Strangers in a Strange Land
In Cavern's Shade: 8th Chapter
"One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse."
― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness."
Author's note: Just to be clear, the LACE essay does apply to this story so the word "lover" in the context of this story implies courtship with the expression of sexuality within the context of the relationship but that sexuality does not go so far as penetrative sex. As specified in the LACE essay, marriage for elves is of the body so in this story "marriage" or "bond" equates to sex. Therefore, if an elf says they are not married or they are not bonded that means they have not had sex though they may have engaged in other sexual expressions of love within the courtship. Any questions about this or why I have made these choices please comment and I will reply with an explanation. Thank you!
It was in the nights that Doriath came alive. Lamps of all colors were lit in the great hall, reflecting their prismatic light about the midnight forest, and nocturnal flowers bloomed in all of their evening glory. The deer with their spotted fawns lay down to rest beneath the trees while the nightingales awoke above them, their melodic songs ringing throughout the endless caverns like a chorus of bells. Beneath the trees the population of Menegroth, both elven and animal wandered about, feasting, meeting with friends, seeking out merchants. The sky-like ceiling above twinkled with the brightness of stars and even one who had never entered the halls of the hidden kingdom would feel at home here amidst the soft light and gentle hubbub of conversation.
Thingol sat on a balcony crafted about the trunk of one of the great stone trees in the hall surveying his palace from atop velvet cushions. His ears perked at the sound of a fiddle, the musician running the bow across the strings at random, warming up. The cacophony of notes caused Melian's words to run through his mind once again, threatening to rob him of his momentary happiness: 'She carries a dark secret.' It was easy to spot that golden head as he looked down, wayward grandchild of his friend that one was. He saw her call out and an equally discernable silver head approached, speaking to her briefly before moving away again. Consternation creased Thingol's brow and, momentarily, he heard footsteps coming up the silver staircase and turned to see Celeborn. His ire of a moment earlier that he had planned to direct at the young elf was quickly forgotten when he saw that he was carrying two goblets and a tall frosty pitcher of freshly brewed ale.
"Uncle, I thought I might find you here." Celeborn smiled, toasting him with the empty goblets before sitting beside him. "May I join you?"
"Seeing as you have already done so I cannot refuse you now can I?" Thingol replied with a smile.
"You could," Celeborn said cheekily, "only it would be quite rude of you and I should be very put out."
"Semantics," Thingol grumbled. "Your aunt will be wroth with you for feeding my habits." He took one of the goblets nevertheless and held it out as Celeborn poured. "I have grown fat since the Battle of Beleriand." The ale was cold, perfectly so, and the foam bubbled against his lips as he drank it down.
"What Auntie does not know cannot hurt her now can it?" Celeborn grinned with mischief.
"Consider briefly, the flaw in the statement 'what Melian does not know' Celeborn." Thingol rolled his eyes. "And to think that you are my chief counselor."
"You know, she has a point. You really were a great deal thinner at the Battle of Beleriand," Celeborn shot back. Thingol jokingly gave him a glare that could have killed a warg and his nephew laughed. "You ought to be more grateful to me, uncle, for having delivered this ale safely to you. It was very nearly stolen as I was on my way here."
"So I saw," Thingol replied. "What do you think of her Celeborn?" His eyes returned once more to the revelers as he slowly sipped from his glass of ale.
"Of Artanis?" Celeborn asked with a wry grin, and he struggled to suppress the joy that threatened to blatantly parade across his face, for the Noldorin lady had now for several months been a near permanent occupant of his chambers and many a night had they shared the same bed. Yet, though they had been careful to be as discreet as they could, and though none knew better how to avoid Thingol's keen eye than Celeborn, he worried that his uncle might have found out and now meant to express disapproval. For, though such arrangements were not uncommon amongst Sindarin couples, and though by law Celeborn knew that he needed the King's approval only for a marriage, Artanis was a princess, a Noldorin princess at that, and thus their courtship would likely face closer scrutiny than most. Besides, though Thingol considered the children of Finarfin to be his friends, it was no great secret that he was still irked by their refusal to speak plainly of whatever shadow lay upon them.
"Of course," Thingol replied, "I am not so blind as you think, nephew. I have seen the way that you look at her and I saw you, several months ago after the hunt, go off in the forest together and you did not rejoin the festivities." the king said pointedly, his brow furrowing. "Indeed, it was not until the following evening that I saw either of you. I know the thoughts that go through the minds of young men, Celeborn." The king pointed a stern finger at his nephew. "Do not forget that I too was once alone in the forest with an extraordinarily pretty girl."
