Kings of Sand and Stone

Doriath: 14th Chapter

"Thus with my lips have I denounced you,

while my heart, bleeding within me, called you tender names.
It was love lashed by its own self that spoke.

It was pride half slain that fluttered in the dust.

It was my hunger for your love that raged from the housetop,

while my own love, kneeling in silence, prayed your forgiveness."

- Khali Gibran

Author's note:

First, as always, thanks to everyone who took the time to review. You guys are great and I really enjoy hearing from you! It is so helpful to have feedback. Secondly, this is the first chapter of the second part of this story, which stretches from chapters 14-24. The third and last part will go from chapter 25 to around chapter 31 or 32.

Lastly, this chapter and the next one deal with some pretty serious issues for several characters and some of the content is a little disturbing. I know this can be difficult but I hope you will understand that I am not doing this for shock value but because I genuinely believe in portraying realistic reactions to difficult situations. If this bothers anyone you are more than welcome to PM me and I will do my best to address your concerns.

If he had ever anticipated that something like this would happen he might have expected that he would feel hurt, betrayed, furious, any number of emotions, but the one thing that he did feel was the one thing he could never have predicted: it was the dreary, trudging, boredom that seemed to plod from one day to the next so that a month seemed like a year, a week like a month, a day like a week, an hour like a day and his entire, interminable, immortal life a burden that stretched out beyond his ability to bear it.

He knew that they were worried, all of them. Melian had taken to stopping by for tea on a frequent basis, Luthien was ever so careful as to invite him to all of her parties though he went to nearly none of them, Thingol had taken him hunting, and shooting, and even stopped by his chambers every so often just to pass the time. Galathil seemed more boisterous than normal, Beleg and Mablung had tried their hardest to get him drunk on more than one occasion, and cousin Oropher, normally so hot headed and sulky, had taken to frequenting the baths with him. His time was certainly occupied, but that did not make it any more full. He found himself more surrounded by friends nowadays than at any other point in his life and yet, even in the midst of all of them, he felt as though everything were so very dull that he could hardly stand it.

She had left a few things behind on the night that she fled with her brothers, nothing much, only small things that had been forgotten in the haste of packing. He had not returned to his chambers until after she had gone and then he had found them, an elegant wooden hairbrush that had fallen beneath the bed, a diamond hairpin in the rug, a veil in a drawer, a yellow rose he had given her, preserved. He had burned them all in the fireplace while Galathil watched, a concerned look on his normally cheerful face. Celeborn did not want his brother's pity.

"Perhaps you will regret having destroyed them," his younger brother had ventured to say. "There is sometimes good, even in that which is bad." But Celeborn had only shaken his head.

"When a healer draws out poison do they leave even a drop behind?" He had asked Galathil in return.

The monotony of his days had only been broken by the leaving of the dwarves. He had tried to prevent it for so long, poured so much of his own time and energy into this project that he would have expected to feel disappointed at the least, angered at the worst. And yet it had only barely managed to intrigue him. He stood by, watching in silence as they packed up their tools, the instruments of their pride. He had nothing to say to them, for much bitterness had passed between the dwarves of Nogrod and the elves of Menegroth and the wounds were now too deep and too old to heal. And they had nothing to say to him for the same reason. But he oversaw the process nevertheless, for Thingol had asked it of him.

A few hours later they were gone and it was as if they had never been there. The fires of the forges were clean and cold, as if they had never been lit. How easy it was, he thought, to erase the traces of an existence. How simple to make it appear as if someone had never been. But the forgetting was long. Memories could not be wiped away like soot. A heart could not be extinguished like fire. Water might quench a sword but it could not quench a mind.

His days were as empty and dull as his nights. It was difficult to sleep at first, as it so often is when one is accustomed to sleeping beside someone and then, suddenly, finds them so utterly gone. His body seemed to have forgotten how to manage it on his own. And he could not even fill those sleepless hours with thoughts, for he had none, none of any significance, none of any importance. Nothing seemed to pique his curiosity; nothing seemed to draw his interest.

