A Heart Disquieted
In Cavern's Shade: 6th Chapter
"To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people,
that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he
by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones,
why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils,
why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid,
the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter.."
– Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Author's note: One of the really satisfying things about when I wrote this story was how the characters started to take on a life of their own and, the more their personalities developed and became cohesive, it became almost as though they were writing the story themselves and I was merely recording it. Finrod was a character who I never expected to develop much, but this chapter is where he really started to come into his own and, before I knew it, he became one of the most dynamic characters of the story and one of my favorites. This is the longest chapter I have ever written but I think it may be one of my favorites. There are just so many threads coming together here. Please enjoy! And, as always, many thanks to my lovely reviewers. Even if you are only able to review every now and then, the reviews really do help me step out of my own mind and determine if the story and characters are progressing in the way that I am hoping for. You guys are great!
The gardens of Menegroth were a mystery to Artanis for although she knew that they were not outside, she could not quite discern how it was that plants managed to grow indoors. Nevertheless, when one was in Menegroth, and especially in the gardens, it was almost impossible to believe that you were not outside underneath the starry sky amidst the verdant forests of Doriath.
Artanis looked up at the ceiling so high above and saw that the late afternoon had turned to dusk, painting the sky in crepuscular colors while twinkling stars emerged. The Sindar would be waking soon. The first few months in Menegroth had been more exhausting than she had anticipated. Of course, it was all very exciting. She spent her nights moving from party to party, the guest of honor at each of them, or with Melian, learning to weave Sindarin fabrics and make lembas, or with Thingol himself, speaking of her days in Aman, for he never tired of hearing of the two trees, even though they were no more. It was, however, perhaps too exciting and the exhaustion from the newness of it all threatened to overwhelm her, constantly.
Some of the luster of the weeks and months following her arrival had worn off and all of her new responsibilities had only served to reinforce that, no matter how much she had learned already since coming to middle earth, here in Menegroth she was still nearly as useless as a child. The initial fantasy of an Artanis who could move seamlessly between the worlds of Noldor and Sindar had been replaced with the incompetent reality of herself. Here her fabrics all came out the wrong color, her lembas was misshapen and damp, and her Sindarin was clumsy and barely passable. Artanis was not used to failing.
Furthermore, the more forward manners and physicality of the Sindar had been a shock to her and had only served to reinforce the concept that she was incapable of anything but the most basic of interactions. Sensing how overwhelmed she had become, and, as ever, anticipating her needs almost before she knew them herself, Melian had granted her a small plot of land in a secluded area of the gardens, which she had encouraged her to cultivate. It was a great relief to her, more than she had anticipated, for it provided her with a place where she did not have to be either Noldo or Sinda, but could be herself, as well as a means by which she could do something for herself and by herself, something she could do well. Yet there had been a certain twinkle in the queen's eye when she had spoken to Artanis of this place and the Noldo yet feared that she would unearth something unusual here, for Melian always seemed to have reasons that were not immediately apparent.
She dug her hands into the soil, still warm from the sun, and closed her eyes, smiling at the earth's comforting touch. Gradually she felt her anger and frustration drain away and she released a long sigh. Finrod liked to laugh at her for growing potatoes, such an ignoble plant, yet she had not forgotten that it had been potatoes that had sustained them over the first miserable winter in middle earth and had the green elves not taught her to cultivate them they might all have starved. They might only be potatoes but at last she knew what to do with them.
Her reverie and temporary foray into self-pity was interrupted rudely by the splattering of cold water on her upturned forehead. Artanis's eyes shot open in surprise and no small amount of ire as she stared upwards with mouth agape and reached up to wipe the water from her face with her sleeve. Water was now dripping slowly from the leaves of the tall oak above her. Eyes narrowed in scrutiny, she eyed the tree suspiciously. This one, she noted, was not part of the cave, but rather a very real tree, though it reached nearly as high as the stone ones, so that she could hardly see its top. It must have been condensation, dew that had formed upon the leaves and spilled at last under the accumulated weight. She sighed and could not help feeling, though of course she knew it was a ridiculous thought, that now it seemed even the trees themselves were judging her, deeming her inadequate.
She returned to the task at hand, moving slightly out of the way so that the water droplets would not fall on her, and knelt in the dirt, pulling the canvas sack filled with sprouting potato tubers to her. Reaching into it she pulled one out, examining the sprouting growths carefully and ensuring that the potato was free from disease before placing it in the ground, then scooted down a bit more and reached into the bag again to withdraw yet another potato, which was precisely when a veritable torrent of water poured down upon her, leaving the Noldorin maid spluttering and wiping water from her eyes. Growing extremely perturbed she sprang to her feet, once more examining the tall oak. Again, the stream of water had diminished to a weak dripping, falling down from the broad leaves above. But now Artanis suspected foul play. This had been no accident; someone was doubtlessly trying to raise her ire.
"Is anyone there?" She called in Sindarin. "I command you show yourself!" She could not fathom who would dare to do such a thing, save her brother, yet play seemed a more likely motivator than malice. "Finrod?" She called, unable to imagine that it could be anyone else who would do something so ignoble, who would harass her about potatoes in such a way. "Finrod, I know you're there!" She circled back around to her potato patch, keeping her eyes pinned on the traitorous tree. "If you wish to tease me you might as well come down and do it to my face!"
Had they been in Aman she could absolutely have lined up a dozen or more overeager suitors to shield her from the watery annoyance as if she were some precious flower or scramble up into the tree to drag whomever it was out to answer to her harsh justice. It had worked quite to her advantage in their younger days, whenever they had had to choose teams. Her dear brother was no doubt taking advantage of their reversed circumstances and her dearth of willing tributes to get away with his pranks. "Fine then brother dear," she said, fists planted on her hips, but she found now that the anger and frustration that had haunted her these past weeks seemed to have dissipated, if only momentarily, and instead her heart grew warm with joy as she recalled the games that she used to play with her brothers as children. "Have it your way then," she said with a smile. "But I'm warning you, just because I no longer have an army of besotted fools to send after you does not mean that I won't take you to task myself if you do it again."
She squatted down once more, returning her attention to her planting, but her muscles were tensed, ready for action, her eyes scanned her peripheral vision, her ears were alert, her hand maintained a firm grip on the potato she held. She hefted it in her hand as she pretended to examine it while waiting for her brother to make his next move. Yes, this potato would do nicely. There it was: a finger reaching out, tipping a leaf full of dew. But the stream of water that rained down missed Artanis entirely for she had been watchful and dodged out of the way. Leaping into the air with her arm drawn back, she launched the potato in a graceful yet deadly curve towards where she had seen the movement, grinning in anticipation of hearing her brother's shriek. But her smile went slack as the potato disappeared into the canopy of the oak and no shriek of any sort was emitted at all. Wary, Artanis waited, her athletic body tensed for action.
Suddenly the potato came hurtling back out of the tree, aimed directly for her head, and she was forced to throw herself to the ground to avoid it. Yet her dive was not for naught and she took the opportunity to swipe three potatoes from the canvas sack. Finrod's aim had improved and if she had not been engaged in the battle before then she certainly was now. Clutching her potatoes she eyed the tree, biting her lip in concentration. She tossed a potato up then caught it in her hand before launching it with lightening speed at the tree, following it in quick succession with the other two. They came back at her almost as quickly and she could not help but laugh. Two of them she dodged while the third she caught bare-handed, returning it immediately with considerable force.
