The Gifts of a King
In Cavern's Shade: 4th Chapter
"The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler
is to look at the men he has around him."
– Machiavelli
Author's note: I would like to say thank you to everyone who has been reading so far. I have been writing this story for almost a decade and only recently got around to posting it. I hope that you enjoy and, of course, I would be delighted to hear any comments that you might have.
Menegroth was as a labyrinth and, as the Sindar led them down further and further into the caves, the thought occurred to Artanis that even had she wanted to leave, she would never have been able to find her way out. The passages down from the great gate were fearsome, mere tunnels of stone, some hung with blazing silver lanterns and others with flaming torches set into the walls.
There was some narrow claustrophobic quality to these halls that caused Artanis to wrap her arms about herself all the more tightly, and yet she was completely enthralled, for the walls were carved with ornate images of beasts, some of them familiar to her and others foreign. Whether they were creatures of this land that she had never seen or mythical beasts that lived only in the mind of the artist's imagination she did not know but their eyes were set with glimmering jewels that flickered in the torchlight and their teeth, she realized as she reached out in awe to touch them, were of bone.
Her fingertips lingered on the smooth bone, enthralled by the carvings. Here she had thought that the masons, and artists, and sculptors of Aman would be the more skilled yet now she found that the only thing that had been inadequate had been her own understanding. This art was not lesser, rather, it was merely…different, but beautiful nonetheless, only she had never seen this sort of beauty before. It was strange and fey, at once frightening and alluring, and as she walked she trailed her hand along the wall, letting her fingers dip into every crevice as if to memorize these carvings.
They made no attempt at realism, as Noldorin artists so frequently did, but rather aspired towards the fantastic, not flesh and bone, but stars and ether, all rock and ice and storm and abyss. There was a stark but stunning simplicity to the carvings, some aspect that spoke to the nakedness of the world before the first elves – or of what would be the cindered earth after the last. They almost seemed as if they moved in the flickering torchlight and she could see these creatures now in her mind's eye, stalking the dark forests of this land, hear their roars, and the thought sent a shiver coursing down her spine.
But when next she looked up she felt a jolt of terror shoot through her, for she was alone in the dark corridors, completely alone, a thousand tunnels appearing before her, and she had no idea which way she ought to go. She clutched the lembas to her chest, as if that would save her. The idea that she could be lost in the tunnels for eternity…or at least until her demise, shuddered in her heart, and for a brief moment her wonder at this enchanted place turned to cold dread. But, before she had even another moment to ponder her doom, he appeared, emerging from the shadows as if he were made of shadow himself, face half lit by the flickering torches, silver hair tumbling to his waist and rattling quietly with ornaments of wood and bone. His expression was unreadable but not unkind, his eyes so dark that she could not now see the green in them.
And as she stood there facing him she felt as if suddenly everything had become clearer, as if the whole world had shifted into focus in that moment or else that she was seeing everything anew. The Sindar were savage, yes, but they were savage in the way that the bleak rocky face of a mountain was savage, as the flight of a hawk, as a thundering river tumbling into a gorge, as the moving of a thunderhead across the sun, or the fierce, keen, piercing light of the stars so different from the soft glow of the moon.
They were not lesser, not inferior, no, for it is the ferocity of a hawk that makes it beautiful, just as it is the peril of a mountain that gives it its majesty. And what was she save a songbird raised in the golden-safe-glittering of the Valar's cage? Yet…perhaps even a songbird could soar if only she knew how to open her cage; and she knew not whether it was prescience or merely wishful thinking that whispered in her ear that he held the key.
It wasn't until then that she understood why her words had offended him, that to equate his darkness, their darkness, with evil had been an affront to everything that he was and to everything he held dear. And for once in her life her pride did not rise in rebellion at the realization that she had been wrong, but instead she found that she was grateful. He made some motion with his hand, as if to tell her to follow him, and, hardly able to believe her own audacity, she stepped forward, heart pounding in her chest as she reached up and pulled a pearl hairpin from the mess of her golden curls. It came away with one glimmering golden hair twined about it.
She reached out, her mind shouting the entire while that she ought not do this and yet her heart pounded a ferocious 'yes' in her veins as she took his hand in hers. It was a weary hand, a kind hand, a hand far older than its years, calloused and big and warm, well used to toil and hardship. It might have been a map of the world, each line some crevice or canyon or gorge yet unexplored, a constellation charted in flesh. And with fingers and a heart far surer than the wavering of her mind's labyrinthine logic, she pressed her hairpin into his palm, the pearl shining softly there like moonglow, and gently she pressed his fingers closed over it.
It seemed right, somehow, that this pearl which Olwë had plucked from the shores of Alqualondë should be given to Elwë's nephew. She had meant to apologize, to tell him she was sorry for what she had said earlier, to somehow explain that she was beginning to understand, but instead the words that came out were, "thank you." She had said it in Quenya and then fumbled for the Green Elven equivalent but could not find it, yet he seemed to have understood, grinning as he twiddled the trinket between his fingers for a moment. It looked so small in his hands. Then he reached up, pulling the long silver braid over his shoulder, and pushed the pin into the hair just above where the leather bound a cluster of eagle feathers.
She could still see the gold of her hair glimmering there amongst the silver. He did not know the significance of what she had done, did not know that the princes of Aman had squabbled over her hair like children, that she had refused even Fëanor, greatest of the Noldor. She was certain that even her parents would have been shocked to hear that she had granted a strand of her hair to anyone…and here she had given it to the prince of the Sindar, a man she had just met. And, if she had been asked why she had given such a coveted thing to him she knew that she would have replied that it was precisely because he did not covet it. Fëanor had wanted to lock the beauty of things away in crystalline prisons but this man…she knew him not at all and yet she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he would smash a Silmaril to smithereens if only to set free the light within it.
He looked at the hairpin for a moment, amused, and then back up at her once more, motioning for her to follow him again and so she did, making her way after him through the darkness, her fingers on the wall once more, dipping into the crevices of the carvings, a smile on her face now. The world suddenly seemed so new, as if the starving and wandering were behind them now and the whole future laid out before her like a brilliant horizon.
Everything that had seemed so impossible only yesterday now seemed to be at her very fingertips. And then…then the most marvelous thing happened. The ways of shadow spread out suddenly into great halls like vaults of topless trees where trunks of carven stone, so lifelike that she would never have believed they were not trees themselves had her brothers not already told her, towered up to a roof that seemed impossibly high and across which now moved the breaking of dawn in soft colors of pale blue, and pink, and gold.
She reached out to touch the stone trees, unable to resist, and found the bark beneath her hand to be almost warm, as if these trees lived and breathed just as surely as she did. A soft breeze rustled through the city and caused a tinkling like bells in the thick canopy of leaves above, leaves that were made of emerald, each one of them veined with gold, reflecting the morning light in prisms of green as dark as the forest and as bright as spring grass. She felt as if she had been struck dumb with awe and her face must have showed it because the Sindarin prince turned around, looking at her for a moment before he flashed her a broad grin.
"My home," he said to her in the Green Elven tongue, pressing a hand over his chest proudly.
The roads of the city spread out before them like veins of life, dirt pathways of a forest that at times turned to cobblestones of all different colors, and they made their way across soft grass, and moss, and heather. The people of Doriath stopped to stare but Artanis paid them little mind, for she was so entranced by this enchanted forest that she had no attention to give to anything else. Here and there the trees were hung with elegant silver and gold lanterns, their little flames burning brightly, and flowers of all colors, some like tiny silver stars and others big, and lush, and vibrant grew wherever they liked, pushing their way up through rocks, nestling between the thick roots of the trees. Every now and again a flock of nightingales would burst forth from the treetops, causing the leaves to rustle like a thousand little bells as the birds winged their way across the enchanted sky and into morning.
