what to do and I hate to drag her into this, to force her to live among a people who despise her!" He confessed. "Perhaps I should never have wed her in the first place. I don't know what came over me that night in the woods."

"Perhaps a good deal of common sense came over you," Círdan said with an abrupt laugh, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "You've loved the girl for centuries Celeborn, as she has loved you. And, if they don't like her then what of it? They could no sooner stop Arien from dragging the sun across the sky or Tilion the moon. They'll just have to get used to it."

"I fear she harbors the same misgivings," Celeborn said but Cirdan shook his head again.

"Then convince her otherwise," he said. "She is your wife is she not? You know her better than anyone."

"You make it sound so simple!" Celeborn exclaimed, a hint of frustration in his voice, and Círdan leaned forward across the table, grinning, looking the younger elf straight in the eyes.

"It is that simple, Celeborn," he said. "You only think it is complicated because you've been out in the woods too long. Isolation like that will drive you slowly mad, make you think wild things. I've experienced it myself on a time on long voyages far out to sea. The loneliness gets to you." There was a twinkle of merriment in the mariner's eyes as he leaned back in his seat once more, uncrossing his arms from his chest, one weathered hand reaching out to grasp the woman's.

But before Celeborn could say anything else, the door opened to admit a man who looked so much like Galadriel and her brothers, save for his raven-dark hair, that there could be no doubt as to who he was. He was tall and broad shouldered, handsome in a rugged sort of way, his dark hair hanging in simple braids and wearing a dusky red cloak that had seen better days.

"Gil-galad, welcome," Círdan said as they all rose to greet the newcomer. He was indeed young, having just barely attained his majority it seemed. His youth showed in his clear blue eyes, and yet he wore the mantle of authority better and with more dignity than Dior ever had.

"Uncle," he said with a pleasant and polite smile, stepping forward to grasp Celeborn's hand.

"Nephew," Celeborn said in reply, his eyes meeting those blue ones that looked so like Galadriel's save for the fact that they held not the light of Aman within them, but rather the darkness of Gil-galad's Sindarin mother. He found he liked him immediately despite knowing hardly anything of him, and in that way he reminded him uncannily of Finrod.

"Word travels fast in these parts! I am very pleased to hear you are wed to my kinswoman at long last," the young king said, "and even happier to hear you are alive. Long had we feared your demise but you are much needed here and even more so on the Isle of Balar. There have been some skirmishes of sorts, the type of thing that naturally happens when so many disparate peoples are forced into a space much too small for them." The young elf took a seat. "Círdan has told me," the young elf nodded to his senior, "that you have the unique distinction of being remarkably popular amongst all of the various elven clans."

"Not among the Noldor I fear," Celeborn replied somewhat sardonically and Gil-galad laughed, a laugh so genuine that Celeborn for a moment could have sworn he was staring at Finrod reborn.

"Very well then," Gil-galad said, "let me handle that rabble. So long as you can corral the Doriathrim, the Green Elves, and the Avari then I shall be very well satisfied indeed." His eyes sparkled with mirth. "We've a bit of a problem you see."

"And does this problem have a name?" Celeborn asked with a grin, folding his hands before him on the table.

"One you know well," Gil-galad replied. "Oropher."


Celeborn felt intolerably awkward walking through the Noldorin quarter of the settlement. It irked him that the elves had voluntarily segregated themselves in this way, and yet he could understand their reasoning. His silver hair identified him as an outsider in their midst and it certainly was drawing stares, though not all negative he noted. There were a good number of young Noldorin women who stared at him wide-eyed or giggled from behind their hands, but for each of them it seemed there were ten older elves who shot him glares of pure hatred.

Survivors of Gondolin, he conjectured. Eöl and Maeglin had certainly done nothing to endear the Sindar to that city and Thingol hadn't helped matters with his lukewarm efforts to punish his vassal for the rape and forcible detention of a Noldorin woman. The Sindar also had certainly never forgiven or forgotten the part that the house of Fingolfin had played in the kinslaying at Alqualondë and so Celeborn presumed that living so close to one another here had only exacerbated already existing tensions.

