People of the Night
In Cavern's Shade: 3rd Chapter
"A king there was in days of old:
ere Men yet walked upon the mould
his power was reared in caverns' shade,
his hand was over glen and glade.
Of leaves his crown, his mantle green,
His silver lances long and keen;
The starlight in his shield was caught,
Ere moon was made or sun was wrought."
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lay of Leithian
Findaráto's advisors remained silent. No one wished to disturb the tenuous hold that the princes maintained over the exiles. The slightest disturbance threatened to throw all of them into a mutinous disorder. Such a thing... Fear lurked among them, the fear that they might all be capable of what Fëanor and his sons had done. That, in an instant, disagreement might set all of the survivors at each other's throats, that princes might kill subjects, subjects kill their princes, fathers kill sons and brothers kill brothers. But 50 years ago they would never even have understood the concept of such a thing. Now it seemed all too probable. The weight of paranoia hung in the air like ash and smoke, thick, suffocating, and only Artanis was bold or foolish enough to speak.
"Don't play false with us Findaráto!" She spat, crossing her arms over her chest, her blue eyes lit with some unearthly ardor. "Can you not see that the future of our people stands upon the edge of a knife? The smallest misstep may bring disaster. I, at least, have not forgotten the bloodshed that disagreement brings. Have you?"
"Of course I have not!" Findaráto seethed. He loved his sister but at this very moment he was furious with her that she would dare challenge him before his advisors over a matter that he had thought was already decided. He knew that tensions were running high, that half their anger was fueled by the hunger that gnawed at their stomachs, that the stress of the trials they had endured was driving them to discord.
"Then do not pretend as if you and you alone have the right to decide on this matter," Artanis retorted. "You only wish to keep it secret because of your own selfish ambitions, because you think Thingol will not grant you leave to found your kingdom if he knew what had happened."
"Have you not considered that I am thinking of what is best for all of us?" Findaráto said. "If Thingol knew then what would become of Fingolfin's people? And you know as well as I that the sons of Fëanor will not heed any decree that Thingol might pass, nor will they evacuate the lands he had granted to them even if he commands it. It would bring war, Artanis, if Thingol knew. If you wish to go to Menegroth with me then you will abide by my decision. If not then you are free to follow Fingolfin's people or to go into the north with our brothers." He had never spoken so harshly to his sister before and ordinarily would never have done so, but the events of the past few years had been far too much to bear and Findaráto could feel the weight of them as heavy upon his shoulders as a yoke. And of course at this very moment when he felt what little control he had over their predicament begin to slip, Artanis had decided to be troublesome.
"She is right, Findaráto. Lies and half-truths seem a poor defense against future bloodshed. Indeed, they very well might cause a resurgence of it." Angaráto began, speaking in his sister's defense, but he could not continue before Artanis interrupted him, her anger flaring out again.
"How are you any different than Fëanor? He destroyed the lives of others to achieve his own ends. Now you seek to conceal this secret from the Sindar so that Thingol will grant you the right to found your own realm. And what of the Sindar? What if they inadvertently come between the Fëanorions and the Silmarils? They would be slaughtered like their Teleri brethren, unaware of the reason for which they are dying and unprepared to defend themselves," she fumed and there was a sharp intake of breath. Even amongst those who agreed with her, comparing her brother to Fëanor was a step too far. And besides, the kinslaying had become a rather taboo subject, one they all privately acknowledged but never spoke of, as if to voice the matter alone would bring the curse of Mandos down upon them all the more quickly.
Findaráto took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. It hurt that Artanis would speak to him this way, Artanis his dearly beloved sister. They had ever been of a like mind and he had thought that they had devised this plan together, that it was their shared dream to found this kingdom, that they had wanted the same things. What was more, he loved her dearly. For the past few months food had been especially scarce and he had given half of his own meager portion to Artanis so that she might not suffer so terribly, and yet still she accused him of being no more kind hearted than foul Fëanor.
"It is the will of the Valar," he said to her at last. "I have seen it in a vision sent to be my Ulmo himself. I have been ordained to build a hidden city, a refuge and stronghold lest Morgoth break froth from Angband. This is about the survival of our people, Artanis, and I will not put that in jeopardy for the sake of your opinion."
"And I have had visions of my own," Artanis retorted, still angry, fire flashing in her eyes. "You cannot blindly trust what has been shown to you, Findaráto. Visions can be dangerous things…"
"Whether the illness that plagues you is foresight or some other madness I cannot say," Findaráto spat, at last loosing his patience with her entirely. "Perhaps you are going mad, Artanis, have you thought of that?" He regretted his words almost as soon as he had spoken them, for they were very cruel, and he could see already in his sister's eyes that he had injured her terribly.
"I can hear no more of this, I cannot," Artanis growled, turning and marching away to be on her own and of all of them only Angaráto turned to watch her go, for his heart was troubled as well and his mind held more to his sister's opinion.
"Please, leave us," Findaráto said in exasperation, raising a hand to his advisors as he let his head fall and sighed. They needed no further urging from their prince to return to their encampment, for the quarrel that had erupted from the council had brought up matters of which they preferred not to speak.
"Brother, please, not another word," Findaráto said when at last they had left, turning to Angaráto. "I know you are of the same mind as her but we haven't any other choice in this matter." As their older brother paced back and forth, Angaráto's eyes met Aikanáro's and they both shook their heads. When Artanis and Findaráto fought there would be no compromise.
Findaráto stopped his pacing at last, glancing towards the campfires burning in the near distance where his people gathered round preparing what meager food they had. At the edges of the encampment the men were readying the horses, making everything presentable for tomorrow, when Findaráto and Artanis were to journey towards Menegroth, parting with Fingolfin's people and their two brothers. Further still from the encampment sat Artanis, having chosen to retreat to the spot furthest away from him, out of spite no doubt.