And every now and again they came to little brooks and streams over which elegant bridges had been built. The waters of those streams were crystal clear, their banks lushly populated with moss of soft grays, and greens, and lavender, and in the sparkling waters swam fish of bright iridescent oranges, yellows, blues, reds, and golds, which were very beautiful, with long flowing fins and quite astonishingly large. Artanis marveled that such a wonder as this magnificent city could lie below the ground of a forest so brutal and dark.
Among the trees wandered the creatures of the wood, tawny fawns still with their white spots and gray squirrels, unusually gentle badgers and soft white rabbits, and they saw that these too came and went as they pleased, for they were not domesticated but wild, though they wandered here in a King's halls. They passed among the elves as if they too were citizens of this great city, and perhaps they were, for many of the Sindar seemed to greet them as if they were old friends.
The Sindar themselves were dressed in clothes that were simple but fine and in the soft browns, greens and grays of the forest, or else in the lavenders and blues of the twilight. They bowed gently as they passed and the Prince returned their bows, and Artanis had only a moment to wonder why there were so many people gathered here before she saw at the far end of this hall, if one could call it a hall for it seemed more like a glade, a small moss-covered hill on which were two thrones fashioned from living trees before which stood the King and Queen of Doriath, so beautiful that whatever image she had conjured in her imagination of them was wholly inadequate.
Thingol's eyes were of the same clear, bright blue as his brother Olwë's while Melian's were gray as evening and both of their gazes were keen as lances in the starlight. In them flickered the light of the two trees and beyond that some wisdom that Artanis could not begin to fathom.
Elu's hair was of silver as long and bright as his nephew's and he wore robes of deep blue finely brocaded silk and a silver necklace whose many strands twined like vines about his neck. His mantle was gray as the twilight and beautiful, seeming to take on the colors of the forest around him. Over his broad shoulders was draped the snow-white pelt of a wolf and upon his brow was a circle of green leaves, beautiful but simple in its elegance. He seemed taller even than she had heard, taller certainly than Finwë had been, and his face was exceedingly handsome, his features well formed and a certain intensity in his eyes, the same sort of fierceness that she had seen in the prince. Looking upon him now, it was not hard to imagine how even a goddess had fallen in love with him at first sight.
And a goddess she was indeed. The potency of Melian's magic seemed nearly tangible here in Menegroth and she herself seemed not so much an elf, but as if she were instead some force of nature clothed in the likeness of an elf. Her hair was dark as night, so dark that when the light shone upon it, it seemed nearly blue as the deepest ocean. Her skin was dusky yet as luminescent as the harvest moon and she wore a gown of deep indigo silk, light and airy, that clung to her form and trailed upon the ground like the waves of the ocean. Its sleeves were long and fitted to her arms but her shoulders were bare and beautiful. Her face was the fairest of all there assembled, with bold stunning features, large mystical all-knowing eyes that still bore within them images of the creation of the world over which arched dark brows like the wings of a raven. Her beauty was elegant but it was not fragile; it was almost frightening.
It was not until she saw the Prince come to stand beside the King that Artanis realized she had stopped, dumbfounded in awe, but then she felt a gentle hand upon her elbow and turned to look at Finrod. "Thank Eru," he whispered with worry, though his eyes were lit with the awe of this place, "we thought you had gotten lost. The Prince went back to look for you."
"This place is magnificent," Artanis breathed, clasping her brother's hands. "Even all of the stories that Angaráto and Aikanáro told did not begin to do it justice!" Of course she had seen the magnificent pleasure gardens of Taniquetil, dwelled in the opulent wealth of the palaces of Tirion, and passed many a pleasant hour upon the elegant verandas of Alqualondë, but Menegroth was so different, so…exotic.
And yet, despite their excitement, they fell quiet then, for Lúthien had stepped forward from her mother's side, descending from the dais, and began to sing. Her voice was entrancing, though Artanis could not understand a word of what she said, for she wove the threads of her song together skillfully until the words and melody shimmered with a wealth of emotion and yet the song seemed as fragile as the finest gossamer silk, a thing of shining yet fragile beauty.
Celeborn listened intently to his cousin's song, to her tale of the journey of the Noldor over the Helcaraxë, a tale of woe, and sorrow, and loss. He had already heard the tale himself, or most of it at least, gleaned from snippets of information gathered from Thingol's vast network of spies and from those of their people who had encountered the sons of Fëanor in the wilderness. Some of it must be true, he reasoned, his eyes drifting once more to the strange Noldorin girl, for he was intimately familiar with the effects of hardship and famine, having suffered them himself as a young man in the days before Menegroth had been built and encircled with Melian's protective girdle, and he recognized the look of sunken cheeks, of collarbones that were too prominent, of hair made brittle by hunger.
They had tried to mask it with finery, with jewels and a surplus of makeup, and yet why had they brought such luxuries with them on a journey over the Helcaraxë? And if they had intended to traverse the grinding ice then was it merely an oversight that they had not brought enough food or warm clothing with them? No. Lúthien's song rose in harmony with his thoughts, telling of the darkening of Valinor and the slaying of the two trees but then her voice fell into the denoument of the song and lapsed at last into silence, leaving Celeborn unsatisfied and without answers.
Something had gone wrong; that much was obvious. And, it must certainly have been something very dire or else they would not have made such an effort to conceal it. But he could not fathom how they thought they could possibly hide such a thing from Thingol. He shifted in his seat, propping his elbows up on his knees and letting his hands fall between them where he laced his fingers together.
Thingol had stood now, descending from the dais with Melian on his arm, speaking words of welcome to these foreign visitors, but Celeborn hardly heard whatever it was that his uncle said, for he could not keep his eyes from this Noldorin woman, no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps it was merely that she was so different from anyone he had ever seen before, but no, there was something else, some intangible quality that drew his fascination. She burned brightly, not the gold of her hair, but something else deep within. He had seen the fierceness in her eyes at the clearing in the woods and he could not forget it.
He had tried to dismiss her many times already, holding her scorn for his people in contempt, yet she had surprised him even then and with such simple gestures, the breaking of a piece of bread, the transfer of a hairpin from her braid to his, she had swept away the rigid and unyielding opinions that he had already shackled about her neck. And she had pride, yes that was obvious enough, pride enough so as to provoke his anger, but kindness dwelled in her heart as well, a strange juxtaposition and one he never would have expected.
He had tried as well to convince himself that she was not beautiful, that the boniness of hunger, the dullness of her brittle hair, made her ugly, and yet he could see the nascent beauty hidden in her skin, her eyes, in hair that longed to shine once more. And maybe that's what it was after all; perhaps that is where the fascination came from. This was a woman who had been confined her whole life, either by social convention or by the hindrance of laws, but there was something, something inside of her fighting to escape, to break free, something powerful. He felt his breath catch in that moment and her eyes snapped up to his, growing wide, her lips parting just the littlest bit, almost as if she had heard his thoughts, but that, of course, was impossible.
Still, he sat pondering the thought, a bit shaken himself, as she turned her eyes awat from his and back to Melian, carefully heeding the queen's words. Why did you leave? The thought flickered to the forefront of his mind and he longed to ask it, imagined himself descending from the dais, taking her hand, and asking her that question. And he knew that when at last he heard the answer then it would all become clear to him, what it was in her heart that drove her and…thusly…the name of this strange feeling burgeoning in his own heart. He was the prince of Doriath. He came and went as he pleased, did as he pleased, was equally at home on the battlefield and in the King's council. He knew this kingdom, this land, as closely as though it were the back of his own hand. And yet…it was as if this Noldorin woman had set his entire world off kilter. Yesterday he had been so certain of his own destiny, of the destiny of his kingdom…but now doubt had crept in like fog in the morning, harbinger of a storm to come.
"Celeborn…" It was the third time that Thingol had had to repeat the prince's name and at last he turned to raise a speculative silver eyebrow at his nephew who, belatedly realizing his inattention, scurried down from the dais to take his place at the King's side, nervously clasping his hands behind his back, and Artanis had to bite her lip to keep from grinning, which would have been inappropriate given the situation, but it still took nearly all of her willpower to keep from glancing up at the Prince as Melian and Thingol continued with their welcome to Findaráto, or Finrod, as Melian had declared he was now to be known.
