Chapter One: Shadows Hold Their Breath

Doriath
Winter
First Age 509

It was snowing. Again.

Once, Celeborn had loved winter – when it was always night, and the soft silence meant peace, and was broken only by joyful shouting as young Elves (everyone had been young, then) raced each other over the drifts, between the trees, flickering shadows darting through the starlit silver and onyx of the snow-covered forest.

Now the silence made him nervous. It was six years since Queen Melian had departed from Middle-earth, taking her Girdle of protection with her. After centuries of living safe behind its enchantments, the Doriathrim still struggled to find ways to adequately defend themselves, even under Dior's leadership. Lúthien's son was young, but wise in his own way, and brave. Celeborn had not yet decided whether he favored Thingol more, or Beren, or if Thingol and Beren had been more alike than anyone had dared to admit.

Celeborn paced through the snow – it was falling thickly, but not fast – to the base of Hírilorn that still bore the house Thingol had ordered built in its branches for Lúthien. He stared up at it, remembering how her temper had risen to match Thingol's, and of the long argument that had persisted before Thingol had finally had her locked up. He remembered feeling like he should do something, but not knowing what, and how Galadriel had just shaken her head, probably remembering her own departure from home, against her father's wishes.

Now the house in the tree was as silent as the rest of the forest. Not even the animals were stirring.

But still, he was nervous. He had never met any of Fëanor's seven sons, but knew enough to know that Celegorm and Curufin, at the very least, could not be trusted – and they had every reason to hate the son of Beren and Lúthien, even if he didn't possess a Silmaril. And Maedhros had sent half a dozen letters to Menegroth already, demanding the return of the jewel to its "rightful" possessors.

Dior had burned every single one of those letters without sending a reply. "You have said yourself, this Silmaril has been hallowed by the hands of Elbereth herself," he had said when Galadriel warned him of her cousins' Oath. "Fëanor and his sons lost their rights to them the moment they drew their swords at Alqualondë. I will not give kinslayers the Jewel my parents risked everything to obtain."

And anyway, no one thought the Fëanorions would come during the winter. The driving snows and bitter winds would keep them in their fortresses, safe from the elements and far from Doriath. Not even Morgoth's dread soldiers dared venture into weather such as this. The snow, they said, would be defense enough until spring.

But still Celeborn was uneasy. Elves could travel in the snow better than iron-shod orcs, and Curufin son of Fëanor was nothing if not cunning and Celegorm nothing if not impulsive – and persuasive, for the two of them had turned almost all of Nargothrond against Finrod. Finrod, brother of his Galadriel, and more worthy of loyalty than any scion of Fëanor.

Celeborn leapt lightly into the trees, and scanned the horizon above the canopy, looking for tell-tale signs of encampment. Smoke curling up from a fire, perhaps. But even Elven eyes were hard pressed to tell smoke from the dreary grey clouds as the day moved toward evening – and surely the Noldor knew to seek dry wood for their fires.

After a time, he was joined by Malthor, an ancient elf and skilled scout who had been one of the first to find the location of what was now Menegroth. Few knew this forest better than he did. "Have you seen anything?" Celeborn asked. Malthor had been roaming the woods for several days now, searching for signs of approach – by anyone, orcs, Dwarves, Men, Elves...

"I caught a glimpse of a scout who doesn't belong to us," Malthor said. "Elven. These Noldor are clumsy among the trees, even now." A gross generalization, but accurate: five hundred years of learning woodcraft could not compare with the thousands the Sindar had spent among the trees of Beleriand.

"Could we capture one of these scouts?" Celeborn asked. "He could tell us – " Malthor interrupted him with a hand on his arm. He was staring at the sky, and Celeborn followed his gaze to see a small shape hurtling down towards them, out of the sky. "What…?"

As it drew closer they saw that it was some kind of large box made of blue wood. It was spinning almost out of control, before it righted itself and crashed through some branches nearby, skidding to a stop in the snow, miraculously upright among a copse of birches bent over with the weight of glittering ice. Some cracked and fell like shards of glass around the box. Malthor and Celeborn looked at each other. "What in Elbereth's name…?"