It was winter again and the woods were painted white. The birds were the only color in the grey basin of the world. Red cardinals. Bluejays. He had killed a bear, a great and ferocious bear. Its hot blood had run steaming red out onto the white snow. There was too much blood but his hand had seemed to move of its own volition, the axe flashing down again and again and again. He had never killed like that. The pelt was rather more ruined than was suitable but he had it made into a rug nevertheless. It wasn't much of a feat. His chambers still felt cold. And the bear's head, glassy eyed, stared down at him now from the wall. I shouldn't have killed it, he thought to himself. Everything grew dull in death.

Sometimes he still found one of her golden hairs hidden in the bed and it was only at those times that he felt any real anger. It was irrational, he knew, but he could not help but think that she had done it intentionally to disturb him. That even from Nargothrond she was tormenting him. He burned those too, when he found them. The smell of hair in a fire was distinctly unpleasant. It reminded him of death. All his life he would never forget the way the earth had smelled after the Battle of Beleriand

There was a pretty girl that he used to know who worked for a baker and he had sought her out a time or two, toying with her briefly in abandoned corridors or hidden chambers. She had smelled of flour and cleanliness. At times she seemed intimidated by him. Their social strata were so very different as to be jarring and she seemed nervous when she was with him because he was, after all, the Prince of Doriath. She was a mere baker's apprentice. He had ejaculated on her stomach once. It had been an accident, he hadn't meant to, and she had looked at him with fear. So he had given it up quickly, for it had not cured his insomnia and, besides, he nearly felt as though he were forcing himself upon her, as if she felt that she could not say no. And, after all, he still felt nothing.

A murderess, a genocide – he had not expected that. A thousand upon a thousand times had he pondered what her secret must be. Yet he had always assumed her innocent of blame, presumed her culpable of nothing more than misplaced loyalty, of protecting brothers, and cousins, and kin. Yet her own mother's kin had been slain, his kin, Elu's kin, and though she had stood with the Teleri, unjustly attacked by fell Feanor, still she herself had slain her father's kin in their defense. Even if he had been able to understand the logic of the killing it was the keeping of the secret that he could not comprehend and would never be able to, even if he had cared to puzzle over it, which he did not. She had lied to their faces in every hour, with every breath. It was a simple truth and an uninteresting one.

"Do you know how to tell when someone is lying?" Thingol had asked him when he was a child, barely tall enough to reach the king's waist. A parentless orphan, he had ridden on the King's horse, before the King's saddle and in that seat the King himself, his uncle, had carefully groomed him to rule.

"No," he had replied.

"You will know someone is lying," the king said, "whenever he opens his mouth."

He went to court and the retainers and soldiers came and went; he gave orders and judged and appointed and deposed and bade and forbade. He went to the forest and the seasons came and went; he tracked and hunted and surveyed and fought and killed. He went to the festivals and the years came and went; he laughed and cheered and made merry and smiled and joked. Time crept by in its petty pace from day to day and all that went unchanged was the hollowness that filled him.

After it had first happened he noticed that people had a habit of falling suddenly silent whenever he entered a room, in that way that they do when they have just been talking of you. He cared little what they said. As with all matters, there were bound to be those who were sympathetic and those who were hostile. Saeros would be stirring up all sorts of malcontent directed at the Noldor, and having an easy time of it in this political climate no doubt. Celeborn found that he did not care. After all, it was no one's business and he wanted sympathy even less than he welcomed hostility.

Luthien had gotten a new puppy. It was so joyful and energetic, full of glee, bounding about and nipping at her skirts. Celeborn did not like when they were like that, teething, biting at everything. Older dogs were more to his liking, but Luthien loved puppies, as she loved all things new and young. She had thrown sticks for it out on the lawns and played with it in the great hall and had let it eat from her plate. One day they had found it dead, for no discernable reason. Its body had simply given out, though it was but young, some health defect no doubt, bad breeding. Or, perhaps, Celeborn thought, it had just grown sick of everything and died, he had heard that Finwe's first wife had done the same. Luthien had cried, and Celeborn had wondered why he couldn't.