At last her curiosity got the better of her while Thingol spoke of how the Prince's counsel was to be Doriath's gift of welcome to her brother, and she glanced up, her eyes lingering for a brief moment on the hollow of the Prince's throat, not daring to raise them any further. For she knew that if she met his eyes she would be swept away once more by this unknown world into which she had stumbled. How had everything changed in the span of that moment when her eyes had first met his? Everything had been so secure: her opinions of the Sindar, her sense of right and wrong, her certitude of what she would accomplish here in Middle Earth.
Yet now she felt disoriented, as though she were as a ship in a storm forced to recalibrate all her carefully laid points, as if whatever compass she had been using to chart her course had been irreparably shattered. It was all because of this man…this man, because he stood in defiance of what she had presumed, every fiber of his existence an affront to her carefully laid plans. And, most startling of all was her own reaction, the fact that she found herself not only willing, but unstoppably eager to throw everything else aside…all for whatever nascent fascination she had with this…this Moriquendi.
She could feel the weight of his eyes on her, more potent perhaps than even his touch had been, and her heart leapt into her throat as her name was called and the King and Queen came to stand before her. But she could hardly hear the words the Queen was speaking to her now, for she found her mind caught up in the newness of it all, in the mystery of this strange prince, in the marvel of these caves, in the people so different from her own.
"And your gift, Artanis, shall be to take your place as one of my handmaidens, to learn by my side the lore and wisdom of Middle Earth," the Queen said, as Artanis struggled to keep her focus on Melian's gray eyes rather than the green ones of the Prince who stood by her side. She was nearly horrified with herself for her own impropriety, afraid that she might seem rude, that she was not paying as close attention to Melian's words as she ought. She swallowed hard, watching as the Queen smiled the sort of smile that enchanted all who saw it, the edges of her eyes crinkling while mirth danced in their depths.
She waited eagerly in anticipation of learning what name the Queen would bestow upon her, but Melian only turned, raising her elegant hands into the air and clapping them together, a movement that caused a great surge of movement as the people transformed Thingol's great hall into a banquet hall. Everywhere about them servants had tossed down lush elegantly-woven carpets upon which they set low mahogany tables and a wealth of silk cushions.
"Please," Melian said with a laugh and a smile and Finrod and Artanis sank down to sit upon the cushions. It was strange, Artanis thought, that they would sit upon the floor to eat, and stranger still that all who had gathered in the hall, both nobility and servants alike, sat down to table together, but there was a certain opulence to all of it that rivaled the grandness of Valinor. The table before her was carved in the most elegant designs depicting all manner of forest creatures and inlaid with wood of many different colors while the cushions upon which they sat were woven of the finest silk in rich colors and even the carpets depicted various scenes that she could only assume told the history of this kingdom.
"You are surprised at the wealth of Doriath?" She heard the deep melodious voice of Melian ask and looked up to see that the King and Queen had taken their seats opposite her and Finrod and, though she tried not to be obvious about it, she could not help but glance to the King's right, where the prince had settled into a pile of cushions, reclining there with the ease and confidence of one who was perfectly at home.
It had been a mistake, perhaps, to look at him, for she felt her heart begin to beat just a bit faster, her breath catch in her throat, and she struggled to cover her unease with words. "I…yes well…I mean no…I," she stammered in reply to the Queen's question. "What I mean is…" but she was so overly concerned now with causing offense, remembering what Finrod had said earlier about her to their brothers, that the words froze in her mouth.
"What my sister means to say is…" Finrod began, sitting up eagerly, placing his hand on his sister's, and Artanis felt a strange mixture of gratefulness and irritation flood her heart, grateful that he had rescued her from what might have been an awkward conversation and irritation that he had silenced her. But Finrod spoke no further before he himself was interrupted.
"Your sister seems perfectly capable of speaking for herself," Celeborn said, his voice low. He did not even bothered to raise his eyes as he said it, attention focused instead on the pearl hairpin he was twiddling between his fingers, having unbound his long silver braid. And Artanis swallowed hard as she saw Finrod's eyes dart towards that hairpin, recognizing it for what it was. The Prince looked up at last, green eyes going to Finrod's, and though his gaze was firm, it was not angry. "It is not our custom here to keep others from speaking, even if their words might offend," he shrugged.
Artanis could feel Finrod's hand trembling in her grasp beneath the table and knew that her normally level-headed brother was possibly on the verge of coming to blows with the Sindarin prince mostly, she presumed, for the hairpin that Celeborn was still twiddling between his fingers and not for the words that he had spoken.
Thingol only laughed heartily, clearly unconcerned though he seemed to have taken note of Finrod's stormy expression, and said, "I can see that Celeborn's council will be of great use to you in your dealings with our people."
"In Valinor it would be a grave offense for a Prince to speak so without the leave of his King," Finrod said, his voice restrained, clearly trying to keep from anger so as not to offend his potential benefactor. He had, after all, gone to great lengths to make a good impression.
"It is not so here," Thingol said with a great booming laugh, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth and good will. "Celeborn speaks as he likes, though I believe you shall find he is quite renowned for opening his mouth when he ought not. Though he is free to speak as he pleases he knows, as do the rest of my people, that their words will have consequences and that to speak is to accept those consequences. I think you will find that my people have a habit of being straightforward," Thingol shrugged as if this was no great matter at all, Finrod merely nodded, pride effectively quashed, and Artanis thought she saw the corner of Celeborn's mouth quirk up in self-satisfied grin for the briefest of moments as attention turned back to her.
She almost laughed at that, pleased to discern what she suspected might be a rather boisterous sense of humor in the prince, but instead she summoned her courage once more and said, "I meant to say that I am not surprised by Doriath's wealth but instead by how different this place is. Everything here is astonishing, almost as if I have wandered into a story."
"I am glad to hear it is to your liking," Melian said warmly, but before their conversation could continue any further, a myriad of servants appeared bearing silver trays laden with all manner of foods. There were salted trout, roasted wild boar, and venison, trenchers of vegetables the like of which Artanis had never seen that had been seasoned with foreign herbs, steaming bowls of aromatic rice and freshly baked bread. It had been decades since Artanis had been offered so much food and she ate ravenously with little care as to whether or not it was proper to do so, while the Doriathrin nobility chattered on around her in their strange language, only looking up when she could eat no more.
"Your Majesty," she said at last, quietly, and Melian once more looked up at her curiously, setting down her glass of wine. Suddenly Artanis felt the reticence to speak coming over her again but she pushed forward. If it was as the prince had said, if the Doriathrim spoke their minds, then she should as well if she wanted to fit in here in Menegroth. "I…it is only…only that I wanted to ask why you did not give me a name as well. You gave one to my brother but…"
Melian looked at her mysteriously for a moment before a small smile flitted across her lips. "The name has already been given," she said as if that solved the matter but Artanis stared at her quizzically.
"Perhaps…I have mistaken your meaning…" she stammered. After all, her Green Elven was not very fluent and her Sindarin was nearly non-existent. Or then, she thought, feeling a lurch in her stomach. Perhaps Melian had given her a name after all and she had been so lost in staring at the prince that she hadn't even heard it. She could feel the flush of embarrassment spreading across her cheeks already.
Melian smiled again with a soft laugh, her gray eyes twinkling with the light of the stars as she plucked a date from a silver bowl. "You don't understand," she said, "but you will. You have already been named and it is not for me to supersede that name."
Their conversation was cut short by the Prince choking on his wine and, startled, Artanis turned to see a dark haired elf who bore a striking resemblance to the prince cheerily pounding him on the back as he coughed.
"Oh Celeborn will be quite alright," Melian replied, lifting her crystal goblet to her roughed lips once more, "he has just suffered rather a dreadful shock is all." Artanis tried her best not to look as puzzled as she was; the Queen had a rather odd way of speaking, as if she was telling a story but had left out some key bits.