"You're out of your league brother!" She called to him in Quenya as the potato came hurtling back at her. She leapt high to catch it, snatching it from the air with ease. She circled the tree, forced to leap out of the way as another cascade of water came pouring down in her direction. But she had seen his shadow move so high up and she took aim, hurling the potato with all her might, glorious missile of her justice, and heard it connect with a great smack, her heart singing with glee as a yelp of pain met her ears. She let out a whoop of victory but it was short lived for her hidden aggressor must have been in a precarious perch as it seemed that he had lost his footing and was tumbling now through the tree, connecting soundly with the branches on the way down. Artanis grimaced, Finrod would certainly be irate with her tomorrow when his bruises were sure to blossom.
But the figure who tumbled forth from the tree's leafy embrace to fall with an unfortunate thud to the earth below was not Finrod at all, no, it was Celeborn, the High Prince of Beleriand. Artanis felt her heart freeze in horror as a gasp of surprise died upon her lips. Of all of her egregious cultural mishaps…this was undoubtedly the worst. What had she done? Thingol's prince! The Prince of all Doriath! The prince whom she had found so alluringly attractive, who was kind and funny and…oh no! She blushed half in shame and half in embarrassment that, at a time like this, her mind had run to such ridiculous notions as romance.
"Your highness!" She cried, running to where he lay, one potato still clutched in her sweaty hand. Celeborn was not moving, his eyes closed and his mouth gone slack. Artanis threw herself to the ground beside him, gingerly reaching out to smooth his silver hair back from his forehead, her fingers going to his throat, searching for a pulse. Dear Valar! She had killed the Prince of Doriath and Thingol would have their heads for it, expel them from Beleriand forever, banish her people! And how could she ever live with what she had done, having killed this man who alone of all the people here had passed no judgment upon her, this prince who was so beloved by his people? Hot tears rose to her eyes as her skin turned clammy with sweat and her hands trembled. But, yes, there – could that be a pulse? And just as she started to feel the beginnings of relief, Celeborn opened his eyes lazily, looking up at her with a catlike grin as he plucked the potato from her hand and bit into it with a loud crunch, chewing slowly and deliberately.
"Scared?" He muttered with a laugh.
Artanis looked down at his leaf green eyes, her mouth agape, and did the only thing that she could think to do: she slapped him across his beautiful smug face. "How dare you?" She demanded to know, eyes flashing, all of her previous romantic notions of him, and any regard for propriety or royal office abandoned in the wake of her anger. "You allowed me to suppose that I had killed you! Already I was troubling over how I should break the terrible news to the King! I have had enough of you Sindar and your games and your jokes. They aren't funny to me, they're cruel!" But Celeborn merely laughed, long and hard.
"I am not quite dead yet," he said, still grinning, his mouth full of raw potato, a red mark blooming on the side of his face where her open palm had made contact, "and I hope I shall never be. Though I know not whether that news saddens or gladdens you." He took another bite of the potato.
"Celeborn - ," she started to scold him.
"Galadhonian," he said, supplying her with the patronymic that she had only just realized she did not know, ready to accept his scolding.
"Celeborn Galadhonian, of course I am happy that you are alive," Artanis said with half the mind to slap him again. "Though I find that I cannot help but think it would be just recompense if you were even a little bit hurt."
"Consider your wish granted oh exalted daughter of Earwen, for unless I am greatly mistaken," he said, brandishing the half-eaten potato at her with his left hand, "my other arm is broken."
"Oh no!" She whispered, once more forgetting her anger as remorse took its place. Her eyes turned downwards to his left arm, which was indeed lying at a strange and unnatural angle. "Oh no…" she repeated, reaching out gingerly to touch it. Celeborn hissed as her hands made contact with his arm and she withdrew them quickly, as if she had touched hot coals. "Forgive me," she said, "I am not a healer and I do not know what to do."
"Alas, if I were a more romantic man I might say that the sight of your face worrying over me is medicine enough," Celeborn said, "yet it seems that I am not, and it is not, and that I shall need to see a healer indeed."
"Of course," Artanis said, offering him her hands as he stuffed the last bit of the potato in his mouth. He pulled himself up one-handed and together they began the trek to the healers' quarters. "I am very sorry," Artanis said. "Does it not pain you greatly?"
"It hurts," Celeborn shrugged, "but I have endured much worse. I imagine it shall be more of a bother than anything."
"You must be ever so angry at me," she said, fiddling with her hands nervously.
"Not at all," Celeborn said with a smile that put her at ease. "We were both having a good deal of fun were we not? Besides, it was I who provoked you and I who have gotten my due comeuppance. Had I been more judicious in my footing and less hasty to agitate you I might not have fallen at all."
"Regardless, I am very sorry," she insisted.
"You have a very good arm," he said. "I must admit that I was surprised."
"Clearly," she laughed, raising a brow at the broken arm that he cradled now in his good one.
"You throw better than you fight," he said with a grin.
"Ha!" She scoffed. "Perhaps you have gotten your just deserts! There are a number of things that I can do very well only you don't know about them." Yet her heart pounded within her chest.
"As I have noticed," he said. "You seem to be very adept at growing plants. You learned that from the green elves, did you not?"
"How do you know that?" She asked, a bit surprised, for in truth they hardly knew one another.
"You dig trenches instead of holes," he said. "The Sindar dig holes."
"Maybe," she said with a sly smile. "Or maybe I learned in Valinor."
"You play false with me my lady. There are no potatoes in Valinor, or so your brother tells me."
"You've caught me then," she said. "It was the Laiquendi who taught me after all."
"That's very interesting," Celeborn shrugged.
"And why is that?" She asked, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"Some of your people seem very reticent to adopt any foreign ways," he said with a shrug, hissing at the pain it caused him.
"We are not all the same you know," she said a bit sharply, her ire turning upon him as the various feelings she had experienced in the past few weeks flooded back upon her. "I don't think you're all the same so why should you think that of me?"
"Peace, peace lady, that is not what I meant," he replied with a chuckle and the silence stretched between them.
"Why were you in that tree watching me plant potatoes in the first place?" Artanis asked him, somewhat accusingly, though mostly she inquired out of curiosity.
"I did not mean to happen across you. I was already in the tree when you arrived," he told her. "I have been raising those trees since they were saplings and I go there often to tend to them and converse with them. I do love Menegroth and, indeed, I find the stone trees to be very lovely yet my heart longs for real trees not only in the out of doors, but also here within the palace."
And Artanis contemplated his words and what remained unsaid, for this gave no explanation as to why he had decided to dump water on her head, such a childish thing to do. Questions ran hither and thither within her mind. Was she simply misinterpreting his actions? Was it a matter of the cultural difference? But, unless she was very sorely mistaken, unless she had mistaken everything that had passed between them since his arrival, he was interested in her, romantically interested. Yet he has such a very strange way of showing it, she thought with some measure of indignance. Or was this a typical way to show affection amongst the Sindar: pouring water on your beloved's head and lobbing missiles at them? Any proper prince of Aman would have offered her pearls and diamonds, gold and silver, bouquets of the finest flowers from Lorien or the most snowy white swans from Alqualonde's ornamental ponds.