Celeborn considered how best to answer, for he could not quite discern whether Thingol was angry with him or not, and so he remained silent for a while. "You have no opinion then?" Thingol pushed, laughing, and raising his eyebrows. "Or is it merely an opinion that you do not wish to speak? Come, Celeborn, I have never known you to hold your tongue." Celeborn raised his eyebrows and took a long drink of his ale. His uncle was right, he had never been one to hold his tongue and he would not now. There was no good in keeping secrets and, moreover there was no shame in what they had done.
"I have taken her as my lover," Celeborn said, and despite his slight concern over what the king would say, he could not suppress a grin at the sound of Thingol choking on his ale.
"Well," the King said after an extraordinarily pregnant pause. "You have been honest with me so I cannot fault you for that. Though I suppose I should not be surprised at all given your character, indeed, I rather find myself somewhat impressed that you have managed to snare a lady so famous for spurning her suitors."
"It was you who first suggested the match, if I recall correctly," Celeborn said. "'A rare beauty with a keen mind' were your exact words I believe."
"And you scoffed at the notion as I recall," Thingol said, raising an eyebrow and sipping from his cup.
"You are not upset?" Celeborn asked, curious, for the king had responded with a great deal more levity than he had expected. Indeed, he had rather expected that Thingol would become inflamed with anger.
"You have been honest with me and so I will be honest with you. I am not pleased, though I cannot say that I am displeased either. Long did I notice that you took a particular interest in Lady Artanis and yet I said little of it to you save for a few warnings, for I thought that it was your business and not mine. Yet I was worried, and I worry still for as we have discussed before, there is some darkness that hangs over the Noldor, even over the children of Finarfin."
"That I am aware of," Celeborn replied, perhaps a bit more hastily than he had meant to, and Thingol had noticed.
"I see that it worries you as well," the king said quietly, taking a sip from his cup.
"You are the one who agreed to an alliance with Finrod. Does my relationship with her not further that alliance?" And still Celeborn's quick mouth betrayed his own insecurities, for Thingol knew his nephew well and Celeborn would not have stooped so low as to seek to curry political favor if the same concerns were not already eating away at him.
"Does it never occur to you, Celeborn," Thingol retorted, angered now, "that my concern may not be that of a King for a prince, but that of a father for his son? Do you think that I do not know that you love this girl? Perhaps you have not spoken those words to her yet but they are plainly writ across your face. And what of her? Do you think that this is some light dalliance for Artanis? Even I, who do not speak with her often, can assure you that it is not. If I object to your union it is only because I would hate to see both of your hearts crushed by forces outside of your control. These are difficult times and I do not know yet what decisions will be required of me, or of you, or of her for that matter."
"I am sorry Uncle," Celeborn said, duly chastised. "My emotions were raised and I merely sought to defend myself, little thinking of your own motivations."
"That is just the problem, Celeborn: you did not think," Thingol scolded him.
"Uncle…" the prince began, considering how best to couch what he wanted to say. "I hope that you do not think that I have no concerns myself. I do not like this business the Feanorians have of coming in and claiming this land, of ignoring your counsel and your decrees. Even Finrod, who means well, who is my dear friend, occasionally oversteps his bounds. We are treated as a second-class people in our own land and every day I feel as if the noose closes about our necks and the Feanorians agitate Melkor, spurring him into action. I certainly do not like that Artanis and Finrod see it as necessary to conceal the true events of their migration from us.
Yet, it seems to me that there is nothing to be gained by ignorance. The Noldor came here ignorant of us and it served no purpose but to make a mess of things. There is much to be said for the fact that Finrod and Artanis sought to learn about us, to assimilate in a way while so many others did not. We should not turn our allies against us nor turn our backs to them. If they can learn from us then we can learn from them as well.
Moreover, I cannot help but think that we must look at this situation through the lens of practicality. It is unrealistic to think that the Noldor will simply go away, they are a fact of our world now and what good does it do us to turn our back on this world? It is only by seeing things as they actually are that we have any hope of progress or any chance of rebuilding this kingdom. If that is so, then why should I hesitate with Artanis? In time she will tell us what we wish to know. I would like to believe that I can trust her."
"Because you are young," Thingol said. He laughed abruptly and his ire seemed to pass like a cloud in the spring sky. "And I am glad for it. As of late I find myself feeling as though I am merely a king trying to keep his kingdom on the map for as long as possible, delaying the inevitable." Despite the smile on the King's face, there was certain melancholy tone to his voice.
"Uncle…" Celeborn began, not entirely sure what he was feeling, but Thingol interrupted him.
"I do hope you stay that way – young." The King laughed, turning to his nephew with a smile, and Celeborn knew that the conversation had come to an end. "Do not become like me – old and jaded and overly critical." Silence hung between them before it was broken by the rattling of the silver steps.
"Hey! Ho! Celeborn's beat us to it!" In came the jovial Galathil and his somewhat less jovial cousin, Oropher. Celeborn silently thanked the Valar for his brother, who could smooth over any situation.