She was clothed like a male in leggings, a tunic, and a short and well-worn cape, the hood of which she pushed back, revealing the messily piled hair upon her head. The mud of the journey was still caked to her bare feet and stained her clothes. Findaráto felt his ire rising again. She ought to be helping the women cook, encouraging them as a princess should. She had not even bothered to mind her appearance lately, letting herself run wild, when her beauty might have been a comfort to their people, who struggled in a foreign land. Instead she sat in isolation, pretending at philosophy, sulking most likely, neglecting to fulfill her royal duty and still there were the days when she collapsed in convulsions, shaking and trembling beyond the power of any of them to help her. As much as he loved his sister, she was still a child in so many ways.
"Brother she is young. Too young to have seen what she has seen. It has changed her already and she struggles to bear the burden. Can you not see it?" Angaráto sighed, coming to stand beside Findaráto.
"We all bear that burden!" Findaráto said. "But now, of all times, we cannot allow such things to cloud our judgment and overcome our reason. We must remain vigilant. This is the duty of a king. We must not sink under our burdens as the common folk but must rise in greatness in direct proportion to the challenge of our difficulties."
"She is far wiser than you give her credit for." Angaráto said.
"I..." Findaráto, seated himself next to his brother on a fallen log, softening. "I know that she is wise. It is...it is why I push her so. I would not ask of her what I thought she was incapable of delivering. I ask more of her than almost anyone else because I know that she is capable of more than almost anyone else."
"But she does not understand that." Angaráto replied. "Despite her beauty and her youth, you know that she has not led the easiest life. Oftentimes, that is all that people see in her. They do not bother to look beyond the exterior. Can you imagine what it must feel like for others to place their value of you in your hroa rather than in your fëa? Forgive me brother, if I seem presumptuous, but I, at least, have observed how it has changed her over the years. It has made her harder, created within her a certain bitterness, a resentment, a cruelty even. She trusts no one. Have you not seen it? She believes that no one takes her opinions seriously, and you have not exactly given her reason to believe otherwise."
"What am I to do with her?" Findaráto said at last with a sigh. "Her…visions…they are getting worse, far worse. Hardly a day goes by anymore when she does not collapse, convulsing. She cannot control them, not in the slightest. I have my doubts, serious doubts, about taking her with me to Menegroth. It may not matter that everyone is sworn to secrecy; it may be that one day she will collapse in one of her fits and divulge the entire secret for everyone to hear. How can we trust her when she could so easily and accidentally betray us?"
"Brother…" Angaráto said and Findaráto turned, to find his sister standing behind him, her eyes brimming with tears. She had come to make amends and here he had only spoken against her further.
"Artanis…I…" Findaráto stumbled over his words.
"No," she said, raising a hand, "you have said quite enough." And she turned, making her way back to her own tent once more. Findaráto sighed, defeated at last, and raised his hands to his head.
"Why does she have to be this way?" He said exasperatedly and Angaráto laughed.
"Because she is our mother's daughter," he said. "But go to her Findaráto," he placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "Whatever troubles the two of you have had in the past you know that she loves you the best of any of us. Things will be well again between the two of you before long."
"Very well," Findaráto said with a sigh, clasping his brother's hand before he stalked off across the camp, coming at last to his sister's tent. "Artanis," he called softly and, receiving no answer, he sighed again and ducked into the tent.
His sister was sitting there on her cot and she gave him a dark look as he entered. "I didn't say you could come in," she said.
"I'm very aware," Findaráto replied, seating himself beside her on the cot. Silence stretched between them, each waiting for the other to speak, and at last he said, "Artanis I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."
She nodded stiffly. In the glow of the lantern he could see the red rimming her eyes and knew that she had been crying, not that proud Artanis would ever admit to that. "It's just…" she said at last, her voice shakier than usual, "I came here because I wanted something different than Aman, Findaráto." She sighed and turned to look at him. "But now I'm starting to feel as if it will all just be the same, as if this were all for nothing." She clasped her hands together and then let them fall. "I want things of my own. I want…I want to be treated the same as you, and Angaráto, and Aikanaro. I want to be a queen, and to have all the power and authority that a king has, but I feel like I'm just going to be stuffed away in some corner, just a pretty decoration, nothing more." She clasped her hands together before her lips for a moment and then let them fall.
Findaráto gave her a smile, trying to cheer her up. "Things will be different, Artanis, I promise you," he said. "That's why I'm trying to do this. I know you don't like the idea of not telling the Sindar of the kinslaying…but it's the only way to change things. If we can earn Thingol's favor then he will give us leave to found our own kingdom, you and me together, and I'll grant you equal powers, we'll rule jointly…"
"That's just the thing," Artanis interrupted. "I want to rule by my right and not because anyone grants it to me."
Findaráto sighed, thinking for a moment, but could conjure no reply. After all, what his sister wanted, what she was asking for…it was simply not the way that the world worked and he could hardly change the world. Even he, a prince of Aman, would have to ask Thingol's permission to found a kingdom. At last he reached out, squeezing her hand.
"Artanis," he said, "I promise that we'll tell Thingol, not right away, but we will tell him when the time is right. Does that suit you?"
She was silent for a moment and then nodded, squeezing his hand in return, but still she did not smile.
This morning they had spent a great deal of time in preparation and Artanis had sat patiently, trying her very best to not let her anticipation get the best of her, as the ladies flitted about like butterflies, plaiting her golden hair in a myriad of braids which they arranged in elaborate patterns upon her head, pinning them up with hairpins tipped in flaming red rubies and diamonds that glittered like stars. She much preferred to have her hair long and loose but she knew that Findaráto wanted Thingol to be very impressed at the sight of them and so she had to look the part of a proper Finwëan princess.