The evening turned into a haze of delight, of food and wine and music, of dancers costumed in delicate silks and thousands of bangles, of the heady smoke of incense and the cloudlike softness of silken cushions and before Artanis quite knew what had happened, she opened her eyes to Finrod's laughing face as he shook her awake. "Having a pleasant dream were you?" Her brother asked her as he helped her up.
"Everything here seems like a dream," Artanis replied with the lazy soft smile of one who has just awoken from a very good nap as her brother helped her to her feet. She had nearly forgotten the feel of comfort, what it was to sleep upon lush soft carpets and down pillows. The feast was disbanding and she wondered how long it had gone on, how many hours she had been asleep, for the enchanted ceiling above was tinged now in crepuscular hues of violet and indigo, twinkling stars beginning to peek out from the last wisps of afternoon clouds.
"Then you shall certainly be astounded when I show you the quarters that the King and Queen have arranged for us," Finrod told her. "They said there are feather beds, Artanis, pillows, blankets, and they've arranged for a tailor to visit you tomorrow. The Queen thought you might like some gowns in the Sindarin style." It was far more likely, Artanis mused, that the Queen had conjectured that she didn't have any other clothes at all and had offered the polite excuse, but she hardly cared. The thought of food, and bed, and proper clothes was enough to satisfy her. At last, 50 years of wandering, starvation, and hardship seemed to have come to an end, and what a magnificent end it was, here in Doriath's capital city.
Still struggling to push the fog of sleep from her mind she looked around, hoping to catch one more glimpse of the prince before they quit the great hall, but the royal family seemed to have all adjourned and she felt a bitter twinge of disappointment tugging at her heart. "I hope I haven't been remiss in failing to thank them," she voiced her concerns as a page showed her and Finrod to their rooms.
"Oh no, certainly not," Finrod replied reassuringly. "They all left in very high spirits and Melian and Lúthien seem quite fond of you already." Yet Artanis sensed some tension in her brother's voice and wondered what he was trying to conceal. It didn't take long for her to find out. Once they had arrived at their rooms and Finrod had dismissed the servants she had not even an instant to explore their new home before Finrod asked, "Where did he get that hairpin?"
His whole body was tensed in anger, his eyes flashing with wrath, the lines of his face etched with deep concern. She should have known he would ask and now that it had come to this she wondered why she had not already spun some tale to to tell him. But she hadn't even thought so far as to wonder whether or not he would be upset over it, indeed, it hadn't been until she had seen her brother staring at the hairpin as Celeborn toyed with it that she had even thought of his reaction, and so she found herself quite unprepared to speak on the matter.
"Artanis," Finrod took her shoulders gently in his hands and, as she looked into his eyes she almost thought she saw tears burgeoning there. "I'm so sorry. It was when he went back to find you wasn't it? I should have watched you more carefully! If I had then you would never have been lost. Eru, you must have been frightened! And then I let him go back…alone…after you. What did he do Artanis? Tell me! If he took that from you by force…if he touched you without your consent…I…I shall go this very instant and demand he return it. I…I'll demand he apologize to you this moment! Forget my dreams of a kingdom, I don't care if it means that Thingol refuses to grant me the deed and the fiefdom, I'll tear him apart if he touched you I swear I'll…" Finrod's voice was trembling and, seeing how upset he was, Artanis managed at last to gather her words.
"Finrod!" She took his hands in her own, squeezing them reassuringly. "You need do no such thing! He did not take it from me, nor did he touch me…at least not without my consent."
Finrod merely stared at her blankly and it only just now began to register in her mind why this had been so shocking for him. She had never given anyone anything, least of all to a man, and certainly not an item she prized so highly. In her culture where the hair of another was held almost sacred, the gift of a hairpin was a startling declaration of intimacy; the fact that a strand of her hair had clung to that hairpin as she passed it to him was a near unthinkable breach of familiarity. She had never allowed anyone a strand of her hair, not even Fëanor, the greatest of her people, though he had begged three times.
She could not rightly say what had come over her in that darkened corridor when she had gently reached out and taken the Sindarin prince's hand in her own smaller one, when she had opened his fingers and pressed her hairpin into his palm. In fact, she hadn't thought about it at all; it had simply seemed right. She had wanted him to have it, with no expectation of reciprocation or reward, but simply because she had seen something good in him, something admirable, and she had wanted him to know it.
"You…gave it…to him?" Finrod asked as if he could hardly believe it and Artanis couldn't blame him for his speculation. She wasn't exactly known for her generosity or selflessness after all, as much as it rankled her to admit it.
"I…yes, yes I did," she replied, raising her eyes to his and squeezing his hands once more with a smile. "You have nothing to worry over." And though Finrod's anger had fled, turning to relief, the look in her eyes told her that he thought he very well might have a good deal to worry over after all. She could well imagine where his mind might be headed and so she hurried to think of some excuse.
"It was because well…" she began, "he gave me that bread of his because he saw I was hungry. Lúthien told me it is a very special gift, a royal gift, and I was so thankful to him for coming to find me when I was lost. I…well…I suppose I wasn't thinking very clearly. I'm tired you see, and the journey was ever so long." And all the while she was saying it, Artanis could not help but wonder why she felt she had to lie about such a thing, why she couldn't simply say that something about the Prince set her blood afire.
"Of course," Finrod said with a smile, reaching out to playfully pinch her cheek. "Now off to bed with you!" He pushed her gently in the direction of her rooms. "Sleep all you want Artanis, and then eat all you want when you awake! We're safe now!" She turned back once more, hand upon her door, to roll her eyes at Finrod but her brother caught her eyes. "And ah…" he paused, seeming to struggle with how to put whatever it was he wanted to say. "Do be careful Artanis. Men aren't quite like women. Giving your hairpins away and such…well…perhaps the Prince has gotten the wrong idea."
"Of course I shall," she replied, blowing her brother a kiss goodnight before she entered her rooms and shut the door behind her. She nearly collapsed against it, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her hands trembling. What use had she for the majesty of these rooms when she could close her eyes and see him there in her mind's eye with that silver hair like starlight, those green eyes full of unseen things, that grin that hinted at everything that might lie beneath the surface? They had come to a palace of wonders but he was the most beautiful thing in it.
No, she thought, as she collapsed upon her bed at last, no she didn't think the Prince had gotten the wrong idea at all. She thought he had, just perhaps, gotten exactly the right idea.
Celeborn would have thought that what with the journey, then the unexpected skirmish, and at last the banquet with its surplus of heady wine, the comfort of his feather bed would have caused him to fall to sleep almost instantaneously. He'd never had a hard time sleeping, in fact, Thingol often poked fun at him for his ability to fall asleep anywhere he liked… including council meetings. However, on this day sleep was an absolute impossibility. He turned this way and that, unable to find a comfortable position, then he was too cold and rose to find a blanket but only moments later he was too hot and pulled off his nightshirt, pushing the blankets aside. He knew exactly what was keeping him up.
It was the woman of course. There were a thousand things about her that were fascinating and yet the thing that had most bewitched him had not been her adamantine courage, nor her fearsome pride, not even the glittering gold of her hair. In fact, the thing that kept him awake was the look he had seen upon her face as he observed her from the shadows in the few seconds before she realized she had been left behind. She had been captivated, completely enraptured by the carvings on the walls, tracing them with her fingertips, a look of awe upon her face as if she was imagining the depths of the forests, the wild beasts that must roam there, the peaks of the mountains far off to the east – a thousand places she had never seen.
It had reminded him of the first time he had seen the sun, the blazing golden globe that had risen across the horizon, shimmering like a hot coal in a copper brazier, a pulsing of light that had slowly become steady as he watched the world roll back in the haze of dawn, brilliant colors seeping into the world like ink staining a parchment. At first he had been filled with terror, thinking the Valar had sent this to destroy them, but then joy had taken terror's place as he saw the world in a new unfurling of life.