"Little brother!" He greeted Galathil. His dark-haired brother threw himself down beside him while Oropher set a second pitcher of ale and three goblets down. "Hello Oropher." His cousin waved to him in reply.
"What do you want?" Thingol asked Galathil suspiciously, though he could not quite keep the smile from his face.
"What do I… want?" Galathil spluttered, touching a hand to his chest in feigned shock. "Why nothing of course, save to spend time with my favorite uncle, whom I love and adore." But Celeborn could tell from the nervous look that Oropher was only just barely masking that they had indeed caused some sort of trouble. "Honestly, Celeborn," Galathil addressed his brother. "Does he ever ask you these sorts of distrustful questions?" Celeborn merely snorted in laughter. Galathil was always a spectacle when he was attempting to hide evidence of his wrongdoing. "Really uncle," Galathil continued, "how many trade deals have nearly gone awry because my older brother cannot keep his loud, judgmental mouth to himself?"
"Celeborn," said Thingol, "offends people to their faces, where all is laid out plainly for everyone to see and can be immediately dealt with. You, Galathil, and you Oropher, do not think I have forgotten about you," Thingol gave Oropher a pointed look, causing the flaxen-haired Sinda to shrink back, "you work your mischief in secret, where none may see, then it rears its ugly head and the terrible fruits of your labor are brought forth when it is most inconvenient and causes the greatest amount of trouble."
"Yes Galathil, you are terribly inconvenient," Celeborn chimed in.
"You wipe that smile off your face Celeborn before I wipe it off for you." Galathil shot back.
"What have you done? Oropher?" Thingol's searing gaze settled upon Celeborn and Galathil's cousin, who was far less adept at keeping secrets from his uncle.
"Nnn..n..n..n..nothing uncle." Oropher stammered, his face blushing as red as a forest rose. Just then the steps rattled once more and Saeros appeared, looking quite cross indeed, and whispered something in Thingol's ear.
"Galathil, Oropher, come with me." Thingol commanded icily, descending the stairs after Saeros. The two young elves exchanged panicked looks.
"Oh you're not sorry at all, you're just upset that you've been caught." Celeborn laughed.
"As if you're so innocent! He doesn't know even half of the mischief that you've worked," Galathil chided his older brother. "I know it was you that dumped water on those ladies in the white dresses at the summer festival five years ago."
"I'm not silly enough to get caught," Celeborn said with a great deal of satisfaction. "What did you do anyway?"
"The nurses were bathing in those secluded shallows down by the Sirion and we stole their dresses!" Oropher whispered gleefully before the two stumbled down the stairs after Thingol. Celeborn laughed and finished off the ale.
Celeborn, thought Finrod, was an enigma. He could at the same time, be equally as serious as he was jovial, equally as kind as he was merciless. Even now, nearly five years after their initial arrival in Menegroth, he was familiar with Celeborn's behavior, with the sort of things he said, with the dangerous nature that lurked just beneath the surface, and the Sinda still seemed to utterly confound him at times. He could see why his sister found him irresistible; she could never leave any mystery unsolved. Yet Finrod liked Celeborn very much and held him in high regard; you always knew where you stood with him. And Finrod felt deeply indebted to him for all he had taught him, for it had certainly aided him greatly in the building of Nargothrond, a project yet unfinished.
He smiled, reviewing his upcoming plans for his city in his mind, wondering if the marble for the columns would be ready upon his return. Finrod was the type of person who, once he started a project, was loath to rest until it was complete, and yet it was good, he mused, to visit with friends in Doriath once more. He pushed the thoughts of Nargothrond from his mind, instead turning to look at Celeborn, who was at this moment reclining against the bole of the tree. Their troop of five wardens sat in the high limbs, some were singing softly but most were quiet, resting, for they had come many leagues that day and Celeborn had pushed them hard, making with all speed for Menegroth as they had been in their outpost in the woods for nearly two months.
The Prince was relaxing lazily like a great forest cat, content to bask in the shade. But Finrod knew that, in an instant and without any warning, that cat could leap from its royal cushion and maul a man, tearing him limb from limb. Perhaps that was his most lasting impression of the Sindarin prince, usually he was a deeply wise, quiet, elf content to wander peacefully beneath the trees, he could become vicious and deadly in the matter of a moment. The Sindar, it seemed, were far more mercurial in temperament than the Noldor. He felt a slight shiver trace its way down his spine. Truthfully, he was a bit frightened of Celeborn.