He wished he had a cape to wear in order to hide his silver hair and thereby pass without drawing so much attention, but as it was, the only clothes he had were those he had borrowed from Círdan, a pair of long gray breeches, a shirt, and a tunic of dark blue, all of which were too small and ill fitting. Ducking out of the drizzle of rain and into a doorway, he raised his hand and knocked.

"My wife," he said to the startled Noldorin woman who answered the door. Even the glimpse of her that he had caught was enough to inform him that she was clearly a relative of Galadriel's. It was the Vanyarin ancestry, he supposed.

The door opened again a moment later and his wife stepped out wearing a dingy white chemise and a long sleeved, scoop neck gown of simple dusky pink broadcloth. The hem was a bit frayed and too short for a woman of his wife's height, a loan from the relative in all probability. He could only imagine how badly it must be chafing Galadriel's pride to be wearing hand me downs and he could not recall ever seeing her in pink before.

"You look pretty," he blurted out, not quite sure, not sure at all actually, of how to begin this conversation. But he did like the look of pink on her. It lent her some softness that he rarely saw and, to be perfectly honest, he preferred her in simple gowns to the ornate courtly monstrosities she had sometimes worn. It reminded him of the night she had first come to his room, the night she had brought him cakes, an apron about her waist, hair tied up, flour on her nose.

"Thank you," Galadriel replied, her tone stiff, arms crossed rigidly over her chest. Her hair had been cleaned and brushed, plaited into a long braid, and she pulled it over her shoulder, picking at the ends, still not looking at him. He couldn't fathom why she would be upset with him, given that it was she and not he who had said such horrible things, and yet she was acting as though she was displeased with him. Perhaps it was simply that her pride was still stinging after Celebrimbor's slight. What good will and hope of reconciliation he had had curdled in his stomach like sour milk.

"How are you?" He asked and it was then that she raised her eyes to his and he saw indeed that it was pride roiling in their depths.

"Does this look like the sort of place I would enjoy living?" She asked and Celeborn took a deep breath.

"You seemed to have no problem with Nan-Tathren," Celeborn replied. He had not meant it to be an antagonistic statement and yet the flash of anger in Galadriel's eyes told him that she had taken it as such.

"Nan-Tathren was clean," she said. "Nan-Tathren was beautiful. Nan-Tathren wasn't stuffed full of dirty people and there weren't streets paved in horse shit."

"What do you want, Galadriel?" Celeborn retorted, trying to keep his voice low though he felt like shouting at her. "What choice do you think we have? This is how everyone is living. There is no alternative! We're refugees! And it certainly isn't going to get any better once we get to the Isle of Balar!"

"And who ever said I'm going with you?" Galadriel hissed. That startled Celeborn and for a moment he couldn't think of what to say and, when at last he did, it certainly was a mistake, his mind too clouded by anger to properly answer.

"You're my wife!" Was his reply, and Galadriel turned angry eyes towards him. By it he had meant that they loved one another, even if they didn't feel like it at the moment, that they had pledged to live their lives together, but that clearly was not how Galadriel had taken it.

"Do you think you own me now, Celeborn?" She spat. "Do you think you own me now just as Celebrimbor thinks he owns me? Is that what the two of you will do, pull me back and forth between you like two dogs fighting over a piece of meat?"

"What has come over you?" Celeborn retorted, his face red with anger. "You know I love you, you know I am not that sort of man! Tell me, what is this all really about? There's something bothering you and I can see it in your eyes, I can feel it here," he pressed his fingers to his chest.

Galadriel glanced away, pursing her lips, and he felt a tremor of fear not his own pass over his soul. Something had frightened her terribly but she would not speak of it. She turned her eyes back to his. "You're jealous of Celebrimbor," she said, and he knew she was baiting him, knew she was seeking to distract him from a truth he had come too close to, just as she had of old when she had withheld the secret of the kinslaying, and he wished he were a strong enough man to resist, but he was not.

"He loves you," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet, face stormy. "He loves you, Galadriel, the way that I love you."

"And what does it matter?" She cried, furious. Celeborn heard people closing their shutters, dogs barking, and yet he hardly cared now if they were disturbing people. "You are my husband. You are the man I love, Celeborn. He is nothing more than a friend to me."