Her name had become a curse, a word as filthy as the speech of orcs. None dared speak it. It was almost as though they believed that the mention of her might conjure her. Celeborn cursed his people for their superstition. That elevated things to the level of legend when, in fact, what had happened had been so very horribly real. He wished they would not be so afraid to speak of it, to speak of her. She was no god, no witch, no sorceress fallen from grace, only a girl, nothing more than a girl, a girl who had made extraordinarily bad decisions. They need not be frightened of a girl. He need not be frightened of a girl.

This palace was the finest in middle earth, the thousand caves, the hidden kingdom, a wonder of wonders and yet, in the midst of halls filled with all of the most beautiful things that the earth had to offer, the hollowness, the boredom, the dullness, the monotony, the tedium of years upon end threatened to drive Celeborn mad. On sleepless days he paced the halls, all one thousand of them, he had the time. He had been driven mad and the madness drove him and he laughed to himself about the irony of all of it. If anyone had seen him they would have thought him insane; maybe they were right; maybe he was. His world had been broken apart like an egg, a perfect and delicate suspension in chalky shell dropped suddenly to the floor, all of its grace, all of its perfect beauty smashed on cobblestones while the yellow yolk of his heart ran out, so unceremoniously until there was none of it left and only the fragments of a shell remained. And in his mind he thought a thought, a horrible, dreadful, awful thought: was this how Feanor's sons felt?

The door to Thingol's chambers was thick and it was the middle of the day but Celeborn did not care. He pounded upon the oak with hard fists until at last the valet came, opening the door for him, and waited not to see whether he would be admitted or not, but entered anyway. Melian and Thingol were there, both in their dressing gowns, clearly just having awoken at his knocking, and Celeborn spoke.

"You must send me from this place," he said, his voice as hollow as he felt. "I can endure it no longer. Madness comes upon me."

After all of these years, Nargothrond was finally finished, or at least that is what Finrod said, though withdrawal of financial support by the Sindar had been a grave blow indeed. Moreover, without military support from Doriath the need for secrecy was considerably heightened and Finrod withdrew his guards from the outer boundaries, recalling them to Nargothrond until a new strategy could be devised.

Having returned from Menegroth, the Lord of Nargothrond had refrained for many years from speaking to his sister of what had transpired between her and Celeborn in the end, for though he loved each of them, he still bore resentment towards his friend for exacerbating, though he had done so unknowingly, the rift between him and his sister and he had deemed most unwise their swift tumble into things that in his opinion ought to be reserved for marriage. These were matters he had long thought he had lain to rest but Thingol's treatment of them in wake of the news of the kinslaying, no matter how justified, had brought his darker thoughts to surface once more.

In those thoughts he had been Celeborn's judge and jury, holding him guilty of lust unchecked but in his more moderate times he recalled how the Sindar were, being long accustomed to death and keen to make the most of the fleeting nature of life, more apt to give in to bodily and emotional urges. He wanted to hold his sister unaccountable, to presume her innocent, a pure maiden led astray by her dark lover, yet on the days when he found that he was truly able to admit things to himself, he knew that, as he and Celeborn had discussed, his friend would never have forced her hand, that Artanis, as ever, made her own decisions, and that Celeborn's utter disregard for propriety had ever been an irresistible lure to his rebellious sister. Thus it was not merely that she had agreed, or even that she had been lured, but most likely that the both of them had traipsed merrily across a line that ought not to have been crossed, mocking it all the way. But, in his heart of hearts he knew that, in truth, his anger stemmed merely from the fact that he hated seeing her hurt, walking about Nargothrond as though she were nothing more than a shadow of her former self, and he wished that Celeborn had rejected her from the first, or that she had rejected him, rather than that they build a doomed love and then suffer its consequences.