If at first he had been a bit put off by the Sinda's aggression, he was now accustomed to it, though not any less afraid of it. For, when he was not at Nargothrond, he had spent some months of the past five years wandering through the outskirts of Beleriand with the prince and his wardens and he had seen many things that he could never have imagined. The kinslaying had been a tragedy, but never had he seen the magnitude of brutality that the elves of Beleriand lived in constant balance with. To think that they lived always in danger of such things as he had seen … he was not surprised that they could be so deadly, more naturalistic.
He had learned the art of war, as practiced in these lands, by Celeborn's side. And he had seen many creatures he had never dreamed of: the great hulking trolls, the swift and powerful wargs, but worst of all the black and deformed orcs, shadows of the elves that they had once been. He had watched the silver flashing of Celeborn's axe as it cleaved the stone-like appendages of trolls from their hideous bodies. He had heard the heavy thud of the prince's arrow as it found purchase in the neck of an orc and the sick gushing squelch as Celeborn tore his deadly barb from the orc's windpipe, ripping out its throat.
Finrod had been sick during this first battle, traumatized by the death around him. And Celeborn had looked at him as if he were a child, saying, "You too will grow accustomed to it." And he had. At first he had thought that Celeborn took pride in his killing. For the Sinda did not bother to wipe the blood from his body and, only as an afterthought, wiped the gore of his enemies' intestines from his form. He had even, on occasion, seen him use the blood of his kills to paint strange characters upon his skin. But the most sobering of all was that Celeborn seemed not at all bothered by the violence. He did not grieve after battle, nor speak nor sing of it. His eyes did not change when he killed; he was untroubled by it. And there were no ceremonies or rituals that were performed either before or after the killing, as the Noldor would doubtlessly have done. They came. They killed. They kept going. It had taken him several years to realize that Celeborn did not take pride in killing nor did he enjoy it. To him, it was merely a fact of life, the same as eating or breathing.
Finrod pondered all of this as his hands played with the wood of the tree beneath him. He heard the soft hum of a flute and glanced up, seeing that Celeborn had produced a small pipe and was fiddling around with it, not playing any sort of song but only experimenting with notes. The cacophany was suiting to this earth, thought Finrod, the story of its marred creation coming to mind. The Noldo's fingers traced the rough bark, dipping into crevices and admiring the twisting sinews of the wood. He heard a sudden laugh from Celeborn and the flute emitted a sharp unplanned note. Finrod looked up, surprised. It was not often that Celeborn laughed.
"You are tickling the tree." The Sinda said with a grin. "It is quite giddy at the moment."
"Oh?" Finrod said with a laugh, "If I have offended it then I beg pardon."
"It isn't offended. It's rather fond of you in fact." Celeborn said with a glimmer in his green eyes. Sometimes, Finrod thought, he fancied he could almost hear the soft murmuring of the trees, almost feel the lifeblood within them and believed that they did indeed hold long slow conversations with the Prince of Doriath. At other times he resolutely believed that Celeborn was yanking his chain, so to speak.
"Tell me, Celeborn," began Finrod, voicing a question that he had held in his mind for a very long time, "I have heard much praise of your bow and heard it spoken of as a great and mystical weapon. Never have I seen you miss a shot. Tell me then, from whence comes that magnificent weapon."
Celeborn quirked one silver brow up, skeptically. "It is not because of my bow that I do not miss a shot. It is because of my skill." His face was straight but, again, Finrod could not tell whether he was jesting or not. "Here," The elf held the unstrung bow out to the Noldo, "string it."
Finrod took the bow and bent the wood, stretching the twine, attempting to string the weapon. But, try as his might, his arms shook and he could not make the ends meet. After several fruitless minutes he sighed and handed the bow back to Celeborn. The silver lord grinned and, with effortless ease, strung the mighty bow. Finrod sighed, defeated, not understanding what the Prince had meant to communicate. Celeborn saw it register in the Noldo's eyes. "You do not understand." He said, not a question, a statement. Finrod shook his head. "In time." Celeborn replied, ever abstract, like the trees he claimed to converse with. "Do not trouble yourself over it. It is nothing so magnificent as Beleg's bow."
Suddenly he froze, tensing, whatever he had meant to say forgotten as the tips of his ears twitched slightly, and Finrod knew that he had heard something. The march wardens too, had suddenly become alert. Finrod had still not attained their speed in perceiving threats. Wordlessly, Celeborn held out a hand to still him, signaling that none of them should move. They waited in silence for the span of ten minutes and then he saw them approaching, a small band of orcs, their leader mounted on a warg, and with them several wolves of the large gray variety. Finrod felt his stomach turn as he saw that the captain wore a simple mithril circlet and two of the orcs were clothed in what looked as though it had once been elvish clothing, a gray cape, a well crafted leather belt. He looked to his right and saw that Celeborn had noiselessly nocked a long white-fletched arrow on the string of his bow, motioning for the others to do the same.