The ladies tilted her face up and she obediently closed her eyes as they rouged her cheeks and drew lines of kohl about her eyes. She liked finery but the gown of richly brocaded red velvet embroidered with gold thread to show scenes from the creation of Arda was far more constricting than what she normally wore and she sighed, wishing she could simply wear breeches and a tunic. The Green Elves when barefoot, why couldn't she? They fitted her crown atop her head, a troublesome creation of gold from which blazed forth the colored light of thousands of gems, and draped a thick mantel of snowy white satin lined with ermine fur over her shoulders. The summers of Beleriand were not particularly hot but she was already sweltering beneath this finery and could feel a bead of sweat begin to trickle its way down her spine as she stood at last and stepped into slippers of gold and glass. All of this was so impractical here in Middle Earth.
And yet, when she looked into the mirror that one of the women offered her, she could no help but be pleased by her reflection, the corners of her lips curling upwards in a smile. She did look like a queen and, now that she was here in Middle Earth, the chance of becoming one in earnest seemed far more real. Thingol would certainly be impressed, she thought, setting the mirror down before she moved to step out of the tent.
Findaráto's face split into a wide grin as he saw her and Artanis laughed in greeting. She was glad for her brother's smile, glad that they had at last put their squabbles behind them, and while she was displeased that Findaráto's decision to withhold news of the kinslaying has stood, she was very happy indeed that they had made things well between them again.
Findaráto was dressed finely as well, wearing a gleaming golden crown set with sparkling stones, dressed in his best clothes. And yet, as Artanis surveyed their traveling party, she saw that even their finery could not quite conceal the sorrow and toil that they had endured, for their eyes spoke something of it, even if their clothing did not, and their bones still stood out more prominently than they should, reminder of the harsh winter spent in the wild.
"Well!" Findaráto exclaimed as she mounted her palfrey. "You are certainly a sight for sore eyes, sister! Thingol's queen may be a Maia but I'll wager they have never seen the likes of you. You'll have a long line of Sindarin suitors, I'm sure." He laughed but Artanis only rolled her eyes, adjusting her seat in the saddle as the servants collapsed the last of the tents.
"I've only just escaped all my suitors," Artanis laughed. "Why ever would I want any more of them? And you know how much I despise courtship." The last of the fires had been doused and the last of the tents packed away and so they started on their journey at last. Artanis felt the flutter of excitement in her heart as she urged her horse forward. She could hardly believe that at long last she was about to see Doriath and the wonders of Menegroth. She wondered if Elwë would still look the same as Olwë had remembered him.
"You know, Artanis," Findaráto said cheerfully as he rode by her side. "Courtship does not have to be so awful."
"It does when everyone who wants to court you is awful," Artanis quipped.
"How can every prince in Valinor be so awful that you didn't like a single one of them?" Findaráto asked, shaking his head. "Some of them seemed very suitable to me, and you seemed to take a liking to Celebrimbor…or so I thought."
"Don't talk to me of Celebrimbor," Artanis said, decidedly unamused as she cast a glare over at her brother. "He turned out to be just like the rest of them. And of course you don't understand it at all – you're a man."
"And that precludes me from understanding?" Findaráto chuckled, raising an eyebrow at his irritated sister.
"Yes!" Artanis replied adamantly. "All the princes of Valinor want is a pretty girl to make them look good. I'm not saying they aren't kind people, but they want someone who will defer to them, who won't cause trouble. Do you think I could ever be happy like that Findaráto? I want things of my own, lands of my own, and if I am to rule then I would rule with someone who will treat me as his equal. You know how much scorn mother has garnered for daring to speak out about princes, for opposing father even. You know how father has been ridiculed as weak for marrying someone who dares to speak her mind. And did Fëanor even once listen to Nerdanel? She used to be so adventuresome before he chained her and she had to leave him before she could be free again. No." She shook her head. "I'll not have that for myself. If I marry it will be to someone who heeds my counsel, who will not overrule my judgment, who will treat me as his equal."
"You may be waiting for a very long time in that case," Findaráto replied. If looks could kill then the one his sister gave him would certainly have rendered him dead.
"Do you want me to be unhappy then?" Artanis asked.
"Of course not," Findaráto laughed, reaching out to take her hand. "And don't get so angry over it Artanis. If that is what you want then I want that for you. Perhaps you'll find such a man amongst the Sindarin princes." He gave her a cheeky wink, once more the target of her glower.
"It's a wonder you can joke about such a thing," Artanis said. "To lie with…to bind my fëa to that of a…a…dark elf would be an affront to the Valar themselves. Her skin crawled at the thought.
"Oh and now you suddenly decide to have some respect for the Valar?" Findaráto said, laughing loud and long, but their conversation continued no further, for a very strange sight was now before them. A towering wall of billowing mist rose clear up to the clouds, so tall that it never seemed to end, and it stretched out in either direction far beyond what their eyes could see. "The girdle of Melian…" Findaráto said, his voice whisper of awe, his eyes wide in amazement as he dismounted, holding out his hand into the mist. It coiled about his arm as if it were a living breathing creature and then withdrew once more. "Say what you want about Sindarin men Artanis," Findaráto said with a laugh, turning back to his sister, "but only a Sindarin man has ever managed to marry a goddess."
Artanis didn't bother to remind her brother that Thingol, after all, had seen the light of the two trees, and waited until he mounted his horse again to continue. But no matter how far they traveled, there seemed to be no way around it and, whichever way they turned they found themselves arriving back in the same place as every path turned back upon itself. They dared not venture any further into the mist for fear of being separated, for it was so thick that they could not see through it and furthermore their way was obscured by shadows that concealed the path.