He had watched the transformation of her mind as it ventured into hope, into imagination, into whatever dreams she held in her heart, and he had stood patiently waiting for her to complete the voyage into herself. Patience was not something he ordinarily possessed, but in watching her an hour could have seemed but a moment to him. But it was when she had turned towards him that he had seen the most remarkable thing of all. First it was a flash of fear as she realized she was alone, then the fortification of her own resolution, and at last joy. It hadn't been the joy of relief, he would not have instantaneously come to respect her as much as he had if it would have been relief. No, it had been the joy of some realization, some understanding. It had been the same joy he had felt swell in his heart at the first sunrise and he saw it in her eyes then, as if the sight of him had somehow confirmed whatever she had imagined as her fingertips traced those lines in stone.
And then her pride of earlier had been utterly vanquished, and she had been the one who had defeated it, casting it off as if it were an old cloak that she cared to wear no more as kindness took its place. He could feel the beginnings of a grin tugging at his lips as he recalled the touch of her hand. He supposed he ought to have been more honored by the gift of her hairpin or the thread of gold that had been twined about it, but of more significance to him had been the touch of her hand, her fingers closing over his. He had felt in that moment as if he almost had known her his whole life, as if the warmth in her veins had somehow spoken to the pulse in his blood. She had not the delicate hands of a princess, but hands marked with the creases and callouses of hardship, hands that told a story, a story he wanted to learn.
He scrubbed his own hands over his face, grinning like a fool, but it seemed that his face did not know how to keep from smiling. Here he had thought that the Noldor had come to conquer, and colonize, and rule, to subjugate his people beneath their archaic and foreign laws, to bend the gifts of the earth to their will. At first he had thought the same of her, had seen the way she had risen to command as if it came naturally to her, a prince's daughter, and then the fierce flaring of stubborn pride that he had dared remark upon some aspect of her appearance, she who was supposed to be the fairest of all, fair beyond reproach, but then…ah then! Those things had all been ornaments, but he had seen her soul laid bare in the moment when they had stood alone together.
Sleep was impossible. He drummed his fingertips against the bed, thoughts darting to and fro in his mind, revolving in some sort of convoluted mayhem. He lay awake, watching the day lantern – the sun – the Noldor had called it the sun, lazily making its trek across the sky. At last he abandoned all hope of sleep. Pushing himself from bed he pulled on a pair of breeches, descending the stairs and plucking the hairpin from where he had left it. It was all he could think about and he twiddled it idly between his thumb and forefinger as he made his way through the halls of the palace to the baths. The pearl was smooth between his fingers. He did not know what had happened to the strand of hair, lost perhaps, but it mattered not at all, nor did the pearl itself; it was nothing but a vehicle for his memory that enabled him to recall the way she had looked at him.
The bathhouses were empty of course; no respectable Sinda woke during the daylight hours. The hot water was some comfort to his aching body, aching because he had just spent two weeks on the borders with little sleep and then Thingol had sent him immediately to greet the Noldor upon his return; it was all the more reason he ought to have had no trouble falling asleep. Celeborn was not ordinarily prone to fidgeting but at first he reclined against the edge of the pool, then he sank beneath the surface, holding his breath for as long as he could.
The hairpin sat peacefully atop the soft green moss that grew along the edge of the pool and he leaned back as he surfaced, resting his head against the moss, twiddling the hairpin betwixt his fingers once more. Among his own people, such a gift would be a very serious gesture indeed and he wondered if it was so amongst the Noldor as well…or if she had not realized the significance of what she had done. Yet, something told him that she had, that she had realized she wanted this as suddenly as he had. Finally the water felt too hot and he found himself padding his way through the corridors once more. The brief sojourn had done nothing to assist him in sleep.
Melian was at least partly responsible for this. He hadn't meant anything by it of course, calling the Noldorin woman Galadriel. He hadn't even said it aloud. He'd just been toying around with the idea in his mind, mostly because Artanis seemed like such an inadequate name for her. She'd said it meant 'noble woman'. Well, there were very many noble women but that did not distinguish her. Her name told him nothing about her and a name, he felt, ought to tell you at least something about the person who bore it, most especially if that person was…well…someone like her.
He'd tried to tell himself that she really wasn't very pretty, that she was too bony, that her hair lacked luster after years of starvation, that there really was nothing remarkable about her. But, Celeborn had never been the sort of man to look a truth straight in the face and deny it, and so at last he had been forced to admit to himself that, even half starved as she was, she really was a stunning beauty. He could only imagine what she might look like when she was healthy again…and he did imagine it. But it wasn't just that. He'd hardly seen anyone so curious and he was intrigued, intrigued by the magnificent strength that seemed to emanate from her, intrigued by the strange juxtaposition of pride with empathy, captivated by the light of excitement in her eyes, by her wonder at all things new, by her nascent yet evident interest in his people and their culture.
There was something about her. He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head, looking down at the hairpin he held. He could not now recall what he had expected a Noldorin lady to be like; demure, soft-spoken, a shrinking violet perhaps. Whatever preconceptions he had had been wiped from his memory at first sight of her. Apparently his feet knew him better than his mind did, for without meaning to he had arrived now at the place, at that same place where he had found her, and he stood now staring at the fantastic carvings of beasts and trees that the masons of Doriath had worked so long ago.
He reached out, fitting his fingers into the worn grooves where hers had lingered, tracing the lines as if it were some maze, some puzzle, some esoteric riddle, wondering what answer she had found in this cipher and what answer that he, perhaps, might find as well.
The Eluwain were quite different than Artanis had imagined, though they were indeed as savage as she had anticipated, but it was not a barbaric sort of savagery that is unaccompanied by learning, as she had thought it would be. Instead, it was a sort of rawness that she had not yet experienced and there was something about it that thrilled her in the utmost, spurred a certain yearning within her heart. For even but a few scarce weeks had shown her that there was much here to be discovered and she was no longer so secure in her own culture, for she knew not the way of doing things here and there was much yet to be understood that she did not comprehend.
Thus it was with considerable trepidation that she sat as Melian's other handmaidens darted about her like minnows, chattering in their language that she could hardly understand, preparing her to perform a dance that she wholeheartedly did not wish to do. She would never forgive Finrod, ever, for having volunteered her for a task that she felt wholly incapable of performing.
So inspired had her brother been by Luthien's fantastic dance that evening as the people of Menegroth had lounged about in the expansive living adamantine forest of Thingol's great hall that he had called out to Thingol saying; "My King! Marvelous and full of beauty are the dances of your kingdom! Indeed, I find my heart struck with wonderment at having beheld such a spectacle, yet that very wonderment is due in greater part, perhaps, to the nearly incomparable beauty of the Princess Luthien, who is as radiant as a moonbeam. Yet I would raise a challenge!"
"For if Luthien is as the night then my sister is as the day and she too, in our native land, is renowned for her dancing though our dance be strange and foreign to you. So let Melian's ladies take my sister and attire her properly and we shall hold a contest to see whether the sun or the moon shall prevail!"
"My dear prince!" Thingol cried in response with a great laugh. "Such an event could hardly be called a contest for my people number the greater here and each one of them, I am assured, is far more enchanted by the beauties of the night than those of the day." And having so said he leaned back in his throne with a great measure of self-assurance while Melian imparted in Sindarin what had transpired.
"I would not be so hasty to dismiss Artanis Finarfiniel if I were you my Lord!" Finrod chuckled.
"But very well," Thingol replied with a grin and a nod of his head. "We have not your style of clothing but let Melian's ladies take your sister and dress her in the dancing costumes of our people, then she and my daughter may dance, each to their own music, and we shall determine by popular accolade which of the two shall be the winner!" And Luthien laughed and clapped at her father's words, for it all sounded like great fun to her, but Artanis could already feel the nervous sweat beading on her skin like dew and the heat from her flushed face.