He and Angrod had shared sparse and tense conversations on their return to Nargothrond before his two younger brothers had returned to their home, yet Artanis had been entirely silent and Finrod was not one to prod a wound that was still sore or rub salt into a cut that was fresh. Yet, though Finrod had the good sense to hold his tongue, Celegorm did not, indeed, his cousin was renowned for doing the opposite. Thus it was with much trepidation that Finrod received the word that his cousin had accepted his invitation to the feast in celebration of Nargothrond's completion.

The ever conscientious Finrod had had the naugrim craft the flatware especially for this occasion, for Celegorm was liable to disdain silver and he was certain to show outright contempt for bronze or steel and so gold it was. How very politic of him, Artanis thought of her brother as she turned her fork, watching the crest, finely engraved on the handle, as it twinkled in the glowing candlelight, to have the seal of Finwe rather than that of father emblazoned upon these. And it irritated her more than a little, for she would rather not go to such lengths, or indeed any lengths at all, to curry the favor of their cousins and was content to remain a vassal of Thingol, even if it was as a fiefdom in name only, the military and financial support having been withdrawn after the king had learned of the kinslaying.

"A bit too…" Celegorm gestured at the fixtures of the room with his fork, as carelessly as if it had been cast of pewter rather than solid gold, "…too much of a Moriquendi bent for it to be entirely to my liking, yet, yes, the greater part of it appeals to me in the utmost. An accomplishment, cousin, surely; you ought to be proud."

"I am, I am," said Finrod with a genial laugh. Artanis gave the room a quick glance. There was far too little of a Sindarin bent to this place for it to be of any liking to her at all. Nargothrond was as loathsome to her as it was pleasing to her brother. At least, she thought to herself, it is finished now and I shan't have plaster falling on my head anymore. Menegroth too had been a cave and yet you never would have imagined it, but Nargothrond made her feel as if she were in a prison and she was not sure whether it was the walls or her thoughts that caged her.

"And how good to see Galad…forgive me…Artanis, here in her brother's house, with her own kinsmen," Celegorm said with a smile but his words were met only by his cousin's dark gaze, for she knew well that he kept things in memory for a long while, particularly things he had deemed an affront, and so she knew with certainty that he had been purposeful in his "slip" of the tongue. Yet there was no satisfactory reply to Celegorm's statement and so she remained silent.

Presently, Celegorm turned his conversation back to her brother saying; "But frankly Finrod, I do not see how you shall marry her off suitably now, though Curufin tells me that Celebrimbor is still somewhat willing…despite the assorted perversions she has taken part in. Nevertheless, perhaps we might be able to sweep all of that under the rug, call it rumors, spread by the Sindar in an effort to discredit us. After all, mayhap the time has arrived at last to forge an alliance between the house of Feanor and the house of Finarfin."

Finrod chewed slowly, loathe to give any answer at all and Artanis turned, looking at her brother with horror, for Celegorm had just offered Finrod his dearest desire the promise of protection, of reconciliation, but…surely he could not be thinking…such a thing was against the customs of the Eldar, marriages of alliance…yet it was not as though they had any compunctions about breaking with the customs of the Eldar in Alqualonde. Not Finrod, her dearest brother…surely he would not. She looked furtively towards Aegnor and Angrod at the other end of the table, but they were engaged in conversation with some of Finrod's counselors and seemed not to have heard.

"I do not know cousin," said Finrod at last, setting his fork down and folding his hands before him. But Artanis saw the doubt in his eyes, the indecision, and could feel the fury building inside her. How dare he! How dare he even think of selling her off to Celebrimbor as if she were worth nothing more than a horse? If only Celeborn were here… he would never have hesitated as Finrod did, but would have rebuked her cousin immediately and harshly.

Fueled by anger she set her fork down hard and it clanged loudly against the crystal plate as she said, "it was not a perversion!" Celegorm raised his eyebrows and turned to Artanis in feigned surprise. "Celeborn and I, our love was not a perversion." She said firmly, her eyes hard.