"It is a labyrinth," Findaráto said, admitting defeat at last.
"I thought we would be allowed to pass, as our brothers were," Artanis said, puzzled, dismounting as the people began to make camp for the night.
"I do not know…" Findaráto said, his eyes wandering amongst their people. Artanis understood her brother's discontent. This was the last thing they needed. After half a century spent living in the wilderness they had been looking forward to the delights of a real city, of hot baths, of proper food and the luxuries of civilization. To be denied this after having expected it was a cruel blow and she could sense the tension and restlessness amongst their people at the disappointment.
Having expected to feast in Menegroth that night, and having run low on game themselves, there was not much for them to eat but what little they had was made into stew and dished out in equal portions to all. But when Artanis had finished her portion her stomach was still growling in hunger and she was glad, at least, for the privacy of her tent as she seated herself on her cot. She felt a jolt of anger shoot through her at the thought that she had eagerly looked forward to sleeping in a bed tonight.
Was it really too much to ask for a little bit of comfort after the horror of the Helcaraxë and fifty years spent wandering homeless in Beleriand with precious little to eat, nary a drop of hot water, and rags for clothes? At the time she had been furious with Findaráto for forcing her to put away this, her last good dress, but now she understood the practicality of it. Had she not saved this one she would have had nothing to wear before Thingol. All her other gowns were in tatters now, turned to rags by the harshness of this land. She brushed her fingers over the red velvet for a moment before she reached up and pulled the crown from her head, tossing it angrily onto her cot.
Why had the Sindar shut them out, why? Artanis rarely cried but now she could feel tears of anger and frustration rising at the corners of her eyes and she reached up to blot them away. Thingol was her grandfather's brother and yet here he was treating them as if they were nothing more than outlaws. Angrily she reached up and began to pull her hairpins loose. How dare he! Could he not understand how weary her people were or did he simply not care? She had heard the Sindar were a callous people. It must be true. She tossed the hairpins down on the cot, a glittering pile of rubies and diamonds, and that was when the screaming started.
Celeborn would have known that the sounding of the great horn in the deep meant the Noldor had approached even if Lúthien hadn't been frantically hammering at his door. "Come on! Come on!" He heard her exclaim before one of his pages admitted her to his chambers and she came in in a flurry, like an autumn leaf caught in a gust of wind, bouncing on the balls of her feet, her pack of hounds scampering eagerly about her in a vortex of fur and slobber.
"Oh cousin I've been waiting for this moment for so long and of course you're going to go and delay us! The march wardens are almost ready!" Lúthien exclaimed, her gray eyes alight with excitement as she bounded about her kinsman's rooms.
"Did you really have to bring all of your hairy beasts with you?" Celeborn asked, watching with dismay as one of his cousin's hounds immediately began to chew on a bow he had not yet finished carving, while he clasped a collar of Mahogany, polished to the highest sheen and inlaid with cherry wood in the design of leaves, about his neck.
"Oh what's the matter?" Lúthien said, rolling her eyes with a grin before she took the offending dog's face in her hands and pressed a kiss to its forehead. "They want to go too. They've been ever so excited." Thingol had asked them to dress not in the courtly manner, but in the ancient one, holding it as a sign of respect and of kinship, a calling back to the days when all of the elven clans had walked these lands together before the great sundering. And so Lúthien had spent nearly the entire day painting the history of her lineage across her entire body in black kohl in elegantly detailed cirth script. It provided a startling contrast to her pale skin. Celeborn found himself mildly envious of her penmanship. Had he tried such a thing it would not have looked nearly so nice.
Lúthien wore a close-fitting vest of gray homespun and tan leather, the same as the march wardens wore. Her hair was not the silver of her father, Thingol, but the midnight dark of her mother and she wore it simply, tumbling down her back in black waves. Her eyes, gray as twilight, bright and full with the magic of her Maian mother twinkled as she turned them to her cousin once more.
"Celeborn, this is the most exciting day of my life and you're delaying it," she said with a sigh.
"The most exciting day of your life?" Celeborn laughed. He was dressed in leggings of a rich moss green, bare chested except for a breastplate of slatted bone, his skin painted a smoky greenish gray, and across the muscles of his bare chest rippled black letters and runes which told the tale of his history and lineage. On his bare back was painted a silver tree and his face too was painted with lines of black kohl.
"I'm surprised at your low standards Lu. You know as well as I do what they're here for, trying to usurp Thingol's authority and take over Sindarin lands."
"Oh but the two who came before were so very handsome and charming," Lúthien said with a wink.
"Is that honestly all you're concerned about?" He asked with a laugh, but Lúthien ignored his comment.
"Did Galathil do your runes?" His cousin asked. Celeborn nodded in reply, eyes as green as leaves stared back at him in the mirror as he struggled to fixed his eagle feathers in his hair. Most of it he had left long, bright and shining silver like the stars themselves, living mark of his royal ancestry, but part of it he had bound in a long braid and now he was trying to affix the feathers to it but they wouldn't stay.
"Here, let me," Lúthien said with a sigh, but he was so tall she had to stand on her tiptoes to reach. "Really Celeborn, I've never met anyone as vain about their hair as you are." She at last managed to get the feathers fixed properly and handed him his gray cloak, which he clasped about his shoulders.
"I just want to make a good first impression," he said, turning towards his cousin with a wink and a grin as he shouldered his great bow and quiver, buckling his axe over them. It was a fine and deadly weapon, engraved with the design of trees and woodland creatures. Lúthien only rolled her eyes and sighed again, but she couldn't keep from laughing.