But, she reminded herself, all of the pearls of Alqualonde and all of the diamonds of Tirion did not make you happy, nor did any of those 'proper' princes. Yet Celeborn is a prince, properly a prince, she reminded herself, only he does not act like one, or at least not one from Aman. It was a silly thought, she now realized, for why should he, how could he act like a prince from Aman, seeing as he was not? Why ought she have to have expected such a thing of him? I am only upset now because it makes me feel foolish, this confusion, this wondering what his interest in me is. And why? The answer was plain though she knew not what to make of it: because he expects me to move towards him just as he moves towards me, a curious predicament for one who had always found herself being courted, who had always sat and waited in her ivory tower for this and that to be brought and presented before her but never once risen from her throne to go to them.
Her mind wandered back to that time when they had sparred and suddenly she felt as though Celeborn had created some puzzle for her and he was now expecting her to fit the pieces together. This time, I want you to dance with me, he had said, and at the time she had thought that he wanted her to dance but now she wondered if not the with me had been the more important operative. It is a simple thing, she thought, for already she had taken a far greater step: she had left Valinor and come to this land, made her home in a place entirely foreign to her. By that reason, it should not have been any more difficult for her to take this one small step towards him, and yet she was afraid, remembering Nerdanel, Anaire, her mother…left behind. And he would leave you too, if only he knew what crime you had committed, if only he knew that your hands were red with the blood of your own kin, that you were cursed by Mandos himself. A cage – she had always thought of Aman as her cage…yet, a world in which the those you loved spurned you entirely, as Nerdanel had been spurned…as Anaire had been spurned…as her mother…was there any prison more terrible than that? A fell chill gripped her heart as of a hoarfrost.
They had arrived at the healer's quarters and she scurried to open the door so that Celeborn would not have to move his injured arm and a gaggle of nurses descended upon them immediately, speaking to the prince in anxious tones and fussing over his arm. Artanis could not understand them very well for medical language was difficult and very specialized besides, so she did not speak until she and Celeborn were ushered to several chairs while a nurse drew a curtain about them. They sat opposite each other in the private enclosed space and a sudden awkwardness seemed to descend upon them that had not been there before, as if the room were too small to hold everything that they wished to say to each other but hadn't.
"The healer will be with us shortly," Celeborn said, relaying the nurse's message to her and she nodded in acknowledgement while they sat in silence for now Artanis put aside her earlier discontent and was growing increasingly worried instead. She had done Celeborn and Doriath a great disservice, for he could not now draw his bow nor wield his axe. And, selfishly, she worried that this unfortunate event would make him dislike her, or think her foolish and childish. But do you even want him, or do you merely wish to make him want you? Her mind reminded her. Are you too afraid to take that step?
"Your Sindarin has improved rapidly," he said, breaking the silence, glancing up at her with a grin as though he had noticed her disquiet and wished to set her at ease. "It was not so very long ago that you could not hold a conversation."
"My thanks," she replied courteously, "it has not improved as much as I would have liked." He laughed softly.
"Are you always so impatient?" He asked, grinning at her, fixing her with a look of curiosity and the words brought a smile to her face. Something about his mannerisms, his movements, intrigued her: that confidence, the self-assuredness; his movements were deft, effortless, graceful yet at the same time he put on no regal airs. If it had not been for the color of his hair, she might have thought him just a commoner. He would be at home in any alehouse. She almost managed to relax.
"My mother would say so," she said, "and she would attribute it to my father's Noldorin blood. The Teleri take their time with things, she says. My haste used to agitate her ever so greatly…your highness," she added to the end of her sentence, remembering that she was talking to a prince, and a high prince at that. It would not do to be so horribly informal with him, this was not the sparring ring after all, but the palace, and she had already vastly overstepped her bounds.
"You do not need to refer to me with such formality," he said, waving his hand, "for you yourself are a princess of Aman are you not?" He had meant it rhetorically but Artanis answered anyway.
"Merely a minor princess," she replied. This was a lie. She was no minor princess, not since Finwe's death. With Fingolfin in exile and Feanor dead the crown must have fallen to her father. He would be high king now, and she a high princess of Aman. But they were sworn not to speak of those matters…
"I thought there were no crown princesses amongst the Noldor," Celeborn said, "or so I heard from Finrod. Your brother says that females cannot inherit. Does that not mean that all princesses are minor princesses?"
"Yes, that is right," she said. "I merely meant that I am not a high princess. But, even if I were the highest princess of Valinor," which she was, though in secret, "I would still not be your equal, you being a crown prince, as I could never be a crown princess, such as Luthien is. Truly, I do wish for a realm of my own, even as my brother has, but I have no right to rule."
Celeborn shrugged. "My pardon if I offend, but it seems a silly law to me. Women are no less capable of governance. A king is only a king so long as he can keep his crown. I see no reason why you shouldn't be a queen so long as you can retain the crown."
"It is different there, your highness," she said. "It is all about bloodlines and politics, not tests of combat and being strong enough to maintain one's rule."
"Just Celeborn, please," he said, fixing her with his gaze. "Perhaps we have not passed much time in conversation, yet I often find that actions are a truer measure of a person than words. To this point you have done nothing other than prove that you are my equal in every way. How could I see you as anything other than that?" He was bold, very bold, and she shied away.
"Perhaps we should not speak of such things," Artanis said, dropping her gaze, for already she had strayed near the issue of Finwe's death and too much talk of Aman made her nervous. Then there was the fact that Celeborn was aptly called 'the wise' and though he had not Melian's gift of peering into minds, he seemed to be able to read her heart uncannily well without it. Yet his eyes rested heavily upon her. It was perhaps his most striking feature, the ability to make himself felt long after he had left a room, and she knew that she would be feeling the weight of where his gaze had lain for many days afterwards, and the questions that his gaze had conjured in her mind.
He seemed to relinquish his line of questioning and they sat in silence as Artanis chewed her lip while directing a covert glance at his arm to attempt to ascertain the extent of the injury. He wore no tunic but the sleeves of his cotton undershirt were rolled up, revealing muscled forearms well bronzed by the sun. There was no bone showing and no blood; perhaps it was not so bad. Her gaze strayed and she could not help but notice that his shoulders were very broad and that the front of his shirt was open ever so slightly, his silver hair a magnificent contrast to the tanned skin of his chest. She had never had such bold thoughts before about a male and, growing embarrassed at herself, she turned her eyes back to her clasped hands so as not to be caught looking.
"Why did you leave?" Celeborn asked her suddenly, his eyes catching hers. "For it seems to me that you lived in paradise there in the blessed realm and I have labored away here my whole life to cleanse this land of Melkor's filth to no avail."
"I…" Artanis stammered, caught off her guard, having believed that he would not press. How was it that one man could make her feel so extraordinarily comfortable in one instant and so intolerably uncomfortable in the next? Melian had once told her that the prince had a unique trait of perceiving clearly and laying bare that which others would prefer to keep hidden, now she saw that it was true. With no small amount of unease she thought of how Thingol's people had tracked their people for years as they had wandered the forests, even unseen, secreting information back to their master. How much does he know? She wondered.