Finrod silently pulled back the string of his own bow as he felt the pre-battle nervousness flutter through his stomach. But this was normal, he had learned, even Celeborn had confided in him that he often felt the same, though he did not show it. Years of the Prince's careful training by example and instruction had sharpened Finrod's senses to the ways of fighting in this land. Now he fought and killed as well as any of them, except Celeborn, Mablung, Beleg, and Thingol himself. And he had seen the woodland lord watching him, silently noting when he displayed Noldorin styles and techniques, sometimes melding or even outright adopting them into his own fashion of fighting, just as Finrod had adopted many of the Sindarin techniques, training Nargothrond's wardens in the style of Doriath's.
Silently, they crouched, waiting in the treetops. Still, Celeborn had them hold, tracking the warg of the leader. The silver head nodded in his direction and Finrod knew that he wanted him to take him out. With the tip of his arrow he tracked the shaved skull of the large orc. The creatures moved across the earth and it seemed to shrink and grow discontent at their unfriendly touch. He could hear their harsh breathing and the sputtering of saliva between their chipped yellow teeth. The leader was passing directly below him and Celeborn nodded, almost imperceptibly. The Noldoring and Sindarin princes let their arrows fly at the same second and with a sharp thwack they slammed home, straight down through the center of the the warg and orc captain's heads, splitting them like fresh gristly melons.
Panic broke out as the remaining twelve orcs scurried about, simultaneously attempting to avoid the arrows that flew at them and locate their attackers. The wardens' arrows felled an additional five orcs, meaning that every arrow had found its target. At Celeborn's piercing whistle the elves hung their bows over their backs and dropped from the trees.
Celeborn took his great battle axe in hand and so quickly did he move that he seemed to be only a flash as he carved his way through orc flesh. Finrod unsheathed his sword, for he preferred it to the Moriquendi axes, and drove it into the nearest orc, kicking it off his blade before turning and beheading another. And then they were finished. Their five wardens stood, eyes alert, axes dripping with black orcish blood. They bent to wipe them and Celeborn kicked over the body of the orc leader, a slight sneer on his lips as he tore the mithril circlet from its broken head. The other elves divested the dead bodies of any elvish articles, evidence that these had recently feasted on one of their kin.
"Green elves, probably." Celeborn whispered to the Noldor prince. But his eyes were not sad, he had seen this far too often. Finrod knew that, when they returned, they would send the articles to the green elf chieftains until they could be identified. It was not his first time to see this either. The elves were skinning the three gray wolves. "These," Celeborn said, tearing the pelt from a wolf single-handedly, the sinew of his muscles flexing beneath the skin of his arm, "had no part in feasting on elf flesh, but they would soon have feasted on the orcs, or so they planned to." He held the great hide out to Finrod. "A mantel for your sister perhaps? It will be cold soon. We mustn't be wasteful." Finrod took the skin from the Sindar and tied it to his cape. Though he lived in Nargothrond, he dressed in the fashion of Celeborn and the wardens now, it being very suitable and practical to the land.
The elves leapt into the trees again and made their way towards Menegroth. Why should Celeborn care whether or not Artanis had a fur cape? Finrod felt slightly irked by Celeborn's tone when speaking of his sister. When he had left Menegroth the two had hardly been friends, now that he had returned to pay a visit he found that things were not as he had left them. He knew not what had passed between Celeborn and Artanis in his absence but he had his suspicions, fueled by the rumors that flitted about the capital of Doriath like moths. And he had reason to suspect that these were true, for on a time he had gone to Artanis's chambers during the day, when the Sindar usually slept, and he had not found her there, nor could he find her anywhere, nor had he been able to find a single one of her servants who would divulge her location, though he was certain that some of them knew. And at those times Celeborn was also nowhere to be found. Yet, most of all, it was their eyes that betrayed them, not only the stolen glances they directed at each other when they thought that no one was looking, but the mirth and joy that resided within their depths now. Artanis seemed to float rather than walk lately, and Celeborn had grown even cockier still, a feat that Finrod would hardly have believed possible. His heart churned in anger at the thought of it.
He had asked his friend to watch after his sister and keep her safe, now there were some who said that he had taken her into his bed instead and Finrod was haunted by the nagging, persistent thought that Celeborn had betrayed his trust. Yet even as that thought surfaced in his mind he wondered why he felt that way, for if it had been any two other elves he would doubtlessly have said that they were adults and free to do as they wished. He had bound Celeborn to no oath, indeed, he had not forbidden him from seeking her hand at all, though he had warned him that she was likely to spurn any suitors.