The march wardens had left their hair unbound and free of trappings save for the feathers which the birds had given to them. The males were bare chested save for the breastplates of slatted bone arranged like the scales of a fish that they customarily wore and the females wore tight fitting vests of leather. Their leggings were of soft cloth, dark green in color, and around their shoulders they wore close-fitting capes of gray that seemed to change color to suit their surroundings so that they were barely distinguishable from the forest itself. It did not do, in the forest, to wear much or loose fitting clothing for not only did it inhibit the movement of the wearer, who needed to be flexible in skirmishes, but it disadvantaged him by providing something by which an enemy or vicious animal might catch hold of an elf and thereby capture or kill him.
With tints of gray and blue they had painted their skin, marking it with the symbols and emblems of their lineage. They wore necklaces of polished stones, leaves, and polished wood, gifts of the forest. They walked barefoot through the forest for their feet were much accustomed to the earth and it to them. They did not misstep nor did they make any noise at all in their movements, long had they dwelt in the forests of this land. Across their backs were great bows, tall as they were and ornately carved, weapons which made death swift and efficient. Their arrows were long, sharp, and swift. Also, slung across their backs were the great battle axes which they had adopted from the dwarves and grown accustomed to using. But these weapons were light and slender, with finely honed blades, elegant but strong and not made in the heavy manner of dwarven axes.
Celeborn preferred to travel through the treetops so that he might be closer to the stars and many of his wardens did the same, but still others made their way across the forest floor, light on their feet as deer. He could hear them laughing and singing. Despite their wariness, there were so many who were curious to see what these Noldor would be like. He remembered so well when two of Finarfin's sons had first come to Doriath, the way that the Sindar had crowded into the tree tops in Thingol's great hall to try to catch even the merest glimpse of them. And now all of Doriath was eagerly awaiting the arrival of these newcomers, anxious, no doubt, to catch yet more glimpses of these strange elves marked by some foreign light, to hear more of far off lands beyond the sea and stories of places and people that seemed so different and odd to them.
But Celeborn felt some restless resentment for these foreign elves. It had been difficult to understand Finarfin's two sons when they had come to Doriath, for they spoke no Sindarin at all and what precious little Green Elven they knew they spoke with thick Quenya accents. Despite their linguistic shortcomings they had been pleasant enough folk, and yet their ignorance about this world had irked him and he could not for the life of him fathom why anyone would want to leave a blessed place for a cursed one. And then there was the boiling anger in his heart that the Valar had allowed the Noldor to willingly wander to Middle Earth but had not offered the Sindar refuge in Aman.
The Noldor had said that the Valar had sent them to combat Morgoth's evil and Celeborn had not the gift of foresight nor was he particularly adept at looking into the hearts of others, but he knew a lie just as well as anyone else when he heard it and he was of the same mind as Melian in believing that something ill was afoot. The rumors they were constantly hearing of ill will between the Noldorin princes only served to reinforce that belief. Perhaps Aman had grown too small for them and they had come here of their own will, seeking to conquer Sindarin lands and set themselves up as kings. It certainly seemed that way.
Even had Melian not told them exactly where the Noldorin camp lay, it would have been absurdly easy for them to find it and Celeborn felt a wave of dismay wash over him as at last they caught glimpses of tents through the trees and, on further approach, observed the campfires that the Noldor had lit and the way that the horses, though hobbled, had been allowed to wander outside the camp, grazing freely. They would make easy prey for wargs. With a signal to his wardens they approached, taking up positions in the treetops around the encampment, and Celeborn saw Lúthien, who crouched beside him on a branch, signal to her dogs below. Obediently they lay down and were silent, heeding their mistress's command as the wardens crouched around them in the brush.
Celeborn had thought for certain that the Noldor must have been aware of their approach, for he would have been had he been in their position, and yet it seemed that they were not. "It's not so very many as I expected," Lúthien whispered, her keen eyes scanning the Noldorin encampment.
"Finarfin's house has the smallest following," Celeborn murmured, "and the two brothers we met have gone into the north, doubtlessly taking part of the host with them. I suppose this is what remains." It was an oddly curious sight and Celeborn's mind, so used to battle and strategy, had immediately begun to count guards and horses, to assess the position of the camp.
"This is dangerous," he breathed. "Lighting fires at night…horses wandering about…don't they know there's a war on? Look at the way they've arranged their camp," he gestured with a nod of his head. "It's almost as if they're asking to be attacked. There are orcs round this way and wargs too…worse things perhaps."
Lúthien shrugged. "I suppose they've never had to worry about such things before in Aman," she said. The thought seemed almost incomprehensible to the both of them who had been taught from before they could walk not to wander too far, never to travel outside the girdle alone, always to carry weapons. Celeborn had learned to use a knife before he could write his own name.
"Well you would think after fifty years in the wilderness they might have more sense than this," Celeborn remarked. For some reason it annoyed him and he wasn't sure why. "They're lucky we've arrived. They ought to be thankful." His eyes had caught a glimpse of a golden haired man below talking to some others. Findaráto, perhaps?
"Oh Eru, look at his clothes!" Lúthien exclaimed with a laugh. "Did you ever see such a thing? How very ridiculous!"
Celeborn could not help but crack a grin at that, despite his irritation with the danger these Noldor had put themselves in. The prince, Findaráto, or whoever he was, certainly was dressed in an outlandish manner for traveling, wearing stiffly formal clothes that, even from where they were perched in the treetops, clearly hindered his movement. "He wouldn't fare very well in battle with that getup," Celeborn laughed.
"Something about them…." Lúthien leaned forward with interest, carefully observant, "looks wearied, worn," she murmured. "Oh…" she said sadly as they watched the guards carefully scraping the sides of a pot with a wooden spoon. "Celeborn they haven't any food…look how hungry they are." Her voice welled with sympathy as she turned saddened eyes back towards her cousin.