She raised her head to look at him as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hair hanging in her face, thinking how she would answer. The prince's eyes seemed to pierce her own as he waited for her answer while the silence was drawn out between them until it seemed about to snap, like the string of a bow. It was then that he did the unthinkable: he reached out with his good hand, breaching the distance between them with a certain disregard, grinning at her as if he was daring her almost, and, to her great disbelief, he caught a lock of her hair in his hands and wrapped it about his fingers, playing with it as though it were nothing more than a toy or a pretty trinket rather than her most prized posession.
"Why did you leave, Galadriel?"
She was entirely taken aback, indeed, she knew not what to do. It was one thing to touch her hair, an act reserved for lovers alone, something she had not even allowed Feanor, her kinsman and the greatest of the Noldor, it was another thing entirely to call her by an epessë, especially one he had so clearly contrived for her himself. It was absolutely unbelievable that he would do both of these forbidden things at one time. A strange mixture of emotions ran through her. Had this happened in the great square of Tirion all those gathered there would have drawn their swords to defend her honor. And there was the nastier, darker thought that rose unbidden from within her breast: that despite her earlier words regarding equality, and rank, and nobility, it was a shocking thing indeed that a…a Moriquendi, one born in darkness, untouched by the light of the trees, would dare to lay his hand upon a Calaquendi maiden. Nay! With an almighty strength of mind she pushed those thoughts back down into the grave where they belonged, buried with Feanor, or what had remained of his smoldering ruin.
In its place burgeoned a strange…gratefulness; gratefulness that Celeborn had not placed her on some pedestal, gratefulness that he was not frightened of her, that he was not intimidated by her, that he found her…touchable. And from this gratefulness grew the seed of something else, something burning, racing through her body. He was all pale and silver, the colors of water, cold steel and unknowable, but, Valar, did he ignite some conflagration in her blood, like white fire. Yet she shrank back from that fire, afraid, for she feared it would immolate her rather than fuel her, and so her pride won out, though even that faltered in its security.
"If…if…" she stammered, blushing red from embarrassment, "if we were in Valinor they would cut off your hand and cut out your tongue for what you have just done…" But there was neither strength nor resolution behind her words and thus she betrayed their falseness and her fear.
But Celeborn only grinned and tightened his hold on her hair. "But we are not in Valinor," he said, "and you are not stopping me. You are not a woman who stays her hand, earlier, even, you slapped me, yet you do not do so now. Why…Galadriel? What do you want?"
It was true, she could have stopped him, could have put him off, and yet she had not, and, as he had said, she was not a woman who staid her hand when it wanted for action. Even now she sat, watching him as he idly played with the golden tress he held in his hand, tugging on it gently. He fixed his gaze upon her, so intense that she felt almost naked. He knew, and she knew, the reason that even now her hair remained in his grasp; despite an upbringing in Valinor that had taught her that this was repugnant, despite her pride, despite her fear and uncertainty…she wanted him to touch her…and she wanted to touch him.
They sat in tense silence and then slowly, with a shaking hand, Artanis reached out, beginning the forbidden act, as if compelled more by instinct than by thought, reaching for that silver bright hair, like a shower of stars, and she was almost there, the step was nearly complete…but ere she could touch it, the sound of the curtain being drawn open reached both their ears and they practically leapt apart, both too startled by the entrance of the king to realize that they had each been trembling with nervous excitement but a moment earlier. Artanis leapt to her feet to greet the king and whatever had passed between her and Celeborn had come to an end.
"Peace daughter of Earwen. You may be seated," Thingol said with a smile, seemingly having not noticed what he had just interrupted, before turning to his nephew. "My wayward child," he said, "Melian told me that you had been injured. Tell me, what trouble has your mischief gotten you into now?"
Artanis could feel her heart hammering in her chest in anticipation of the king's anger and she swallowed loudly. Celeborn's eyes glanced towards her and she thought for the briefest of moments that he might spare her by eliminating the details of her involvement in his accident but that relief was short lived indeed for Celeborn spoke, saying: "Whilst I was attending to my trees the Lady Artanis arrived in the gardens to tend to her potatoes. Seeing her there unawares and finding myself hidden in the tree, I proceeded to pour water upon her head, at which point the Lady Artanis became as enraged as a wild boar and began lobbing potatoes at me which I saw fit to return her way. Eventually our good natured fun got a bit out of hand and I was hit by one of her projectiles, which caused me to tumble from the tree, thus breaking my arm."
"I was not like a wild boar!" Artanis exclaimed, forgetting for a moment that she was before the king and must act with propriety. "Forgive me," she said, folding her hands primly in her lap. Thingol merely laughed at her forgotten propriety and then made as though to speak several times but it seemed as if he could not find the words and finally he sighed, shaking his silver head.
"Is this true?" Thingol asked at last, turning to Artanis. "Did you knock my nephew from the tree with a well aimed potato?" Artanis turned to glare at Celeborn, who was grinning at her, well pleased with himself. Somehow it seemed that he always got the best of her and Artanis was not used to being bested.
"It is true," she said. But it was not Thingol's anger that she faced; rather, it seemed as though he looked…impressed. The king sat in thought for a moment before raising his eyebrows and nodding slowly at her.
"She has a good arm," he said, turning to Celeborn.
"That is what I told her," the prince replied.
"You deserve to have your arm broken," Thingol told him.
"Indeed I do," Celeborn said with a grin. "But I cannot pretend that it was not worth the trouble to see her warg-like snarl."
"And you could probably do with a bit of water every now and again to cool that hot head of yours," Thingol said to Artanis.
"I do not snarl like a warg," she hissed at Celeborn. He merely bared his teeth at her and growled in imitation, but before Thingol could reprimand him the healer entered. She too fussed over his broken arm, but, to Artanis's pleasure, with none of the tenderness that the nurses had shown. At last the arm was splinted, bandaged, and put in a sling, all with sharp warnings from the healer to rest and not overly exert himself. Somehow, Artanis thought with a small smile as she headed back to her quarters, she doubted that the prince would heed the healer's instructions.
"Venessiel is fond of playing with her food before she eats it. You would do well to remember that. But dangle something before her that she cannot have and she will surely bite," Celeborn said to Finrod as they walked side by side down the hallway.
"Never fear my friend. You forget that I have had to contend with Artanis my entire life. I assure you that I can handle whatever tricks she wishes to throw my way." Finrod said.
"A few weeks ago I would have said that I doubt that your sister is as wily as you make her out to be," Celeborn said. "Yet I know better now." He stiffly raised his broken arm, still in its sling. But Celeborn knew that Finrod had been an accomplished statesman in Aman and he was not overly concerned about his ability to handle the Sindarin councilwoman.
"By the way, is it true that she was your lover?" The Noldo asked.
"Artanis?" Celeborn asked, puzzled, "I have already told you not to put trust in those rumors," but Finrod gave him a strange look.
"Of course not. I meant Venessiel."
"Yes, though that was a long time ago," Celeborn replied and Finrod chuckled.
"Well that explains a great many things doesn't it. Ah, we have arrived." The Noldo said, knocking upon the council chamber door before entering. The Lady Venessiel rose to greet them with a smile that could have turned a thousand hearts, though whether to war or to peace he knew not.