"Finrod…no…I…" she pleaded in a whisper, placing a hand on his arm, but her brother turned and caught her hands in his, excitement illuminating his eyes.
"It will be great fun Artanis! And besides, is there any better way to win the people's affection and endear yourself to them? You love to dance do you not?"
But that was all that passed between them before Melian's maidens hurried her off to a dressing room, running in and out as they brought all manner of costumes and jewelry, trying each on her in turn with all of the enthusiasm of children dressing a doll, at last deciding on a creamy silk trimmed in elegant golden embroidery with pearls. The fabric was as thin as gossamer, so thin in fact that she felt almost naked. The pants reached up to her waist and down almost as far as her ankles, being loose throughout the garment but tightly fitted at the ankles and waist.
They dressed her also in a sort of sleeveless bodice of stiff creamy silk that was cut just below her breasts, leaving her entire midriff exposed, with a scoop neck so low and tight fitting that she worried she could hardly move at all without indecently revealing herself. To the shoulder of this bodice they pinned a richly embroidered length of silk that they pleated and wrapped about her body, fastening it at her waist with a belt of hammered gold and pearls.
About her neck they hung gold necklaces of various lengths and onto her ankles and wrists they slid dozens of golden bangles and strings of tiny bells until she felt as if she were nearly encrusted in gold and jewels. They combed her hair out long, freeing it from the constraining braids she had styled it in, and on her head they placed an ornate golden headdress decorated with white blossoms. Her face they painted in an exotic manner, with rouge at her cheeks and soft white powder for her face, her eyes they rimmed in black kohl, her lips they painted with a red tincture.
And, when at last she looked at herself in the mirror that they offered her, she found not that she faced a stranger, but rather, that she was presented with an aspect of herself, a prism almost, that she had never known existed: a Noldorin girl in Sindarin clothing; a self that she had never imagined she could be, yet now that she saw it she found that she could not look away and a smile slowly began to spread across her face. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon she shrugged of concern and worry. Perhaps she could fit in here after all. At any rate, she thought, standing, she would dazzle them with her dancing, not the staid and rigid dances of the Noldor that she despised, nor the mysterious and exotic ones of the Sindar that she could not hope to imitate, but the wild and fiery ones of her heart, the ones she had danced by herself as a young maiden in the gardens of Lorien.
So it was with her head held high and an abundance of confidence in her step that the most beautiful daughter of Finwe's house followed Melian's cheerful maidens back towards the great hall and the raucous cheer that rose up as she entered brought a grin to her lips. She fixed her gaze upon the end of the hall where Melian, Thingol, and Luthien stood applauding and even Finrod had risen to his feet in amazement, laughing in pleased incredulity at the incredible metamorphosis that his sister had undergone.
Yet of all those gathered there, her eyes quickly caught on that one man who always seemed to draw her eye, the prince, Celeborn. Like the other members of the royal family who sat upon the dais, he too had risen as she entered, and, like them, a look of astonishment had crossed his handsome face, but where the others cheered and showed open admiration, he had quickly schooled his expression into one of calculation, as though she were a warrior he meant to challenge and this were a battle more than a dance.
The momentary glance of wonder that he had directed towards her was one she had seen many times before in the eyes of many a man, but the second more prolonged gaze, as if he were drinking her in with his brilliant green eyes, turning over every facet of her mind; that unspoken challenge was something that no man had ever dared to direct at her. Audacity: she added it to the list of traits she had mentally ascribed to him.
Artanis raised her chin proudly, leveling her eyes with his, feeling her lips curl into a smile. She might have thought that such a thing would offend her…but instead she found that…that it inspired her, that she found herself rising to that challenge and she was struck by the sudden desire to surpass it, to show him things he had never seen before, amaze him to such an extent that he would no longer be able to hide his amazement at the sight of her. She wanted…she found herself wanting to turn his calculating look into…something else, she knew not what. She only knew that if she could but make him smile at her once, then she would care not at all if every other elf in this hall despised her dancing.
The music swelled and Luthien took the floor while Artanis paced back and forth, but she only feigned to watch her friend's dance, for her mind, once fixed upon the object of its thought, was entirely bent upon it and so, instead of watching Luthien, she directed many a covert glance towards the Sindarin prince. It seemed she was as intrigued by him as he seemed to be by her, for she found his face exceedingly handsome, his hair, silver as a moonbeam, exceptionally beautiful, and his eyes, green as the leaves in summer, seemed to hold her captive in their depths with the strange darkness that dwelt there, the darkness of the elves who had never seen the light of the trees. Yet it was not a darkness of ignorance, as her cousins had said it would be, but merely a strange and mysterious wisdom so different from their own. She hardly heard the music as she watched him, and he sent many a glance her way as well. 'He knows,' she thought, 'he knows that I fancy him.' And perhaps he was no less entranced by her, she mused, than she was by him.
Luthien's song came to an end and Artanis took the floor. She would dance, not only for herself, but for him as well. "A fast song!" She cried to the musicians, the excitement welling within her like a spring, and they struck up a wild tune filled with fury and power. She closed her eyes and let it course through her, filling her veins until it flowed through her like a pulse, throbbing, her bare foot tapping against the floor along with the wild beat of the drums that echoed all about her.
And then, slowly at first, she began to dance, drawing the golden veil across her face so that only her eyes were showing, eyes that she boldly fixed upon the prince's. A silver brow arched up questioningly, as if to ask her what she meant to do, and the beginning of a grin curled the corners of his lips. There was mischief glimmering in his eyes and she knew that Celeborn had bought into her scheme, that he was waiting to see what she would do, and now she would show him.
For a moment she had wondered what she would sing but then the words came to her, words she remembered well though she had listened to the song in secret. It was a Telerin song, one not meant for children, a song that once upon a starlit evening she had happened to hear drifting on the vesper breeze and, wandering out onto the veranda, looked below to see that the one singing was none other than her own mother. Her father had sat enraptured and, though he always looked fondly upon his wife, Artanis had never before seen him look upon her in that way. Yet something about it seemed unspeakably private, intimate, something she was not meant to see, and so she had retreated into the shadows of her room, listening only to the words of the song and committing them to memory.
Her voice rang out clear as a bell into Thingol's great hall as she turned, drawing the veil away from her face. She was not ashamed, not anymore, not now that the comfort of a month in Doriath had inspired her beauty to return in full force. Her hair, lush and soft as silk glimmered with its famed light, her skin glowed with health. There had never been a man able to resist her, nor would this one; she was determined.
Since my eyes first met yours,
I feel as if I have gone mad,
I've gone mad, I've gone mad,
And what will they all say,
When they learn what I've done,
How the sight of your eyes drove me mad,
Me, the woman who loves no man,
Though they all love me.
The innumerable bangles and bells jingled about her wrists and ankles as she turned and leapt, her lithe body moving in time with the music. The echo of the drums shook the floor beneath her quick feet and she felt unstoppable. Her eyes caught Finrod's for a moment, enough to recognize the shock in them, that whatever he had expected it certainly wasn't this. Of course the Sindar could not understand the Telerin in which she sang, but Finrod certainly could, and the words shocked him with their lustful undertones. But too long had Artanis been stifled in the smothering piety of Aman and now she would do as she pleased, regardless of what her brother thought.
How far I was from madness,
So secure in my ways,
Until your eyes cut me to the quick,
And your lips healed the wound,
and what will they say,
when they learn what I've done,
how the sight of your eyes drove me mad.
Gradually she began to move faster and faster, spinning and whirling, leaping high into the air with such energy that the flowers in her headdress began to come loose and scatter about the floor like snow. It was a dance of passion, a wild and untameable dance.
Her body had never felt more alive and, in her mad spinning, her eyes met the prince's momentarily to find that they had changed, and perhaps she had inspired him, for his lips were curled in an outright grin now and there was a certain look in his eyes that excited her further, a look of desire laid bare. And at the thought a shiver ran through her that caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand straight up although she was perspiring heavily from dancing.