Perhaps that was it, perhaps he was merely…surprised…that she accepted him. No, it was not that innocent he admitted to himself. He was surprised that she had taken a Moriquendi lover, for the words of the Feanorians still clouded his heart, though he knew that such talk of races was reprehensible. But that was only an excuse: to say that he opposed them because Celeborn was a Moriquendi and Artanis a Calaquendi and the races ought not to be mixed. What he was really concerned about, he knew, was that his sister would divulge their dark secret to Celeborn out of love, or in a moment of weakness, or at his urging. For Celeborn was no fool and, though he did not speak of it, well did he perceive that they kept some terrible secret.
But things were not that simple. For it was not only fear or anger that twisted Finrod's heart, but jealousy as well: jealousy that his sister, who had once been his closest companion and confidant, would forsake him for Celeborn's sake and jealousy that his sister had stolen his friend from him, for Celeborn was far closer to her now than to Finrod. Even as he admitted it to himself he was struck by how silly the thought was, for of course her relationship with Celeborn was of a different nature than that relationship that she had with her brothers or Celeborn's friendship with him. I should be happy, he thought, for Celeborn was his friend, whom he respected, should not it gladden his heart that the two of them had found love in each other? And what reason did he have to wish to deny her that? She was a grown woman, with the needs and desires of a grown woman, yet his heart was repulsed by the thought, for he could never think of her as anything other than his baby sister and the thought of…his friend, taking such liberties with her sickened him.
Or perhaps it sickened him because why should the two of them be happy when he and Amarie were sundered forever and eternity? It had all been well and good when she had been alone too, but now Artanis had Celeborn and Angrod was married as well. Aegnor was not involved with anyone, at least as far as he knew, but he had always been closer to Angrod than to Finrod and now Finrod felt himself bereft of companionship. 'I am an extraordinarily selfish elf,' the Lord of Nargothrond thought to himself. Yet even as he said it his anger with Celeborn grew hotter, for having made him feel this way.
By nightfall of the next day they had arrived at Menegroth and immediately they had stopped by the launderer's to deposit their filthy clothes. They stripped off in a small private antechamber there and Celeborn took a gray cloth offered to him by one of the young elves who worked in the laundries, thanking him. The elf bowed and offered one to Finrod as well, who took it.
"Join me in the baths?" Celeborn asked.
"Gladly." Finrod said, anticipating the tension releasing heat of the sulfur springs. Though baths were segregated by sex, it had still taken the Noldor a while to get used to the more open physical and sexual attitudes of the Sindar. It was not that they were lustful or bawdy, but rather that, being so very close with nature, they saw nakedness and matters of the flesh as a very natural part of life, something which they did not seek to cover up and of which they were not ashamed. Such topics were openly discussed and the physical form was not, in manner of dress, modestly covered.
Celeborn wrapped the cloth about his waist, twisting and tucking it so that it stayed and Finrod did the same. Once more thanking the launderers, the princes stepped out into the halls. Despite his anger earlier in the day, the Noldo felt a wry grin creeping its way across his face, amused as the Sinda stalked through the halls of the cavern, very nearly naked but not bothered by this in the slightest, just as confident as ever and quite possibly more so. Finrod himself still felt a slight twinge of embarrassment at being mostly unclothed and tended to keep his eyes on the ground when he was in such a state.
They entered the bathhouse, the atmosphere of which was thick with steam so that people seemed to move about in a great cloud of mist, and scrubbed the grime from themselves in the fountains there before entering the tubs of steaming hot mineral water. Finrod relaxed, laying his head back against the edge of the tub. It was soft with a gray violet moss that seemed to prefer the steamy heat of the baths to the out of doors, for he had only seen it here. Occasionally it sprouted small white flowers.
It was one of his favorite rooms in all of Menegroth, which was remarkable indeed, considering how many rooms in Menegroth that Finrod was fond of. He was in the process of building an exact replica at Nargothrond. The walls of the room were of silvery-white streaked limestone and throughout the spacious house were many tall thin pillars of translucent alabaster that came together at the tops to form pointed arches. The upper portions of the pillars, the arches, and the alabaster that connected these structures were ornately carved so that they looked like the finest and most intricate lace. No gemstones or painting was necessary, so fine and lovely was the craft of the masons.
The pools themselves were of limestone and the steaming murky spring water was pumped into them through an ingenious system of underground pipes, which Celeborn, who apparently also had a keen interest in architecture, had explained to him one day. Waters rich with minerals flowed deep in the ground, beneath the earth's crust, and were heated naturally by the earth. These pipes then channeled it up and into the pools through a sort of irrigation system. The water was constantly cycling in and out of the pools, constantly being renewed.
It was customary, before using these sorts of baths, to scrub oneself clean with soap using cool water from one of the many beautiful fountains around the bathhouse. Then one could enter the water without polluting it and making it unusable for others. Finrod had not known this the first time that he had bathed here. Celeborn had accompanied him, to show him how the baths were used and had had to grab a very startled Finrod by the arm as he had attempted to get into the bath without scrubbing first. As it had been only his second day in Menegroth, neither of them had yet acquired a working knowledge, or any knowledge really, of the other's language and so a very awkward explanation by means of gestures had ensued in which Finrod had been made to understand bathhouse etiquette.