"My Prince Celeborn, my Lord Finrod, I bid you welcome." They seated themselves as she continued to speak. "I am ever so eager to hear your plans Lord Finrod, for the prince speaks so very highly of you. But I must implore you to understand that as the Minister of the Treasury I will only vote to fund those projects that offer a high return for relatively little risk. It is my duty to protect Menegroth's treasury and, thus far, I find your proposal wanting. I hope that you can put my mind at ease." She said, leaning forward with her bare arms on the table. But Finrod had seen that glint many times before in the eye of many a man and he knew that it signified a gambler.
"I understand the importance of your duties and I will do my best to set you mind at ease in that respect. I assure you that Prince Celeborn spoke most highly of you as well my Lady, though I fail to see how anyone could not do so." Finrod said with a bow and his most charming of smiles. "You strike me as one who knows that reward does not come without proportionate risk. In that regard, I must admit, I was expecting a lady with less conservative tastes." He flashed her another grin, completely at ease. Celeborn had to stifle a snicker when he saw Venessiel's somewhat scandalized expression. She had no idea what to do with the Noldo.
"Conservative…?" She managed to choke out. Celeborn liked to imagine that she was worried that Finrod thought she looked prudish. In a sleeveless gauzy dress that they could quite literally see through, she looked anything but conservative.
"Yes, conservative." Finrod spoke bluntly, a skill learned from Celeborn himself. "To tell you the truth, my impression was that you were one who seeks a little bit of adventure, who thrives on a little bit of risk…or a lot…and yet here you are telling me that you want to reap all of the spoils to be gained from my Nargothrond without taking any of the chances." Finrod set the chest that he had brought upon the table and deftly flipped open the golden latches, letting the lid fall open. From the top he took a map of the site where he proposed to build Nargothrond and spread it out upon the table. "This is the map that I drew up with Thingol himself, who provided expert knowledge of the region, and with the assistance of his most skilled cartographers, who have already surveyed the area." Then, from within the box, and with no small amount of ceremony, he began to draw objects of great wonder, treating them as though they were little more than trash.
"Silver." He withdrew a girdle of pure silver that sparkled like starlight and threw it down carelessly on the table before her. "Here are veins of silver, enough to produce millions of belts like this." He pointed at the map as Venessiel admired the fine filigree work of the girdle, ran her fingers over the elegant engraving.
"Gold." Finrod took out a beautiful hair comb with figures of deer and foxes upon it. "Enough to make billions of such combs. Here are the veins of gold." He pointed to the map. "All of these mines were discovered by the petty dwarves that used to live in this region but have since gone, abandoning their mines. We have been to the area and I have seen the entire place with my own eyes. But not all that Nargothrond has to offer is purely for fancy, nay, we can offer more useful metals as well."
"Copper." He withdrew a copper plate depicting a hunting scene. "With which you can make anything, even sturdy hulls for ships, protecting them from disease and barnacles. Could you not sell this to Cirdan at the havens? Does he not have need of copper?"
"Iron." He withdrew a dagger. "For the swords that will spell the doom of Melkor."
"And…there are other things. Jewels." He pulled out an elegant crown of gold wrought with vibrant emeralds, sapphires, and rubies, gently placing it upon her head. "For a woman who deserves to be a princess. I assure you that my cousins will pay an absurdly high price for jewels."
"But perhaps wealth is not your true concern. Perhaps it is safety." Finrod continued, taking the crown from Venessiel's head and tossing the other objects back into the chest unceremoniously. Celeborn watched her eyes stray towards the chest, longing to touch them again. Finrod was like a ringmaster and Venessiel was his captive audience, he dazzled her with the fantastic while all the while deftly practicing his craft – making it look effortless, a true salesman.
"You need not concern yourself over the safety of Nargothrond. It is well hidden, a secret realm like Menegroth. I will take with me some 4,000 of my people and there, from the hidden realm of Nargothrond we will wage a guerilla war upon Melkor and his demons. Beleriand will grow stronger under the union of our swords, impervious to evil forces until, at last, we drive him from these shores together. Do not tell me that a magnificent woman such as yourself is so tied to the past that she is unwilling to risk for the future." Finrod's voice was thick with excitement and, though it was now barely a whisper, it permeated the room like a drug.
"Nay, even now I see it in your eyes, yearning. You are caged here and it isn't enough for you, isn't big enough for you and your dreams. You want to get out, to escape, and you want to turn all of it to your will. You want to know when it is your turn and my reply is that your turn is now, at this very moment. Everything that you want is within your grasp: jewels, gold, silver, minerals, resources. With another citadel, with strong allies, your people will be free to go where you please without fear of Melkor. It lies at your fingertips. Are you strong enough to grasp it?" Even Celeborn was left speechless in the wake of Finrod's passion as the Noldo's eyes burned into Venessiel's. Slowly, with a satisfied smile upon her face, the lady extended her hand towards Finrod.
"Exclusive trade privileges for Menegroth." She said. Finrod grasped her hand.
"Done. So do I have your vote?"
"A lady does not kiss and tell Sir," she said coyly, "but I will speak to the King. And, know that when the vote is cast, I will strongly consider your suit."
"Then I await your kiss, my Lady," Finrod said with a grin, bending to kiss her ring, the ring of a minister of Doriath.
"Not yet," she said, rising and, with one last flirtatious smile at Finrod, sweeping from the room.
"CELEBORN!" Beleg cried and Finrod and Celeborn both ducked beneath the surface of the hot bath water to avoid the bar of soap that the warden sent flying in their direction, emerging only when it was safe. Celeborn was still snickering gleefully for it had been he who had instigated the altercation, striking Beleg square in the stomach with a bar of soap. Finrod looked about warily to be sure the Beleg really had gone and then he relaxed against the side of the tub, idly playing with the white flowers that grew there.
"You led me to believe that Venessiel was more of a threat, yet she was easily purchased." Finrod said later as they relaxed in the baths.
"Oh Venessiel has a keen mind, make no mistake. Had you not been able to show her hard evidence that the money is there, had you not been able to show her exact numbers she would have rejected you, flat out. However, as you correctly presumed, she cannot resist a gamble, she is an addict of sorts, as most people who deal with money are. And she makes the mistake of equating it with authority." Celeborn replied.
"Besides," he ducked beneath the surface and then rose, wiping water out of his eyes, "she had already made up her mind. It was you that she was testing and – she likes to be courted, she likes you to put on a show for her. She must be wooed."
"I thought you were not supposed to get that wet," Finrod said, gesturing to Celeborn's splinted arm.
"Oh," the Sinda looked at it as though he had quite forgotten, "I suppose I am not." He rested it on the side of the bath.
Finrod laughed and raised his eyebrows. "Venessiel," he said, continuing their conversation, "sounds like a lot of work."
"She was," Celeborn whispered with a grimace. "Why, you're not interested in her are you?" He glanced at Finrod.
"No, No!" Finrod exclaimed, waving his hands in a gesture of denial. "She is a very attractive woman but no, not at all! I was merely making conversation! You…you aren't jealous are you?"