They jumped lightly to the ground, Noldor scouts temporarily forgotten, and went to investigate the mysterious box. "It has a door," Malthor said. "And…windows."

"What kind of sorcery is this?" Celeborn wondered. A box that would barely hold two elves, flying through the air and landing as though directed by some invisible hand…

Then they heard voices from inside. "…wonder where we ended up."

"Doctor, I think the scanner is still broken. The date isn't displaying right."

"There is nothing wrong with that scanner. I fixed it after Athens, took me half an hour. What age does it say? First? Second?"

"First."

"Well, that's a shame. Bit early, for what I was planning." The door opened, and a man stuck his head out. He took a deep breath, and stuck out his tongue. Malthor and Celeborn exchanged another glance as the man ducked back inside, though without shutting the door. "Well we are on earth. And it's winter."

"I could tell that by the draft you're letting in, Sweetie."

There was something odd about the sound of their voices. It took Celeborn a moment to realize what it was: they sounded as though they were calling across a large room to each other, instead of the cramped space inside the box. Sorcery indeed.

Malthor slowly drew an arrow from his quiver and set it to his bowstring. Celeborn loosened his sword in its sheath.

The man stepped out of the box into the snow, taking a deep breath of the sharp air as he did so. "Come on, River!"

"Let me grab a coat, first!"

"Well hurry up!" The man turned, and for the first time noticed Celeborn and Malthor. "Oh, hello! Nice to meet you. I'm the Doctor. I – oh, is that really necessary?" Malthor had raised his bow as the Doctor stepped forward. Now the Doctor stopped and raised his hands, though he looked anything but afraid. Not even nervous.

"Where do you come from? What is your business in Doriath?" Celeborn asked, trying to act normal, as though flying blue boxes were not something completely out of the ordinary.

"Well for starters, that first question is a bit hard to answer. I'm a traveler, not really settled anywhere. And we're here in – what was it? Doriath? – quite by accident. Got knocked out of the time vortex, you see, had to make an emergency landing." He paused, and looked more closely at Malthor, and then at Celeborn. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

Celeborn blinked. "No." He wanted to say that this Doctor had not answered his question, except that he had – just in terms that were entirely alien to Celeborn. Would that Melian were still in Doriath! She would know what to make of this box and its strange pilot. Celeborn looked to Malthor, who nodded, and put his fingers to his lips to signal another nearby scout.

Just after his whistle faded into the stillness of the winter forest, the Doctor's companion emerged, bundled in a dark grey fur coat, a stark contrast to her pale, wild curls. The Doctor glanced a little sharply at the coat, but did not comment.

"Oh," said the woman, stopping short upon seeing the Elves. "Hello."

"River, these are Elves," the Doctor informed her. "They haven't yet introduced themselves, but I'm fairly certain that this one," he gestured to Celeborn, "is Lord Celeborn. Or, well, I suppose he's Prince Celeborn right at the moment."

"Celeborn?" River repeated, looking at Celeborn with something like recognition, which was almost more unsettling than this pair's manner of arrival. "You mean like Celeborn and Gal – " The Doctor clamped a hand over her mouth, effectively stifling the rest of her question.

"Spoilers," he said warningly. She huffed. "What year did you say this was?" River replied with something muffled, and the Doctor removed his hand. "Sorry, what?"

"Five hundred and nine," she said. "I told you, the scanner's not right – "

"Ah, well that's all right then." The Doctor turned to Celeborn. "Can you tell us the date?"

"…It is the five hundred and ninth year since the Sun rose," Celeborn said slowly, as the help Malthor had summoned arrived, in the form of Oropher, one of the Elves out of Ossiriand who had come to Doriath with Dior and Nimloth. "Secure this – box," Celeborn ordered him, "and bring it back to Menegroth." Whatever it was, nothing good could come of it falling into the hands of the Noldor.

"Be careful with my ship!" exclaimed the Doctor as Malthor urged him and River away, back towards the river. "She's had a rather bumpy ride, and is in a bit of a delicate state right now…"

"So where are we?" River asked, looking at the Doctor, though it seemed to be an open question.