"No," he murmured, looking down to where Lúthien pointed, "they haven't." And now that she had said it, he could see it too, that even the prince, dressed in ludicrous finery though he was, had the hollowed look of a famine victim, eyes set just a bit too deeply in his face, cheekbones just a bit too prominent, his fine clothes just a bit looser than they ought to be. They were the telltale signs of one who has so recently spent a long while without food and has only just begun to recover.
He hadn't expected to feel any such sympathy for these people, foreign people who meant to take and settle upon the lands that his people had ruled for thousands of years, foreign people who demeaned them, called them savages and Moriquendi. But looking on them now he could not help but recall the days before they had built Menegroth, before Melian had wrapped their kingdom in her protective enchantments. His belly still recalled the hunger pangs that had kept him awake as a child, the rattling of weapons whenever orcs came upon their encampments, when his mother had told him to close his eyes so he wouldn't see. But he hadn't closed his eyes. These people were frightened, hungry, in danger…as they had been so long ago, and suddenly the dark shadow that lay over them did not seem to matter as much. These people were not their enemy; Bauglir was, and it was Bauglir and none other who had done the both of them wrong.
"Come along," he said softly, reaching out to take Lúthien's hand. "Let us not leave them here like this for the night but go down immediately and welcome them within the girdle." Lúthien nodded, understanding perfectly well what he meant, and together they alighted from the tree, signaling to the wardens to follow them.
Celeborn could practically feel Lúthien's excitement as they entered the camp and turned to grin at his cousin but her smile evaporated, turning to a look of shock, her eyes going wide and then, in the next instant she was pushing him to the ground shouting, "get down!" He fell, Lúthien atop him, and saw the blur of a blade whizzing over his head, the only sound he could hear the thudding of his heart in his chest, as if everything had suddenly stopped, and then the world rushed back in, the sound of screaming, of swords being drawn, and he pushed himself to his feet, pulling Lúthien with him.
"Tell our soldiers to disarm them!" He said, taking his cousin by the shoulders and she nodded vigorously, shock in her eyes. "Don't allow anyone to be hurt Lu."
"Find the Prince," Lúthien exclaimed and Celeborn nodded. Then he was off, racing through the camp, dodging between tents, searching for the prince he had seen earlier, someone who could quell this impending violence, someone with authority, but everywhere the Noldor were drawing their swords and he dodged and ducked to avoid their blows, for he did not wish to do violence to them and indeed, the thought of injuring another elf was so abhorrent to him as to be unthinkable, which was why he was so confused about what was happening, about why they had reacted in this way.
"Findaráto!" He cried, the one word he knew in their tongue, the name of this prince, but he did not materialize at the sound of his name, and Celeborn looked around at the boiling chaos, praying that his wardens would hold, that they would not strike out of fright. He turned left, dashing between two tents, and then suddenly his mad rush was arrested by the feel of a warm, solid body colliding with his.
It took a moment for him to realize what had happened, a moment for his vision to adjust, for just as he had run into this person his eyes had been struck by the oddest sort of light, not the flickering flame of a candle, nor even the twinkling light of the stars, but a rich sort of radiance that seemed to wrap itself around him and around everything in a blinding glow that had startled his eyes into blindness.
It was as if he was suddenly seeing that first sunrise again, a great flash of bright light across the horizon, like a sparking coal in a copper brazier, the light pulsing again – once, twice, three times and then over the edge of the world had come the rise of a great, glowing, yellow ball that seemed almost as though it were made of fire itself. His eyes had been drawn wide in horrified awe at the burning monstrosity rising in the east, certain that he was about to die, that this was some punishment sent by the Valar to destroy them, to immolate them like dry autumn leaves in a fire.
His heart had stood still for the span of a moment in his chest, the only sound in his ears his own breathing as he watched the strange transformation of the earth and it stood still again now as he watched the way that color spread to all things at the mere touch of this light, like ink staining a parchment, the sky bleeding from the black of night to soft pinks, and blues, and yellows, hues of rich and cheery green coating the leaves of trees, creeks and streams tumbling into blues deep as a sapphire's shine. His heart was thundering like a river in his chest and when the light cleared at last, or perhaps it did not clear, perhaps his eyes had merely adjusted to it, he suddenly understood what Thingol must have felt when he first beheld Melian in Nan Elmoth.
Except this woman was not clothed in the shadows of the evening, but in the brightness of day. Her skin was pale, glowing as if it had been brushed with the glimmering dust of dawn, her eyes blue as a lake but lit from within by some ethereal light the likes of which he had never seen before, and her hair…her hair seemed as if it had been woven from the light of the day traveler itself, all gleaming golden hues, and yet it was threaded with a remembrance of the silver light of the stars as well.
She stared at him as he stared at her, each trying to puzzle out what the other was. He would have expected her to shriek and call for help, as the rest of her people had done, but she did neither, standing her ground, observing him with some fierce curiosity, her eyes lit with the fire of determination, of resilience. This woman had wandered in the wilderness, her body bore the unmistakable traces of hardship…and yet she was not bowed nor broken but stood straight and tall as a reed at the river's edge, strong as the oak that hold steady before an oncoming thunderstorm; she was not afraid.
"What are you?" He asked when at last he could breathe again, for maybe she was a Maia such as Melian. If she had said that she was a Vala even that he would have believed, for he had never seen anyone like her in all his life. But she looked at him quizzically, tilting her head, her elegant features drawn together in a look of mild consternation, and then her expression relaxed as she drank in the sight of him and he watched the light move across her eyes.
"Telperion…" she whispered, a word he did not know, looking as if she were in some faraway place of remembrance, as if she had wandered into a dream and he rather felt as though he had as well, but the battle cries and the rattling of steel on steel brought him violently back to the present.