"No," Celeborn shook his head. "If you had wanted I would have recommended you to her, though I certainly would not advise it…"
"Thank you, my friend, but that will not be necessary. My heart, alas, is given to one whom I am fated to never meet again," Finrod said with a ponderous sigh.
"Forgive me, I did not know that you were betrothed," Celeborn said, surprised, for he and Finrod had become the closest of friends yet never before had the Noldo spoken to him of this matter, though many other conversations concerning private matters had passed between them.
"Had been," Finrod said, "had been betrothed…I am no longer."
"My apologies. I did not mean to be intrusive," Celeborn replied, thinking it best to press no further into this sensitive topic that he had inadvertently stumbled into.
"Amarie, that is her name," Finrod said, sighing and shaking his head. "Amarie of the Vanyar, with hair like spun gold. She loved me…and I loved her…and I left her." He paused, the silence growing long and Celeborn remained quiet, sensing that what his friend needed now was for him to only listen. "I…I sometimes wonder, nay, I often wonder if I have made a terrible mistake in coming here…" Finrod said, his voice faltering and a shadow seeming to pass over him.
"Surely you can return when you like and, if you do return…if you truly love one another, then perhaps all is not lost Finrod."
"But it is Celeborn! It is all lost," Finrod spoke with a hint of anger like a flash in the pan, quick to ignite and just as easily burned out. "I am Sorry," the Noldo murmured, "it is just that thinking of that matter makes me very cross indeed, but that is not your fault of course." They fell silent and Celeborn sensed that Finrod would very much like to change the subject.
"Tell me, Celeborn," the Noldo said, his face brightening, "do you not have a lady of you own? For I have heard that you do not, but I find that very difficult to believe."
"Aye, that is true!" Celeborn replied. "I have no lady at present."
"Is that so?" Finrod laughed. "But you have had many in the past have you not? You have that sense about you."
"That sense? Pray tell Finarfinian, what do you mean by that?" Celeborn asked, wrinkling his brow in mock disdain. "I fear they were all short lived."
"And why is that?"
"I see no sense in continuing things that aren't working."
"A discerning man…" Finrod grinned at his friend. "Tell me, what do you prefer? Perhaps I might be able to find you a wonderful Noldorin girl."
Celeborn shrugged. "Someone interesting, someone who challenges me…I would have said dark hair until…well…"
"Until when?" Finrod asked, his brow furrowed, turning to his friend. "Celeborn, you must understand that I have heard the rumors… about you and my sister. Neither one of you has been particularly discreet. Is there any truth to them?"
"No, no, of course not," Celeborn replied, but Finrod noted that his questions had engendered some nervousness in the perpetually confident Sinda. "I think of your sister as a friend and nothing more. Indeed, I hardly know her at all."
And, though his words eased Finrod's heart somewhat, the Noldo did not entirely believe what his friend had said. "It is…it is just, well, you know that Artanis has had many suitors before, high princes of the Vanyar, the Noldor, the Teleri…and she has rejected all of them without a second thought."
Celeborn had to bite his tongue to keep from reprimanding his friend, from reminding him that he too was a Teler, for he knew that the Noldo did not hold to that opinion, that they considered the Sindar to be completely severed from the Teleri, one Calaquendi and the other, himself, Moriquendi. "Are you saying that you do not believe your sister will ever allow herself to be courted?" He asked.
"No," said Finrod, haltingly, sensing that he trod now on delicate ground, wary of provoking Celeborn's more volatile side, even as he increasingly began to suspect that his friend's interest in his sister was not as innocent as he claimed. It wasn't that he did not like Celeborn, for, indeed, he was his dearest friend, it was merely that he could not ever imagine his proud sister, with all of her penchants for glory, fame, wealth, and power, ever marrying a woodland elf. And if any of the Sindar ever sought to court her, he was nearly positive that she would reject them even more cruelly than the princes of Aman, even if that elf were the high prince of Beleriand. "It is just that…well…Artanis wants for wealth, and power, and glory, and a crown of her own…not to live in a forest all her life, even if it is as a queen. Any Sindarin man who sought her hand would doubtlessly have his heart broken. My sister can be cruel."
"She has spoken to me of her desire for her own kingdom, but have you not just said that the princes of Aman sought to court her?" Celeborn asked. "So in other words she has already been offered all of these things that you say she desires and she rejected them. Perhaps you do not know what you sister wants. Perhaps she wants for something you have not thought of, or perhaps she needs something she did not anticipate. Most of us do not always realize at first what it is that we truly need." The prince's tone had been terse and Finrod judged it prudent to remain silent. Yet, the bubbling animosity between the two friends, one believing that his friend sought to deceive him in his intentions towards his sister, the other believing that his friend saw him as unworthy of her, threatened to spill over and Celeborn wisely quashed it before it could erupt.
"Oi, MABLUNG!" The Sindarin prince shouted, rising up out of the water with a bar of soap in his good hand, ready and aimed.
"Celeborn no!" Finrod cried, but his pleas were in vain. Biting his lip and narrowing his eyes Celeborn lobbed the soap at the black-haired march warden and Finrod watched in despair as it collided with a sound smack into Mablung's posterior. Giving up on actually enjoying his bath, Finrod quickly ducked beneath the surface once more as Mablung began to return fire.
But, despite the uneasiness that both of them had felt when discussing Artanis, it was not very long after that she was once more the topic of conversation between them, for the vote had passed and Thingol had generously provided everything that Finrod could have hoped for to start his new realm. But it seemed that the one thing that Finrod would not be taking with him, and something that Thingol could not give him, was the one thing that Finrod had wanted to take with him most of all: his sister.
"I have heard that the Lady Artanis will not be going with you," Celeborn remarked, helping Finrod load provisions into the hundreds of trunks that lay open about the chamber. It was a topic he was somewhat hesitant to raise, for he had only heard unconfirmed rumors, but his curiosity prevented him from staying his tongue.
They had been packing for days. There were cloaks woven by Melian and her maidens, an abundance of weaponry, casks of wine, tools, canoes, and fresh baked lembas still arriving from the kitchens. If there was anything that Finrod had learned in Doriath it was that the generosity of the Sindar knew no bounds. It was more, far more than Finrod had expected and even Celeborn had seemed surprised by it.
"I'm sorry Celeborn I wasn't listening," he said, for he had been so concentrated on how they were to get all of these things to the site of Nargothrond and still elves were filtering in and out, bringing more and more gifts.
"I have heard that the Lady Artanis will be staying in Menegroth," Celeborn repeated himself.
"Yes, that is true," said Finrod and it briefly occurred to him that, once again, that Celeborn seemed unusually interested in Artanis but he did not dwell on the thought for there were far more pressing matters on his mind at the moment.
"I would have thought that she would choose to journey with you," Celeborn said. "Has she given any particular reason for wishing to stay?" From the stormy look that flashed momentarily across Finrod's face, the Sinda could see that he had touched upon a nerve. Clearly Finrod was not pleased that his sister was not going and they had likely argued over it.
"I believe that she wishes to continue her studies with Melian," Finrod said with a hint of agitation in his voice but he was still distracted, counting barrels of wine, "though she was rather opaque about the matter."
"That may be the wiser choice, given her condition," Celeborn said. As soon as he said it he realized that it was, perhaps, one of those things that he ought to have kept to himself. Sometimes Celeborn wished most heartily that he could take back his own words.