"Doriath, he said," the Doctor replied. "So really, for being knocked off course we could have landed somewhere much worse, especially just now. Nargothrond, for example." Celeborn was finding that he had more questions by the moment, instead of answers, but he held his peace. It would be better to question this Doctor and his companion when they reached the safety of Menegroth, and for the king himself to do it.

Their progress was slow, for neither of the strangers could walk as lightly atop the snow as could the Elves. Strangely, neither of them seemed at all nervous. Rather, they were intrigued and interested. River kept glancing at Celeborn, and the Doctor continually attempted to engage Malthor in conversation, though Malthor was having none of it.

Finally, they came to the Esgalduin, and then to the bridge, which was kept clear of snow. The great doors to the caves opened soundlessly before them, and even the Doctor fell silent as they entered. Celeborn watched the visitors as they gazed around them, and found himself looking anew at his home as well: its pillars carved like mighty beeches, with sculpted stone squirrels and birds perched among the branches, jeweled eyes glinting in the light of torches and lamps.

He wondered if the newcomers could see the scars left from the Dwarves' battle axes that still marred the caves, where the Elves had not been able to repair the damage. To Celeborn, every scar stood out like a beacon on a dark night. There were empty spots on the walls where tapestries had burned, and others still bore scorch marks, or were darkened from smoke. But at least the fountains flowed clear and sparkling again.

"Oh," River breathed, spinning in a circle as she walked, trying to see everything at once. "How beautiful."

Dior and Nimloth were both in the biggest hall with Galadriel and a few others. Celeborn could tell by Galadriel's grim expression and their hushed tones that they were debating, again, the course the sons of Fëanor would take, and were again going in circles. Galadriel glanced up, and raised a slender eyebrow. Dior stopped speaking mid-sentence and blinked at the strangely-dressed visitors. Then, surprisingly, he smiled. "Doctor?"

The Doctor spun on his heel from examining one particular tapestry. "That's me! Hello! Do I know you?"

Galadriel approached Celeborn as Dior stepped to the Doctor. "Who are these?" she asked him quietly. Celeborn related the strange tale swiftly, watching Galadriel's eyes widen and her eyebrows rise ever higher.

"Were anyone else to tell me such a thing I would think them drunk," she said finally.

"Oh, Dior!" the Doctor exclaimed, and embraced the king enthusiastically. "It's been a while – for you, anyway. Goodness, you were much smaller the last time I saw you."

"And it seems like not even a day has passed for you," Dior replied. "What brings you to Doriath?"

"Actually, we were sort of knocked off course," the Doctor said, scratching his head. "Some kind of large bat thing got into the Time Vortex…" He went off into a brief ramble that it was clear none but his companion understood.

But since this strange Doctor appeared to be a friend of Dior's from his youth (which meant Lúthien and Beren had trusted him), Celeborn allowed himself to relax, and beckoned Malthor away from the group. Galadriel followed them. "Did you find anything besides this – Doctor – in the forest today?" she asked.

"I spotted a Noldor scout," Malthor said. "We thought to perhaps capture him, but the strange blue box distracted us."

"How does one fly through the air in a wooden box?" Galadriel asked.

"I think the Doctor would be the one to ask," Celeborn said. "But unless there is something in that box that can help us defend against the Fëanorions, I do not care. If their scouts have come so close to Menegroth, they themselves cannot be far behind. We need to look again to our defenses."

Malthor glanced back at the Doctor, who was being introduced to little Elwing, who clung shyly to her mother's hand, and the twins, who were already curiously tugging at his strange clothes and asking his companion questions. "How do we know this Doctor is not in league with the Noldor?" he asked.

"He must have met Dior in Tol Galen," Galadriel said, "when Beren and Lúthien still lived. They would not have welcomed him, were he a threat to Doriath or in league with my cousins."

"Malthor, take a party to help Oropher's with the Doctor's box," Celeborn said. "I want it here by nightfall." Malthor nodded, bowed to Galadriel, and departed.