The beat of your heart whispers,
In the shadows of my hair
In the light of my eyes.
Listen, my lover, to the beat of my love,
To the music of my bangles about my wrists,
Where your touch and scent lingers,
Where forever it will remain,
For eternity has no hold over us.
'He knows,' she thought, 'he knows that I am dancing for him.' Just then the music rose to a crescendo then just as suddenly died, and Artanis sank into a low bow before the dais, at the feet of Elu Thingol, breathing hard, her face flushed, the filmy fabric clinging to her sweat-damp skin.
"Come now!" Luthien cried in excitement, running forward and taking her friend's hand, pulling her back until she was forced to tear her eyes away from the prince, and turning her to face the crowd, "let us see which one of us shall be proclaimed the winner!" Having so said, she raised her hands in the air, provoking a great cheer from the crowd. But then Artanis stepped forward, raising her hands, and the crowd cheered equally as loud for her.
"You have met your match Luthien!" She cried to her friend.
But Luthien laughed and said, "be not so hasty Artanis! Let us try again!" And she stepped forward once more, raising her hands to the crowd, yet the cheer was no louder than when Artanis stepped forward for the second time and, after the third time they had repeated the exercise with no clear winner, Thingol rose to his feet.
"Very well!" He cried. "The people are locked in a stalemate but I have devised a manner in which to decide the victor! The decision cannot fall to Finrod, for Artanis is his sister, nor can it fall to Melian or myself as Luthien is our daughter. So, instead, I call upon the Prince Celeborn to cast the deciding vote! Surely my chief counselor will give us an unbiased decision!" Yet even as Celeborn rose to his feet, both Luthien and Finrod cried out in protest.
"Nay! For he is Luthien's cousin and shall therefore choose his kin!" Finrod cried.
But Luthien protested differently, saying; "he cannot give an unbiased opinion, for I have already seen his answer in his eyes!"
"What say you Celeborn?" Thingol asked, turning to his nephew. "Whose dance did you find most inspiring?"
"The Lady Artanis is the winner," Celeborn said with a smile, causing half of the hall to erupt in shouts of joy and the other in cries of displeasure, seeming for a moment to revel in the pandemonium he had incited. His eyes flickered to hers for a brief moment before he turned away, laughing, but Artanis had no time to observe him further for in the next moment Luthien had leapt into her arms, embracing her tightly.
"Quite the lady you must be to inspire the heart of my nephew, Artanis!" Thingol called by way of congratulations. "For he spurns the sun more than any other!"
"Oh well done Artanis! Well done!" Luthien cried, laughing, for she was one of those rare few who had the grace to handle defeat as well as victory. "I have never seen my cousin look at anyone the way that he looks at you!" She whispered, giggling, into Artanis's ear. And Artanis turned to glance back at him once more, yet all that she saw was his retreating back as he left the hall and Thingol, watching him as he left, with a strange and suspicious look upon his face.
Doriath's mornings were clean, sterile, all empty halls and quiet corridors. One could nearly walk through the entirety of the city unseen and it was in this solitude and silence that Artanis delighted. She knew not where the light came from, only that it seemed to shine through the stone foliage of the trees that towered high above her, though certainly there could be no sun inside the cave. Yet, the rays that fell upon her were warm and she watched the dust filter through them, glimmering like so many grains of crystalline sand.
She sighed happily, and the sound of it filled the silence around her as she wandered through the adamantine forest. It was a true shame that the Sindar made a habit of sleeping through the dawn, when all came to life. Small brown and white birds with yellow throats flitted about her, chirping, landing on the low branches of the trees and cocking their heads quizzically, looking at her with their bright black eyes. She held out her finger but they would not land upon it; she had only been there a few months and they were still suspicious of her. She smiled and continued her stroll, tiny red and blue salamanders darted across her path, their webbed feet pattering across the floor. They too stopped and looked at her, tiny scaly chests expanding and contracting rapidly with excitement.
She laughed, settling herself upon the grassy floor and the salamanders showed none of the temerity of the birds. They climbed into her lap, playing there, running up and down her arms, iridescent colors sparkling in the early morning light. What a magical world this was, full of magical things. One of the salamanders climbed up her body, up her face, perching upon her nose. She watched as he blinked at her with big inquisitive eyes, moving his head close, then far, then close again and suddenly they all leapt down, scurrying away and diving into a nearby stream. She stood and walked along the stream, the carp following her, mouthing at the surface, hoping that she would toss them a tasty morsel or two.
Yes, Morgoth was here in Ennor; that was true. Yet to her it seemed that this place was more full of life, more alive itself, than all of Aman. Even in this cave she felt far freer than she had in the wide avenues of Valinor or the radiant gardens of Lorien. She startled a frog as she walked by and it jumped into the water with a croak. Bending down, she watched it as it dove beneath the water and disappeared underneath a wealth of white and yellow water lilies.
The surface of the water rippled, revealing a face reflected back at her, and she looked up, surprised. Her eyes met his, green like the leaves in summer. The silver haired prince was standing across from her, on the other side of the brook, hands in the pockets of his breeches, barefoot. But his expression was different than the last time she had seen him some weeks ago. There was no challenge there, no astonishment, no desire, merely a polite smile. Without a word he stepped across the stream and walked away amongst the trees, stopping when she did not follow and turning back to motion to her. She pointed at herself and he nodded, grinning.
She followed him, curious, intrigued by the self-secure way that he strode through the palace, just as she had been intrigued by the way he had walked through the forest canopy on the night of her arrival. Surely, there could be nothing more representative of this land than him: just as alive, just as mysterious, just as interesting; she was entirely fascinated. He stopped at the base of a tree, whistling, and the tiny brown and white birds darted out, fluttering about before they settled upon his extended arm it in a row, nestling close together. He spoke to them softly, then beckoned to her and this time they did not fly away at her approach but sat still. She stretched out her hand but then stopped, pausing, looking to him for confirmation that she could touch them. He nodded and, gently, she stroked their fluffy breasts and the smooth feathers along their backs.
"Aew," he said, tilting his head towards the little birds.
"Aew," she repeated. He lifted his arm, speaking to them once more, and they stirred, flying back into the branches of the tree.
"Celeborn," he said, placing one hand across his broad chest.
"Yes…I know who you are," she said in broken Sindarin with an awkward smile, a bit unsure what he meant by it. He laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, rich and welcoming, with no hint of prejudice or haughtiness.
"Celeborn," he said again, pointing to himself.
"Oh, you want me to say it?" She asked in Quenya, but he showed no signs of understanding. "Well, alright then…" She raised her head and smiled. "Mae g'ovannen Celeborn," she said and he smiled at her words. There was something so pure and simple about it that she could not help but smile as well. She pointed at herself now, "Artanis."
"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo Artanis Finarfiniel," he said and she smiled, pleased to note that his voice had the same deep rich quality as his laugh.
"Quenya! That was Quenya! Did my brother teach you?" She said, and the prince looked pleased at her words.
"Náto," he replied but said nothing else and Artanis took that to mean that it was the extent of his Quenya.
"Why are you awake this early?" She tried to say in Sindarin, returning the favor, but her Sindarin was still not well developed and, besides, her pronunciation was quite poor. And yet, she was determined not to slip back into Green Elven; the only way to learn Sindarin was to speak it, after all. It seemed that he did not understand her, cocking his head in a curious way, as the salamanders had done. She was embarrassed, unaccustomed to failure, and dropped her gaze, blushing, but he reached out, touching her arm to draw her attention, and she looked back up to see him pantomiming waking up.
"Yes!" She gestured at him, "you, waking up, why?" He shook his head.
"No," he said, then pantomimed going to sleep. "I will sleep." He said and she nodded. He pointed at her.