"I do not know how you could bring yourself to touch him without growing sick at the thought," her cousin remarked, lazily picking at the greens on his plate, "for I will admit that there are some fair Sindarin maids, but whenever I contemplate making love to a Moriquendi I find that the idea repulses me…as it naturally should. They are inferior beings, mentally deficient."

"You know naught of what you speak," Artanis said curtly, clenching her fists in her lap. She knew that Celegorm was intentionally provoking her and yet she could not bear to sit idly by and listen to him.

"Artanis," Finrod hissed, "I beg of you, do not make a scene."

"You ought to be grateful, at least, that Celebrimbor still desires you, for many a man has loved you but how long could they stand your company Artanis? All of them were soon gone, and not all because you turned them away. You are a woman who does not know her place, who longs for power and glory and kingdoms when she ought to be contented with a loom and a harp and elflings playing about her feet." He said it as if it were matter of fact, as though he were explaining something simple to a child and she could feel the walls closing in about her, confining her as ever she had felt when speaking to his father. And Artanis wondered that one who was the son of fearless Nerdanel might say such a thing. "There are few men who can stomach such a woman. Indeed, most would be…put off…by the prospect."

"Celeborn did not mind my strength, indeed, he admired it," Artanis shot back.

"A simpleton – who thought to put the golden crown of Finwe upon his tarnished silver head," Celegorm spat.

"He cares nothing at all for crowns," Artanis replied, her eyes burning with fury.

"And is this not further evidence of his backwardness?" Celegorm asked. "For princes ought to desire kingship, indeed, that is what they are raised for. Yet this Prince of the twilight elves would have no further ambition but to remain a prince for now until eternity."

"Why should he clamor for kingship for himself when he is the prince of the finest king in all of Middle Earth?" She replied. "Indeed, it is because of Thingol's example that Celeborn first loved me, for Melian the queen is as I am, even as Celeborn is like his uncle and their whole kingdom thrives because of their marriage. In me he saw the hope of a similar union, equally blessed, and he wanted the same for himself; there is no wrong in that."

But Celegorm just laughed and shook his head. "I marvel at you cousin," he said, "for this Moriquendi has spurned you entirely and still you pine for him like a dog wanting for a bone."

"Will you say nothing?" Artanis asked, turning to her brother. "You once called Celeborn your friend!" But Finrod said nothing to disturb the burgeoning silence and at last Celegorm turned back to the King of Nargothrond.

"Still, let there not be bitterness between us cousin, for, as I say, better a Sinda than a green elf," he laughed good-naturedly. "We have such a hard time with them for they seem to understand so little of our customs and they go about dressed nearly in rags. Sometimes I wonder if they are simple in the head." He laughed again. "I thought that all of the Moriquendi might be thus, yet I was surprised to see that the Sindar have managed to scrape together some semblance of a culture and civilization, despite their lack of education. The green elves though, they have no sophistication whatsoever."

"Have you had trouble with them?" Finrod asked.

"Nothing much, just territorial disputes mostly, but a good display of military force puts them in their place quickly enough, yelping and scurrying about like kicked puppies." Their cousin laughed as he dabbed at his mouth with the fine cloth napkin, staining it red with juice from the beef. "It is poor Maedhros who is really having a time of it, though it is the Sindar who plague him, those ones who live on the outskirts of Doriath. Their living so near to the girdle of Melian and so far from the capital seems to have made them more like the Laiquendi, living in huts and the like, but they are Sindar in mind, warlords with all of same barbarity and unafraid to pick a fight, not like the green elves who are shy and keep to the shadows."

"It is only because of the goodness of the green elves that we are alive," Artanis said. "You ought not speak of them so. For when we came to this earth naked and starving they clothed us and gave us food to eat."

"For you that might be true," Celegorm said. "But the sons of Feanor were well prepared when we came to these shores and were not so weak as to necessitate that we accept aid from any of the Moriquendi."