"Come with me!" He cried, this time in the language of the green elves, praying she would understand that at least, grasping for her hand and pulling her along with him through the camp, their feet splashing through the mud. She was a quicker runner than he had anticipated, keeping abreast of him eagerly, and as they reached the center of the camp she threw her hands up, crying something in a foreign tongue, her voice loud, deep, commanding, her eyes flashing with fire. He gazed at her in amazement. He had been raised by Melian, alongside Lúthien, but never in his life had he seen a woman like this…
Whatever it was she had shouted, it stopped the fighting almost instantly and the Noldorin soldiers obediently dropped their weapons. With another word from her they were clearly offering their apologies to the Sindarin wardens with embarrassed bows and the woman sighed in relief, the power that had throbbed through her body but a moment earlier slowly dissipating.
"My apologies," the woman said in stilted Green Elven, turning back to him. "It's the way you're dressed. You did not look like elves to them. They were confused."
Her words came as a shock. Whatever Celeborn had thought she would say it certainly wasn't that. Did she mean to say they had mistaken his people for orcs? "What do you mean we do not look like elves?" He retorted, the heat of the moment causing his anger to boil over. It seemed a poor excuse to him for such an inexcusable action as drawing a weapon on another elf. Here they had meant to welcome the Noldor into their kingdom and instead they had been met with violence.
But Lúthien had come jogging up and, with her, the golden-haired prince they had spotted earlier. "My most sincere apologies!" The foreign man cried, a look of grave concern on his face. "Our people were startled. They thought for a moment that they were being attacked by orcs."
Lúthien gave Celeborn a pointed look and he bit back the angry retort that had threatened to burst from his mouth. "I see," he said instead.
"Findaráto," the prince said, holding out his hand, "or…Finrod in your tongue I suppose." He spoke in the Green Elven tongue, but his accent was far less pronounced than the woman's, which made him easier to understand. "You must be Celeborn."
"I see you've heard of me," Celeborn said stiffly, the heat of battle and of the insult still pulsing through his veins as he struggled to calm his rattled nerves.
"No one speaks to Thingol who doesn't speak to his prince first…or so I've heard," Findaráto said.
"I see you've done your research," Celeborn said, softening a bit at last, and Findaráto nodded. He seemed an earnest enough fellow, for all of his strange clothes and his people's strange ways.
"And I…er…" the golden-haired prince laughed, nervously trying to smooth over the botched first meeting. "I see you've met my sister, Artanis, and I've already met Lúthien here." He nodded to the Sindarin princess but Celeborn turned to look at the Noldorin one, nodding to her stiffly. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him coldly.
He ought to be thanking the stars that she had commanded the soldiers to step down and instead all he had had for her were harsh words. A rude man, one without proper manners, and a temper that seemed to evidence all the rumors she had already heard about Thingol and about Sindarin men. She could hardly believe now that when first she had laid eyes on him she had stood in awe of how very handsome he was.
"Perhaps our first meeting has not been so fortuitous," the raven haired Sindarin princess said, stepping forward with a kind smile, "but may all of our other meetings be very happy. Won't you return with us to Menegroth? You must be very weary but we have prepared a great feast in your honor and perhaps you would like to relax in the baths and to sleep upon beds of feather down. For that is why we were sent after all, to offer you refuge in our kingdom, if you will take it."
"The way was shut…" Findaráto began to say but Lúthien quickly placated his concerns.
"You must understand," she said, "that Melian my mother has perceived some dark shadow hangs over the Noldor and so we cannot allow any to pass freely into our kingdom without our leave, even though we consider them kin as you are. But the way is open now and if you come with us you shall be able to pass through the girdle."
Findaráto nodded, speaking to Lúthien as the Noldor packed up their camp, but Artanis quickly lost track of the conversation, having difficulty following the Green Elven tongue. Instead she turned to glance at the man who stood still by her side, listening to the conversation with rapt attention. So this was Celeborn, crown prince of Doriath, chief councilor of Elu Thingol. She wasn't quite sure what she thought of him, but he was oddly intriguing.
He had noticed her looking at him and turned to meet her eyes, something in his expression softening, as if he was sorry for his earlier anger, though there was still some latent ferocity in his eyes, but perhaps that was always there, a part of him. He looked back towards Findaráto and Lúthien, then back towards her again, seeming undecided, and at last he took a step closer and Artanis swallowed hard. He really was handsome, very, very handsome, with eyes the dark green color of Telperion's leaves even as his hair was the color of Telperion's light, like moonlight reflected in a stream, the gleaming silver of stars. And he was tall as well, as tall as she, the confident ease with which he moved and the powerful lines of his body bespeaking his profession as a warrior.
The thought suddenly arose to her mind that she hoped he found her beautiful and she paused for a moment in thought, surprised that such an idea had occurred to her, for he was after all a dark elf and of course…of course it would be beneath her to even consider…
"You're hungry," he said in the language of the Green Elves, his voice deep but with some hint of softness that seemed so strange considering the flare of wild anger he had exhibited only moments earlier, like the passing of the seasons from the harshness of winter to the new life of spring. He reached out to touch the raised ridge of her collarbone, and Artanis felt her face flush red in irritation. Was that all he had to say about her was that she looked hungry, she, the most beautiful of the Noldor? Was that even what had really upset her or was it the warmth of his fingers against her skin?
"That's rude," she said, eyes flashing. "I don't know how things are in Doriath but you shouldn't touch a lady without permission." In her flustered state she wasn't sure that her Green Elven had been completely correct but he withdrew his hand with an upwards quirk of a silver eyebrow, the grin vanishing from his face, some shadow shifting over his eyes. She almost instantly felt sorry for it but said nothing, her pride restraining her as he fumbled with some pouch at his belt, at last pulling out a crumpled packet of some white bread wrapped in green leaves which he thrust into her hands.