"Her condition?" Finrod asked, turning about fully to face his friend, brow furrowed. "Whatever do you mean by that?" Celeborn wanted to tell him to forget that he had said anything at all but he knew that Finrod would never accept that answer.
"Her…visions…" Celeborn said tentatively, not wishing to offend his friend. Finrod shrugged.
"And I sometimes have visions too. Foresight is common amongst the Eldar. What of it?" The Noldo's voice was more than a bit perturbed and he turned away, loading pick axes into a crate.
"But, yours are not…hers are not the same as yours," Celeborn chose his words carefully, though he still felt as though he had entered a minefield of sorts.
"Speak clearly Celeborn. I have never known you to mince your words," Finrod said with a sigh, some of the tension draining from his voice. Now he merely sounded tired. But Finrod was distracted and their conversation lapsed into silence as he tended to other things while Celeborn's mind retreated into the past, to his memories of a festival a few weeks prior that they had held at Thingol's behest to congratulate the young Noldorin prince on his impending kingship.
Even Saeros and Oropher had not been able to feign haughty indifference to the festivities that night, but had joined in the feasting and the drinking and even the dancing with a great deal of merriment. And Celeborn had watching in amusement, laughing all the while as a drunken Oropher had boldly wrapped an arm about Venessiel's lithe waist and drawn the protesting yet smiling Minister of the Treasury into a jig.
But his eyes only regarded them momentarily before returning once more to that person who seemed to hold his gaze ever captive. He had never been one to pine after girls, yet it had been the memory of the flash of fire in her eyes, the way that her athletic body had flexed when she had leapt in the air, the radiance of her smile, the concern in her kind eyes and not the pain in his arm that had kept him awake during the day, when everyone else was asleep. He raised a hand, running his fingers through his hair; she had almost touched it, she had wanted to, he was certain of it, had seen it in her eyes. And yet there had been fear there as well. He smiled to himself and wondered if that was how things were in Aman, if ladies took no active part in courting the man that was courting them. How very dull, he thought. He supposed that he could have asked Finrod if things were that way in Aman, but no, that will not do, for then he would know and grow angry.
He would have liked to ask her to dance with him, wondered if she would have agreed, but his arm hung uselessly in its sling. That, he mused, was mostly his own fault, for Artanis's potato had landed a solid blow but he never would have fallen if he had not been so distracted by her that he could hardly keep his own thoughts straight, much less tread with as much agility as he was accustomed within the trees that he himself had raised, in which every branch and every leaf was known to him well. Thingol had understood this too and, though he had enough of a sense of propriety to not unmask Celeborn's desires so plainly before the object of them there in the healers' quarters, the prince knew that his uncle had understood and that he had been less than pleased.
Yet it was not only his broken arm that restrained him, nor was it merely a sense of caution in response to his uncle's inevitable displeasure, or Finrod's, but a certain reticence that grew in him in response to the lady's own behavior. For from the first time that he had beheld her that night he knew that something was amiss, some darkness in her eyes that was not usually there seemed to plague her and when he had greeted her she had seemed distracted, brusquer than normal, offering none of the playful banter that typified their conversations. It was as if she wished nothing more to escape this crowd of people and return to her quarters to be in solitude, but propriety would not allow it. So she wandered the party, speaking to very few and then only momentarily, feigning joy, and others seemed to buy into her façade but to Celeborn, who had studied her mannerisms until he knew them as well as a painter knows every brush stroke of his masterpiece, it was immediately clear that something was gravely amiss. And he did not wish to impose a dance upon her while she was indisposed so he restrained himself.
At first he had assumed that she was unwell because she had had harsh words with Finrod, for already there were rumors circulating that the siblings would be separated with him traveling to Nargothrond and Artanis remaining behind in Menegroth. But it soon became clear to him that this was not the reason, for her momentary lapses in composure betrayed that her predicament was more serious indeed than a simple sibling's quarrel. In those moments in which she thought that no one was looking she would lean heavily upon a table, her knuckles white and her eyes clenched shut as though a white hot poker had been driven through her heart. At other times he saw her clutch at her head as if she wished that she could break it open and rip bits and pieces of her brain away.
And then, finally, after sinking against the wall with a profound weariness, he had seen her dart away from the party, staggering like a deer shot through with arrows, to escape down an abandoned corridor. He had followed her without thought, careful to hide his exit, consumed by worry. And Melian's words reverberated in his mind: she hides a dark secret. He found her at last and she had hidden herself well, but not well enough that he could not find her here in the stone forest of his own palace. She was sitting on the ground in a small grotto of stone beeches, quite out of the way, and she seemed not to notice his approach at all, for her eyes were wide with terror and her breath came in short gasps.
Finrod, her brother, chained in a dungeon deep and dark, his fea crying out for her with the hopelessness of one who never hoped to see the light of the stars again. And his voice had grown weak, his throat parched and he had no more power left within him to give birth to song. And then the darkness came, knowing him to be defeated, and he struggled to his feet one last time, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.
If Artanis could have moved then she would have but she was frozen, twice condemned to watch in stunned and horrified silence as the werewolf, a great beast twice her brother's size with claws like knives and fangs thick as her fist, its body a mass of powerful sinewy muscle, descended upon him. They would repay their debt in kind, even as Mandos has said.
Suddenly she became aware of someone kneeling before her, a pair of green eyes looking into her own, a firm hand clasping her shoulder tightly. "Breathe," a soothing voice said and at first she felt as though her lungs were made of iron, stiff and immobile, but gradually, as she watched the calm eyes, she began to draw breath, matching her breathing to the slow, controlled breathing of the one who now sat opposite her. The vision slowly faded and, in time, the world began to swim back into focus, blurry at first, but growing clearer. She swallowed, the terror had faded but she was still shaking as though she stood naked in the midst of the helcaraxe.
"All is well, just breathe, breathe with me. Look into my eyes," Celeborn reassured her and, for some reason, she seemed to trust his voice, though he could see in the depths of her eyes that she struggled to obey. Something dark had caught hold of her and would not yet release her. But he held her gaze firmly, commanding her to look at him, holding her here in the present where the visions could not overcome her.
"Galadriel, come back to me," he commanded, firmly but not ungently and, dutifully, she began to breathe. Celeborn held her hand firmly for many long minutes until, eventually, the trembling stopped and her head seemed to clear entirely, like the sun after a spring rain shower.
"Your highness…" She whispered, horrified now to realize whom those eyes belonged to. Celeborn was seated opposite her, cross-legged, holding her hand with one hand, his other hanging limply in its sling and he let his hand drop. "I am so sorry to have troubled you," she said, her face was as red as a poppy. "I cannot imagine what you must think of me to come across me in such a state. Truly, I am little better than a child."
"Visions," Celeborn said simply with a small smile, for he was not the least bit disturbed or surprised. It wasn't what she had expected, a far cry from the shrieks of fear and looks of distrust that she was usually treated to whenever it happened.
"How did you know?" She asked, nodding her head.
"Melian has visions," he said, "but surely you know that." Artanis nodded again.
"What I mean is, how did you know what to do?"
"That is what Thingol does for Melian," he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "Although, it is quite rare that it is necessary. She has very good control over hers."