"Because you abandoned the house of Fingolfin and the house of Finarfin to cross the –"

"Artanis!" Finrod spoke harshly to her, holding out his hand in a sign that she ought to stop speaking. Already Celegorm was growing wroth, his eyes clouding over with ire at the fact that she had brought up that forbidden matter.

"Tell me Celegorm, what has happened with the Sindar?" Finrod asked and gradually their cousin's ire abated. Yet Artanis wondered that her brother could have become so cold-hearted that he could sit and listen to the prejudiced speech from their cousin about those who had shown them nothing but kindness.

"Maedhros's people have discovered veins of gold at Himring and have been cutting the forests there so that they might dig mines into the mountain. There are several Sindarin cities in that region that claim this activity has caused mudslides and that the timber that has been cut is washing down into their cities, killing their citizens."

"Is that so?" Finrod asked, and for the first time Artanis saw hints of uneasiness in his grey eyes.

"But you know what I say to that?" Celegorm asked with a laugh. "Anyone who would rather live at the bottom of a hill than at the top deserves as much!"

"Have you grown so cold hearted, Finrod, that you would willingly sit and listen to such filth in your own halls?" Artanis queried later, when she had at last gotten her brother alone.

"I listened only so as not to make him angry, so as not to place you in peril. Celegorm is dangerous! It would not do for either of us to end up on the wrong side of him. You certainly need not fear that I will take action based on any of our cousins' suggestions," Finrod snapped. "Perhaps that is a lesson you should learn, sister, to sit in silence more often."

"And thereby lend credence to what he said?" She fumed.

"Silence does not equate agreement," he replied. "It is diplomacy, not to anger those you cannot afford to anger."

"It does," she said. "A willingness to listen is tacit approval. Have you ever thought that that is why you are not married?"

Her words stopped him in his tracks, cutting through his heart as if they were the sharpest of blades. Her visions, her intuition of others feelings, as ever that skill of hers enabled her to see his deepest insecurities so clearly and lay them bare in the garish light with so little tact and sense.

"What was it you said?" His voice was deathly silent as he turned towards her, the torchlight of the corridor flickering across her furious face.

"You are weak as sand, yielding to whatever comes your way," she condemned him. "A coward who takes a stand for nothing and no one. Have you forgotten how Amarie wanted you, nay begged you to stay for her, how she pleaded? Have her words truly grown so cold in your heart that they are but a faint memory? Yet even then her supplications could not sway you and you yielded instead to the pressure of Feanor, of our cousins. You would not stand with her and now you refuse to stand with me! In Doriath they stand for what they believe in, not like here!"

Yet even as she spoke, a dark foreboding came over Felagund and he cried out, saying; "you claim that I will be bound by no oath and to no one, but an oath I too shall swear, and must be free to fulfill it, and go into darkness. Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit!" And Artanis trembled at his words as he returned to himself, for they were fell indeed.

"Finrod…" she stammered.

But Felagund's heart was hot with pain and anger and so he lashed out at his sister, saying, "and what of you? Who are you to speak to me of such things? You say that I have brought Amarie to pain and you have said earlier that Celeborn would stand strong where I faltered. Yet what has he profited by taking his stand? For he stood for you and trusted you, thinking that he had built the foundations of his house on solid ground. Yet where has his decisiveness gotten him Artanis? It has brought him only a world full of pain, for you tore down the stones of that happy house he had built with so little care and so much cruelty."

And at his words, Artanis turned and fled, for Finrod had cut her deeply, even as deeply as she had cut him.

She slammed the heavy double doors to her chambers, the sound echoing off of the Spartanly furnished rooms like a gong in an empty hall. It was with considerable restraint that I acted, she thought to herself. She had certainly offended Celegorm, though not to the extent that he deserved to be offended, and she was equally certain that her brother would be in a huff over the things she had said for many days, begging her to remember that their cousins were valuable allies. Yet Artanis cared not, for the anger was still churning within her heart, and she paced forward angrily, throwing open the doors to her bedchamber before she stopped, turning back, removing her golden slipper and hurling it at the entryway for good measure, where it struck the closed doors and fell to the floor. Childish, she knew, but she found that she did not care. Impatiently, she tugged at the restrictive laces of her gown, longing for the days when she had worn the loose and airy Sindarin dresses, longing for everything, everything of Doriath and to be far, so far away from Nargothrond.