"Keep it," he said, his voice a low rumble before he turned and walked away, following Findaráto and Lúthien, gathering his people as he went with him. Artanis shivered, ashamed at herself and yet she could not forget the touch of his fingers and reached up, placing her hand over the spot where the warmth of him still lingered. She didn't know why she ought to feel so conflicted by it. It simply wasn't appropriate for a dark elf to touch her in that sort of way…as if there were some intimacy between them. And yet still the warmth lingered.
And besides, she reasoned, as if to chase his touch away completely, how dare he remark upon her appearance as if he had some right to do so? He was a rude and presumptuous man. And yet her eyes sought out that flash of silver in the crowd and she swallowed hard.
"I had hoped you would be more tactful than to offend the crown prince of Doriath," she heard Findaráto's sigh at her side as they began to walk and turned to greet her brother with a glare.
"I would have hoped that you would be more tactful than to answer nature's call while our people have gotten worked up into a frenzy of panic!" Artanis retorted.
"And how was I supposed to know that the Sindar were on the approach or that they would look so savage as to startle our people?" Findaráto replied.
"Well don't tell him how savage they look," she murmured with a jerk of her head towards the Prince. I said as much and he was very upset over it.
"I thought that's why you came to Middle Earth, Artanis, to see the savages," Findaráto said with a wink and Artanis sighed.
"Well maybe I don't like them as much as I thought I might," she said, elbowing her brother.
But she found herself as fascinated by the Sindar as she always had been and she could not keep from glancing upwards every now and again to where the Sindarin prince was making his way through the treetops, leaping from branch to branch, lithely and gracefully walking that road between the heavens and earth with just as much security as if he had been on the ground itself. Indeed, he seemed perhaps even more secure on his tenuous pathway than he did when walking upon the earth. She wrapped her hands more tightly around the bread he had given her, regretting her harshness of earlier, just as he had so clearly regretted his.
None of the tales her grandfathers had told her of Thingol and his people had prepared her for the reality of actually meeting them. For his silver hair, she might have thought upon meeting him that Celeborn was Thingol and yet she had known from the start that he was not, though she had not known his name. For just as the light of the two trees marked those who had seen them, so did the darkness of this land leave its trace upon those who had been born into that darkness.
Before she would have said that it marred them…but now…now that she had seen them she did not think it was a marring at all. Indeed, there was something beautiful in it, as if his hair held some trace of the stars, his eyes the savage desolation of a gorge in winter, distant and remote beneath the cold sun of an endless horizon. There had been an intensity in his eyes when he had first looked at her, an intensity that had nearly frightened her, that had jolted her from the past that haunted her and catapaulted her into the unknown future. She reached up, biting her lip with a private smile as she touched her fingertips to her collarbone where he had touched her.
She glanced up again and happened to catch his eye. He stopped for a moment, seeming pleased, looking down at her with an amused smile, and she held up the packet of bread, nodding to him before she broke off a bit and pushed it into her mouth. It really was delicious stuff, having a faint nutty flavor but the sweetness of honey. In fact it was so delicious and she was so very hungry that she immediately broke off half of an entire cake and stuffed it into her mouth.
"Careful, careful!" The Sindarin princess had approached, laughing. "It's far more filling than it looks. Eat any more and you'll feel indisposed!"
"Oh," Artanis said with a twinge of embarrassment, folding the leaves back around it.
"Did Celeborn give it to you?" Lúthien asked.
"He did," Artanis nodded and Lúthien raised a dark eyebrow, her gray eyes suddenly sparkling with curiosity.
"Oh really…" she mused. "That's very interesting indeed."
"What is it?" Artanis asked, turning the packet over in her hands.
"We call it lembas," Lúthien told her, "a royal gift and a very special one."
Artanis could not help but laugh at that. "If it is a royal gift then why has he let it get all crumpled and broken?" She asked, shaking her head.
"Well Celeborn has a rather bad habit of pilfering it from the kitchens when he knows it is being made for some special occasion," Lúthien said. "He's very fond of it and he must be very fond of you to have given it to you."
"I've hardly spoken to him," Artanis said, suddenly uncomfortable as the conversation drifted towards topics she was not at ease discussing, mostly because all of her opinions, which had been so securely fixed this morning, seemed to have all been thrown off kilter. Celeborn made her uncomfortable and she had yet to decide if that was a good or a bad thing.
Lúthien seemed to have understood her discomfort and mercifully steered the conversation toward less murky waters. "You speak the Green Elven tongue quite well," she said.
"Oh no, not as well as I would hope," Artanis said with a smile, and yet she was happy to receive the compliment. "But I am very much looking forward to learning Sindarin."
"I am glad to hear it," Lúthien said. "It seems easier, I think, than Quenya, though of course all of us should be very glad to learn your language as well, particularly if you plan on staying for a while, which I truly hope you will." Her eyes were lit with excitement. "I would love nothing more than to learn of Aman and of your people. My father and mother have many tales of course but it has been so very long since either of them were there that I think things must have changed a good deal."
"Yes," Artanis said, feeling a sinking in her heart, "yes I am sure they have."
But there was no more time for her to dwell now on Finwë's death, the theft of the Silmarils, Morgoth's treachery, or the slaughter at Alqualondë, for they had arrived now at a bridge that spanned the tumbling waters of the Esgalduin, in which the light of imminent dawn was reflected, and before them now, set into the mouth of a great cavern, stood two enormous gates. "Welcome to Menegroth," Lúthien said, turning to her with happiness in her eyes, "capital of Doriath and the seat of Thingol and Melian."