He had also learned that teasing was quite common and taken in good humor. Most of it involved puns on the individual's name. Celeborn, for instance, was known for more than the silver hair that was on his head, something which he jovially acted quite proud of when the mood in the bathhouse became boisterous. Finrod had not been subjected to this treatment yet but he had been assured that, as everyone became more comfortable with him, his time too would come. It was not something he was particularly looking forward to … despite how much he did like the baths. He had asked Artanis one day, following his inquiries as to whether the architecture of the female baths was the same as that of the males, whether the she elves also practiced this sort of good-natured teasing and she had confirmed, with a pink blush spreading across her face, that they did. Becoming amused he had pushed her to tell him what they had said but she blanched and refused to say anything at all.
He glanced over at the floating cloud of silver in the water beside him. Celeborn had been submerged for the last several minutes. Momentarily, the Sinda emerged, red-faced, stretched out, and rested his head on the pool's edge in the same manner as Finrod.
"I am growing worried." He said. "Over recent years foul creatures have been coming closer and closer to the girdle. Their increased presence doubtlessly means they are growing less bold, less frightened of us, and if that is so then it must be because their own power and numbers are increasing."
"Do you fear that you will have to go forth and fight them?" Finrod asked.
"Nay," Celeborn replied, "my fear is that Melkor will find a way to break the girdle and they shall enter our realm, where we will have to do battle with them. Our concern is and always has been with keeping the location of this city well concealed, just as you seek to conceal Nargothrond."
"You would not rather, once and for all, eliminate Morgoth?" Finrod queried, his anger from the day before still boiling beneath his surface, spurring him to push perhaps more rudely than he would have otherwise. He had heard the answer to this question before but he had not spoken of this before with Celeborn and the topic greatly intrigued him, for it was, perhaps, the feature that he considered most backwards about the Moriquendi.
"Are you yourself not the king of a concealed city?" Celeborn asked with a quizzical look, and Finrod could tell that his friend had sensed his anger. "Why should we need to eliminate Morgoth, losing many lives in the process, when we may simply stay hidden, safe and happy? Indeed, it was the coming of Feanor's people that stirred him to wrath," Said Celeborn, closing his eyes once more as he relaxed against the side of the pool. "Besides, it would not be possible to do so, for we had not the strength to send aid to Cirdan after the Battle of Beleriand though we greatly desired to do so. It will be a while still before we can rebuild our forces to their former strength."
"While he and his minions slaughter the green elves, the Avari, your kin? Did you not say yourself that Doriath must adapt or die? Is that not what you argued when I proposed to found Nargothrond?" Finrod asked, growing increasingly agitated, for Celeborn's comment about his cousins provoking Morgoth had struck him ill and that was on top of his anger with his friend for not speaking openly with him about Artanis. Yet the ever-present pressure at the back of his mind pulled at his conscience. Who was he to question them when he himself had stood by and watched in horrified paralysis as the Feanorians slaughtered his mother's people? Only Artanis had had the courage to stand with the Teleri that day.
"Though we grieve for those lost to evil, the green elves, the Avari, and the others, they are sovereign people in their own right. They are not children whom we seek to sway to our ways. It is not for us to dictate to them what they should or should not do," Celeborn said, sitting up and opening his eyes, and somehow Finrod got the impression that Celeborn was speaking of more than just the green elves. "Nor have they ever asked us for aid, though they know they could easily do so. They know that they are welcome within the girdle of Melian at any time. They choose to remain without. It is their choice and they are aware of the consequences, both good and bad. If we choose to remain isolated then that is our matter and if they choose to live as they do then that is their matter. We here do not have this urge for conquering and dictating." Celeborn said, the beginnings of anger in his eyes.
But Finrod took offense at those words and replied, saying: "That sort of attitude would not sit well in Valinor for The Valar would put an end to Morgoth's works if things were in Valinor as they are here." It was a weak rebuttal and made weaker still for the fact that it was a front for what he really wished to say: if things were here as they were in Valinor you would be flogged for having the audacity to take my sister, the daughter of the high king, to your bed and there defile her, you a Moriquendi who has never seen the light.
"If things were in Valinor as they are here?" The Sinda immediately sat bolt upright. His previous calm had vanished and his green eyes blazed in piercing anger. His voice did not rise to a shout but rather lowered to a deathly quiet, as of the deep earth itself. His body seemed to hold within it a monumental power that he might unleash at any moment and Finrod truly saw why Celeborn was called dangerous. Try as he might, he could not escape his friend's gaze. It seemed as if the very room had disappeared from around them and that always would he be floating in this timeless spaceless place, held paralyzed by the prince's vicious glare.