"My lady!" Her maids scurried about, removing the heavy clothing from her body, retrieving the slipper she had thrown. "Shall we draw you a bath, bring you refreshment, brush your hair?" They asked her, clearly concerned by her volatile mood, and she felt guilty for worrying them so.

"No, no, thank you. Please, do not trouble yourselves. I only wish to be alone," she said to them politely. "I apologize…for my temper." The maids bowed, leaving quietly, and Artanis donned her dressing gown overtop of her chemise, clutching it tightly about her though the room was not cold. She paced for a moment, her heart grown heavy in the wake of her anger, and looked up at the dull and lifeless ceiling of Nargothrond, so unlike the living wonder of Menegroth.

Her anger had drained from her what energy her cousin had allowed her to retain and it was wearily that she sank into her bed, the softness of the goose down providing little comfort, for it was her heart rather than her body that plagued her. The guilt seeped slowly into her fea. Finrod was right, she had spoken Celeborn's name at the feast, spoken about him, with lips and tongue not worthy of his name. The tears gathered in her eyes, as ever they did when she recalled his memory, even after all of these years, and she raised her hands, digging her fingers into her scalp in frustration. Yet here, in the privacy of her chambers, she did not wipe them away, but allowed them to run freely down her cheeks.

Though decades had passed, it seemed to her not so very long ago that she had passed that first wondrous night in his bed, memorizing the lines of his body, marveling in the depths of his green eyes, her fingers caught in his silver hair, like a shower of stars. And he had held her close, equally as entranced by her, his rough fingers gentle upon her skin, his lips soft against her own, and they had lain in each other's embrace, speaking of love, and dreams, and stories of long ago. It was then that he had asked her for the third time.

"Why did you leave Aman?" And Galadriel had shifted in his embrace, a bit unnerved, for she had hoped that he would have abandoned this question by now, and yet he had not.

"Will you not tell me," He asked, "not even now that we have spoken to each other of love?" But Galadriel shied at those words and cast her eyes away from his so that he might not discern the truth of her thoughts from her gaze.

"It seems to me that you would leverage that love against me now to learn what it is that you wish to know," she said, her heart having been chilled by his words. Yet even as she said it she knew that it was not what he had said, but the secret that she kept which caused that shudder to reverberate throughout her heart. But Celeborn pressed a reconciliatory kiss to her shoulder and said.

"Forgive me, for it was not my intent to manipulate you. It is merely…" and he paused, as if growing unsure, something so very foreign to his temperament that it caused Galadriel to sit up and take note, meeting his gaze once more, "merely that it makes me feel as though you trust me not at all."

"Celeborn…" she said softly, raising her hand to caress his face, for the intimacy of his words had surprised her somewhat and, moreover, moved her heart. "Nay," she said, "it is not that I do not trust you, for I do trust you. It is that to speak of that matter is a heavy thing and not something I would undertake lightly, for each time I speak of it I feel the pain as if the wound itself were fresh. If you would have me speak to you of this matter then I would wish to know why."

"Because the coming of your people into these lands spoke as of the footsteps of doom. Foresight I have not, but even I, who have not your prescience, sense that the end draws nigh." He said, speaking his thoughts plainly.

"Then I will tell you," she said, though his words had frightened her." You know of some of it in bits and pieces already. I cannot speak for all of my people, but of my own motivation I can tell you. You said once before that Aman must be like paradise and it must be folly to leave such a land to come to one so marred. Yet even the most beautiful of prisons is still a jail, though its bars be of gold.

"A prison?" He asked, rolling onto his back, and crossing his arms behind his head.