"Oh, me? I…Melian…waiting." She managed to get out, pointing in the general direction of the weavers' quarters. He nodded and, with a smile, waved farewell to her before wandering off in the opposite direction from which he had come. He was very curious indeed, unique in that he was not intimidated by her. And smiling to herself, she could not help but think once more about how very handsome he was. It had been a very long time indeed since any man had piqued her interest and, even then, it had never been anything more than a fleeting fancy with which she soon grew irritated, yet there was something different about this prince of the dark elves, something that intrigued her, something that she could not quite put her finger on. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the night she had danced for him some weeks ago.
Melian had not yet arrived and Artanis was glad, for she liked to prepare her loom by herself and found herself distracted when others were about. The looms lay quiet, like great slumbering beasts, and she walked through them until she reached her own, stopping to examine the weaving that she had done the day before. Compared to her previous work it was superior, the weave was even and the fabric was not warped at all. Yet, she still had not managed to capture the magic of it, the way that the cloth of the Sindar seemed to blend and merge with shadow and light, making them near invisible when they chose to be.
"You are doing well, my daylight child." The voice came from behind her, deeper and smokier than a woman's wont, Melian. Artanis turned to see the dark haired queen approaching slowly, a gentle sway in her hips and a mysterious smile upon her face, as always. She held a large spool of gray thread in her hands that seemed to move and shimmer with the light, almost as though it were alive. "Do not worry yourself. That will come in time." Melian sifted through Artanis's mind as easily as a fish in water before Artanis could recoup and throw up her walls. She felt the Queen shrink away.
"Why so slow today Artanis?" Melian asked with a gentle laugh, setting the spool down on Artanis's loom, perhaps with more force than she had intended, for the sound resonated throughout the room. Melian jumped a bit, surprised at herself. Such occurrences were not particularly rare; she often underestimated her own strength. Indeed, many a time Artanis had seen her inadvertently break things: a crystal goblet clutched too tightly shattered in her hand, her own golden crown warped as she went to remove it, even stone sometimes shattered at her footfall. She always seemed startled and somewhat embarrassed on these occasions, fixing each thing with the selfsame hand that had broken it while Artanis looked away, pretending she hadn't seen.
What for all of the years that she had inhabited an elven body and for all of her wisdom, she did not seem to understand her own strength well, was confused by it even, just as lightening strikes simply because it is lightening with no consideration of the power it wields, or as a waterfall thunders over a cliff solely because it is water and the cliff is there, with no understanding of the pressure it exerts upon the rocks below. Artanis had the utmost respect for Melian, was thankful for all that she was teaching her, but she could not deny that she was also afraid of her for Melian was fay indeed, not an elf with supernatural powers, but a supernatural power itself cloaked in the form of an elf, that sometimes did not pull that cloak about itself tightly enough to maintain that pretense accurately. Melian set about preparing her loom and Artanis busied herself with doing the same.
"Does no one else ever wake in the mornings?" Artanis asked.
"I have no need for sleep," said Melian, carefully examining each warp thread to be sure that none of them had slipped from their places. "But no, aside from myself, the others generally sleep quite late into the day unless there is great need for them to awake. They prefer the night to the day. On occasion, however, you may see the march wardens coming and going, for they do so at all hours of the day and night, defending Doriath from harm. But what you really mean, as I have seen in your mind, is 'does Prince Celeborn often wake in the mornings' and the answer to that is 'no'." She smiled, seemingly pleased with the quandary into which she had just thrown the Valinorean maid, as she passed her shuttle across the loom and it began to whir to life as her feet operated the treadle.
"I see," Artanis said merely, a blush spreading across her face, disconcerted by the way that Melian was so easily able to see into her mind. Yet, at the thought of Celeborn she grinned, biting her lip to conceal her expression from the queen. Settling herself upon her bench, she took her shuttle in hand, beginning to weave as well, letting the energy from her hands pass into the thread and her thoughts turned to her weaving.
"Those were no dances of Valinor that I saw you perform," Melian said with a smile and a small laugh. Artanis turned towards her, surprised at the queen's joking tone.
"Nay," she replied, laughing and shaking her head. "For the dances of Valinor seem so ill-suited to this place, so stiff and staid. Instead I danced those dances of my own creation, that I used to dance when I was young and wandered the gardens of Lorien on my own, for they seemed to speak to my heart more truly and, perhaps, to be more suitable to this place.
"I find that I must agree with you," Melian said, "for the dances of Aman were also too formal for my taste. Thus it was that I left that place and sought to wander here, where I might dance freely beneath the stars, and so dancing, it seems that I was myself ensnared in another dance: the dance of fate."
"I sometimes wonder if it was fate itself that brought me here as well," Artanis said and Melian smiled as though she knew a great secret and meant to guard it still.
"I almost thought," she said mysteriously, "that when you danced I could see Laurelin in all her splendor. But oh!" She cried, as if struck by a sudden pain, "I had almost forgotten that she is no more! Never did I think that such tragedy would befall Aman. When Dairon and Mablung brought us that news from the Mereth Aderthad both the King and I spent many an hour in grief over the loss of those trees."
"Indeed," Artanis replied, "never have I known a sadder day." But it was a lie and she could not bring herself to meet Melian's gaze, for the queen would surely discern her falsehood in their depths. Thoughts unbidden swarmed to the surface of her mind, the reflection of the prince's silver hair in the stream, the bloody corpses of the silver-haired Teleri floating in the water beside the quay, how the sea foam had been stained incarnadine.
Finrod's words echoed in her head, '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?' No! She mustn't allow the visions to overcome her. She shut her eyes, concentrating, praying that she would have the strength to push them back.
"Artanis?" She heard Melian's concerned voice and her head cleared, her eyes snapping open. Breathing deeply, she attempted to steady her hands, conscious of the fact that Melian had ceased her weaving and was now eyeing her with worry. "Is there something the matter? For, as ever, when I speak the name of Laurelin you grow silent, as though some fell shadow has passed over your heart. "
"Nay, Nay!" Artanis laughed, too cheerfully perhaps. "I…I merely grow frustrated with my cloth. It seems I have botched it yet again." A convenient excuse, for there was truth in it. Despite her best efforts, she was yet entirely incapable of weaving the cloaks that the Sindar wore.
She frowned, frustrated, turning her mind fully to her weaving for already it had begun; the cloth that she produced was fine cloth, but the magic of it was not right. Where that woven by Melian and the Sindarin maids melded effortlessly with shadow and moonlight, turning the wearer himself into a mere shadow, Artanis's cloth seemed to catch the light and radiate it, making the fabric glow, performing quite the opposite function of protecting the wearer. Beleg and Mablung's marchwardens would never be able to wear the clothes that she produced, not if they did not want to be shot. It was useless, her pursed lips tightened over her teeth.
"Hm… Artanis, my golden child…" Melian rose, moving to Artanis's loom and stroking the cloth with her fingers, seeming to have forgotten the awkwardness of just a few moments earlier, or else having decided to further her investigation at a later date. "If you wish to weave the night itself into this fabric then you must come to love the night. This is finely woven cloth but it is full of the day, of sunshine and radiance and warmth. If you can learn to make it absorb these things instead, rather than reflecting them…well then, then you shall have the key."
"It is useless," said Artanis, her jaw clenching in frustration, mad at herself. She was not accustomed to being tasked with things she could not properly complete and it irritated her extremely. And she wanted to say more, to explain that feeling, but Melian mandated that she only speak Sindarin to her and, overcome by that sentiment of failure, Artanis could not find the words.
"Do not be hasty and proud my sun child," Melian reprimanded her. "It is different but it is not useless. I am certain that, given time, you shall master the technique."
"I certainly hope so," Artanis replied with a huff.
"Have you always been so impatient?" Melian asked with a smile and Artanis understood how Thingol had come to love her despite all of her fierceness, for when Melian smiled it seemed as though the whole world itself was smiling at you.
I actually don't like to use Elvish in my fic but there were a few phrases in this chapter.
Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo – (Quenya) a star shines upon the hour of our meeting
Náto – (Quenya) yes