"And do the Valar love those of Aman more than they love those here? Is Valinor so unmarred that it is worth more than this earth? I think not, for did not Morgoth himself dwell there ere he ever came to these lands? And would your own sister flee from her motherland, pursued by a terrible secret and unhappiness that haunts her if Valinor were so entirely perfect? So often do I hear the praise of the Valar, but I think that I must be forgiven if I can find no benevolence in lords who would let their people suffer and die here while they merely sit in their halls, where they are safe! For they have cast the evil out of Valinor but allow it to spread here, unabated! Blasphemous you may call me but if blasphemy is what you call the belief that the life of a Moriquendi," he spat the word, "is in every way equal to and as valuable as that of a Calaquendi, then gladly will I blaspheme!"
"I was born into darkness and long did I live, never knowing the day. The light of the trees, which is present in your eyes, does not dwell within my own. But it is far better, I think, to be a blind man but know what is true, than to see clearly with the eyes but not know what it is to be enlightened. Now get thee from me, Finrod son of Finarfin, for I am a prince just as surely as you and I will not listen to your ignorant words in my own palace! Do not forget in whose kingdom you dwell! Go now, for I am sick of looking at you!" Celeborn seethed, pointing at the door. Finrod stood and, with angry injured pride and a great deal of embarrassment, strode quickly from the room. Quiet had settled over the baths and no one who remained dared to look at the Prince of Doriath nor to enter into the pool in which he sat, alone, seething.
Upon returning to his apartments, the furious Finrod had encountered his sister and, throwing the wolf pelt at her, moved to go past her saying, "Behold Lady, a gift from Celeborn, Prince of Doriath." Her hand on his arm had stopped him.
"What has happened, brother, to make you so wroth?" She asked him, for it was rare indeed to see Finrod in such a temper.
"You ought to know, Nerwen!" He spat at her. "Indeed, I am surprised to find you here at all. I surmise that it is only because Celeborn is in the baths that you are not in his bed!"
Artanis released his arm from her grasp and stepped back as though he had physically struck her. "I am a grown elf and what I do is my own business, not yours brother," she said, her eyes unforgiving. And so I am entirely alone! The son of Finarfin thought. My sister will take Celeborn's side rather than mine! She has not even the grace to feign embarrassment at her transgressions!
"Then you do not deny it, that Celeborn of Doriath is your lover?" He asked her, and Artanis stared at him with cold, hard eyes.
"He is," she said proudly. Finrod shook his head in exasperation.
"Did you think that word would not reach me in Nargothrond: that you and he scarcely make any attempt to hide your actions, and no attempt at all to clear yourselves of the taint of that scandal?"
"What scandal? What taint? What have we to conceal?" Artanis asked, though it was truly more of a rebuke than a question. "This is not Tirion, brother! This is Doriath and in Doriath I shall follow the customs of the Doriathrim, not those of Tirion. What is more, one would think you had better things to worry over than what love may pass between a princess of the house of Finwe and a prince of the house of Elwe." Finrod grit his teeth and bit back the angry words, for his sister had echoed Celeborn's earlier sentiment, that he too was a prince, a prince of equal rank, and that this was, after all, his kingdom.
"I wish you were not involved in this business. Celeborn is more perceptive than is good for himself, or for any of us," he said, his anger having turned to a fear that caused him to pace about like a man pursued, for he understood clearly now that it was that very fear, and not any imagined offense that had caused him to speak so rashly to the Sindarin prince, fear that even though he had managed to secure Thingol's support, they might still be found out and then the anger of the Sindar would be very great indeed; he was sure of it.
"It was my choice to make, Finrod, not yours," she said and, at her words he left her, going to his rooms where he might be in peace and not lingering to argue with her any further.
And Artanis stood, her hands clenched in tight fists, trying to will herself not to be angry with her brother, for she knew that he meant well, though his methods were not those she would have chosen. But she could not put her anger away entirely, for it seemed that this same argument and all of its various manifestations would haunt the two of them until at last, like pus bleeding from a scab, it would bear its rotten fruit.
Yet now she could understand Finrod's earlier protestations, for she knew that they had been driven by his fear of losing Nargothrond before he had even had the chance to establish it: by a fear of never realizing that latent potential. It was that same unexpected fear that plagued her now for though she knew it would doubtlessly be her own undoing, she could no sooner keep herself from Celeborn than a moth could keep itself from the flames that would consume it and she worried that she would be torn from him ere their romance had played out, for the secret could not be kept forever, and thus the fear that had haunted her ere Celeborn had kissed her those years ago was reawakened in her heart, though it had slept for many years.