"I cannot believe you would defend him, after the things he had said to you," Celeborn replied. "A century ago you despised him. Sometimes I think it must be your pride, that you like having him hanging on your every word, like a dog begging for table scraps." It had been a low blow, even if a true one, and he knew it.

"So will you now tell me with whom I may be friends and with whom I may not?" Galadriel goaded him further in retribution.

"No," Celeborn said, his eyes fixed on hers, voice trembling with anger now. "He loves you and he will not forget it, Galadriel. One does not love a woman like you in that way and forget it."

"Are you saying you think I will be unfaithful to you?" Galadriel cried, her shoulders shaking in rage. "I have not seen him in so very long. I believed him dead. He is my friend, Celeborn, and I only embraced him out of friendship, nothing more. If he has misinterpreted that then it is no fault of mine and I resent your implications!"

"My implications?" Celeborn scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest and shaking his head incredulously. "Do not put words in my mouth Galadriel! I said nothing of you being unfaithful and I do not doubt you but him…"

"He would never harm me," Galadriel retorted.

Celeborn scrutinized her for a minute. "Wouldn't he?" He asked her, crossing his arms over his chest. "I cannot see into minds as you can, Galadriel, but I know the hearts of men better than you and I know what it is to love you." He shook his head again. "He will not forget you. He will never forget you, nor will his love for you lessen and that makes him a threat…"

"A threat!" Galadriel cried, incredulous. "He is my friend!"

"A threat to us!" Celeborn cried. "Even if he knows he'll never have your love he'll do anything to raise himself in your esteem, even if it is at my expense. This isn't about you or me anymore Galadriel! What happens to one of us affects us both! If one of us is compromised…"

"Compromised?" Now it was Galadriel's turn to cross her arms over her chest. "This isn't a battle, Celeborn, or perhaps you've just been fighting so long that you've forgotten how to stop!"

"This is Middle Earth!" Celeborn roared, losing his temper at last. "There's always a war on here, Galadriel, always!"

Silence lingered after his outburst and Galadriel knew she ought not speak but the injustice of letting him have the last word gnawed at her. "You're jealous," she said, "and that's all it is."

"Jealous, yes," Celeborn retorted. "Who wouldn't be? I thought that if he had survived then he might at least have the decency to respect our marriage, and yet there was nothing in his eyes save hatred for me. He will not forgive me, not now, not ever."

"Don't you find it odd how you're talking about how if something affects one of us then it injures us both?" Galadriel retorted, having thrown all pretense at a rational conversation to the wind, biting now for whatever weak point she could reach. "You want complete honesty and openness from me and yet you are unwilling to give me the same!"

Celeborn eyed her with a feeling that very closely resembled disgust, but it did not stop her tirade. "You've changed, Celeborn," she said. "You used to speak to me of an equal partnership, of ruling side by side, and now you want to go off to Balar with no regard for what I want!"

"We have to be practical Galadriel!" He cut her off. "That was the plan from the start! Your loyalty was always to my people rather than your own! I can't fathom now why you have turned against them!"

"Funny that practicality always favors you," Galadriel bit back.

"Oropher is already instigating unrest," Celeborn retorted. "If I do not go do you have any idea the sort of havoc he could cause? War might break out amongst our peoples here. Don't tell me that you haven't noticed the tension!"

"Don't push this off on Oropher as if you are only doing it for that reason!" Galadriel spat. "I know and you know that this is what you want. You want to go to Balar. You want to lead your people. And what is left for me, Celeborn? What am I to be, your consort, your Noldorin whore? Here I come to this settlement and find that the kingship of the Noldor has fallen to my nephew when if I had been born a man it would have been mine! It isn't fair!"

"Oh so that's what's bothering you," Celeborn snarled, "pride as ever!" It wasn't fair and he regretted saying it as soon as the words had crossed his lips, even more so when Galadriel wrenched the door open and slammed it in his face, leaving him alone in the rain.

"I thought you were going to apologize to him," Idril said in surprise upon the return of her cousin.

"Well that isn't what happened," Galadriel replied before storming off.


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