"And I do not," she said, casting her eyes downwards.
"Forgive me, I did not mean…" he stammered.
"The truth of the matter is, I have never been able to control them," she confessed, the words pouring out now that she had found someone who cared to listen. "When it first happened when I was a child I scared everyone so badly. My parents thought that there was something horribly wrong with me and they made me lie abed for weeks at a time whenever it would happen. I know that they had the best of intentions, that they were merely worried about me, afraid I would fall and hurt myself or something while I was…elsewhere. And I, I was so frightened, little understanding what was happening to me or why I could not be like other children."
"No one understands, they don't understand why I cannot control them because of course lots of elves have visions and Finrod has them too but mine are not normal, they're not like Finrod's, they're not like everyone else's."
"How are they?" Celeborn asked.
"Like a bad dream," she said, "one of those truly horrid ones where it seems that it is really happening to you, where you want to scream but cannot open your mouth, or you want to move but your limbs remain frozen, or you want to wake but are powerless to do so. That is how they are."
"Hmmm," Celeborn was holding her hand again now, rubbing her fingers. "Yours are just stronger," he said, "Melian's are strong too. It means you are powerful and there is nothing wrong with that. It is a gift for that is one of the many ways in which she protects Doriath."
"It is only a gift if it can be controlled," Artanis said, wiping the gathering moisture from her eyes, determined not to cry and thereby add to her embarrassment. "And, I cannot control them. I don't know how to discern which ones will come to pass and which ones won't, or what parts are true and which are false or anything like that. And, acting on visions you cannot control and do not understand is dangerous. It would be better if I do not go with Finrod to Nargothrond. None of his people trust me. They are all frightened of me. They know my visions are dangerous. They know I can't control them," she confessed as Celeborn listened silently, a benign smile upon his face.
"I'm sorry," she said, laughing suddenly, interrupting herself, "my Sindarin is so poor and poorer still when I am upset. Here I've just burdened you with all of my thoughts and done so clumsily at that."
"No!" He shook his silver head. "I understood your Sindarin perfectly. And you needn't worry; it is no burden. That is a prince's duty, to know all those in his realm well and to help them put their talents to the best of uses."
"Is that what I am to you," She said with a laugh, "your subject?"
"You are also my friend," he said, "or so I would hope." And more, he thought, I want so much more from you than friendship Galadriel.
She smiled. "You are too kind, friend, especially after I have done you the injustice of breaking your arm," she said, wiping at her eyes again but Celeborn simply rubbed her hand.
"Perfection is too impossible a thing to ask of yourself," he said, as if he had read her mind. "We all have our imperfections. I am sure that you will be able to control your visions with time," he assured her, "especially with Melian's guidance. She understands the true power of premonitions." He smiled at her. "Your mother is right, you are too hasty."
"Is that so?" Artanis laughed, the corners of her eyes crinkling in joy. "Oh yes, I can almost hear her say so. "She would like you, Celeborn," she patted his hand, "she would like you very much."
He laughed. "I am glad to hear you say that Galadriel." She shot him a quick gaze, but there was no anger in her eyes as there had been the last time he had used it, merely playful annoyance.
"Are you trying to bait me?" She asked him.
"Perhaps," he grinned.
"That name – it is like sugar over top of syrup, far too much of a good thing," she laughed.
"We Sindar have none of your Noldorin restraint," Celeborn said, standing and offering her his hand. "Have you not already learned that we eat until we can eat no more, drink until we are drunker than dwarves, and dance until our legs can no longer hold us."
"Do you mean to say that you will call me whatever you like regardless of whether or not I approve?" She asked him, laughing as she took his hand and pulled herself up.
"More or less," he smiled and she shook her head, laughing, her sadness quite forgotten.
"Will you return to the party? If you do not wish to then I will make your excuses for you if you like." He said.
"Thank you," she told him, her eyes meeting his as he offered her his arm. "Truth be told, I find that I would much rather walk in the pavilion under the stars with only you for company yet propriety dictates that I must return." She smiled and having so said, she took his arm. "Will you return as well so that I might take the starlight with me?"
"If that is what you wish," he replied.
"You know, perhaps it isn't politic of me to say it but, when we came here there were so many of the Noldor who said such terrible things about the Sindar but I think that you are the best people I have ever met." She admitted and Celeborn laughed, but in his heart he was still struggling to recover from the light touch of her hand on his arm.
"There are a few of your relatives who have somewhat of a superiority complex aren't there," he said with a grin as they threaded their way back through the corridors, growing ever closer to the hubbub of the festivities.
"A few?" She said, raising an eyebrow. "I tried to run away to the opposite end of the earth and I still couldn't escape them." They both laughed at that. "And how is your poor arm?" She asked him.
"Healing," he said, "albeit rather slowly. I fell from quite a height."
"If there is any way that I can repay you for the trouble that I have caused please do not hesitate to ask," she said and Celeborn could think of a thousand ways in which he would like her to atone but he named only one.
"A dance perhaps," he told her, "though crippled I may be it is still something that I enjoy and I should be most loath indeed to go an entire evening without it."
"That," she said, taking his hand, "is something I can manage." And Melian smiled as she watched them move amongst the other dancers, for things were to her as they ought to be, but Thingol looked on with discontent and the shadow of dark words was growing in his heart.
"My apologies Celeborn," Finrod said with a sigh as he bound up a bunch of arrows, "for you were speaking but I have not been listening as a friend ought. Forgive me for being so remiss." His words brought his friend out of his reverie.
"Don't worry yourself," Celeborn told his friend. "I only meant to say that Artanis seems to be learning a great deal from Melian and I can understand why she would be loath to give up her tutelage."
"That may be so, but I shall miss her greatly," Finrod sighed, "though I suppose that is a selfish thing for me to say. Yes, you are right of course, she can profit greatly from staying in Menegroth, already I have seen such positive growth in her. You must promise me that you shall look after her closely while I am gone and see that she is happy for there is none that I trust more than you, my friend."
"Of course, think nothing of it. It is no trouble at all," Celeborn assured him. "Besides, it will not be as bad as you are thinking, I am sure of it. I am certain that she will visit you and that you will return to Menegroth on occasion. Nargothrond is not so very far. Moreover, I am sure that you will be completely absorbed in building your city and you will have hardly a spare moment to contemplate your sister or your friends," Celeborn said with a wry grin.
"Scarcely a moment to contemplate either of you," Finrod goaded the Sinda.
"For shame," Celeborn replied, "then I shall have to find some productive way to fill your sister's hours, lest she waste away from grief." And his friend looked up at him with a face halfway between disbelief and horror.
"Surely I have only just now mistaken your meaning," he said.
"I was only jesting, as were you!" Celeborn said with a hearty laugh, earning himself an elbow from Finrod.
Author's note: Hey guys, I know if you actually read this far through the chapter you are probably really wanting to read the next one since I set so much stuff up to happen here! And, yes, the next chapter is very exciting! But…I have a lot of really important meetings for my thesis this coming week so I might be too busy to edit the next chapter this week, especially as I think it is going to need some heavy editing. The next chapter is really important so I want to make sure it is the best work I can offer you. I will try to have it up within the next two weeks!