"Everything and everyone was so set in their ways," she said laying her head on his chest so that she could look at his face, her fingers gently, absentmindedly moving slowly across the planes and muscles of him, "it was as though my life was already decided for me. My father is the third son of Finwe and I am the fourth child of my father. I could have nothing for my own; it was all already someone else's. Always was I bending to the will of others and there was nothing for me to shape in the way that I wished."

Celeborn laughed. "And is it so different here?"

"Melian has told me of many lands that are yet uninhabited," she said.

"But I am the Prince of Doriath," he said, "and so in Doriath I must remain." And the implications of what he had said weighed upon her as a heavy yoke.

"But surely," he said, "there is more to the tale than this, is there not?" He drew her atop him and she crossed her arms over his chest, perching her head upon their intersection.

"Yes," she said, "but I cannot speak to you of it freely, for I am sworn to say nothing of it to Thingol and, were I to speak to you of it ere the tale reached his ears, your loyalty to your realm could be drawn into question. Believe me when I say that I remain silent for your own good."

Celeborn sighed, a troubled look creasing his brow, for though he knew it was true that whatever secret she kept should be told to Thingol first, he wondered at her logic. "And is it not treasonous enough for me to know you keep a secret from my King that he ought to hear but continue to allow you to keep it?"

"I beg you, Celeborn," she said, worry in her eyes, remembering the curse of Mandos, "in time you will know, even as Thingol shall, but until then know that in all matters of our courtship things must be initiated by your hand and not mine."

"Why is that?" he asked her, brow furrowed.

"Please," she said, stroking his hair back from his face, "only trust me that it must be so."

And he seemed to deliberate in his mind for a while but finally he smiled and said, "very well then. But you shall never be able to convince me that it isn't because you are lazy and wish for me to do all the work." She laughed, but that laughter was soon stifled by his kiss and, soon enough they found that there were other things to keep them busier than such a somber conversation.

Artanis rubbed at her eyes, the tears having long since dried upon her cheeks, leaving behind only salty reminders that they had once flowed there, and let out a long and shuddering sigh. It had been nearly thirty years since her exile from Menegroth and still her memories of him were so painfully clear that they might have happened yesterday. There were still nights where she dreamed of him, where the heat of him still seemed to be imprinted upon her body, where she nearly believed that he would be there beside her when she awoke. There was no doubt in her mind as to the feelings that she bore him, no doubt whatsoever; she loved him, madly. And he no longer loved her.

At times the pain seemed nearly unbearable: the pain of being entirely isolated and alone, of having lost those she loved. And then there was the guilt, the oppressive guilt of what she had done, of the lies she had told, the friends she had deceived. It weighed upon her as though she wore a millstone about her neck.

She should have known that it was an impossibility, that it had been an impossibility from the start. His loyalty would ever be to Doriath and to Thingol just as her loyalty, in some part, must always belong to her own people. And it did not matter if that was the smaller of the parts, for there was ever the potential that it could be the germ of division between them. He was a prince of Doriath and a prince of Doriath could not take to wife one who might divide his loyalties. But knowing that their love had always been destined for failure did not make that loss any easier.

"Have you forgotten, Finrod, that it was but a few years ago that you and Celegorm discussed a marriage between Celebrimbor and I? I certainly have not forgotten; I was there if you care to recall!" Artanis fumed, stalking back and forth before her brother's throne. "Now you tell me that he is already here when you doubtlessly knew he was coming some weeks prior! Can you not understand at all why I might feel betrayed by you?" She crossed her arms, glaring at her brother.

"And do you truly believe that I would encourage you to do something that I thought might not be conducive to your happiness?" Finrod asked her, deeply wounded.

"For the sake of your precious alliance with our cousins? Yes!" She spat, livid as a viper. "Cats do not change their stripes and neither will they!"

"Artanis! Sister!" Finrod descended from his throne, placing his hands on her shoulders, but Artanis shrugged them off angrily. "Artanis! I thought that this rift between us had long since been healed! Believe me when I say that I am not motivated in this by any sort of political factor. Do not let the words of Celegorm poison your heart!" Finrod cried.

"Oh is that so?" She said skeptically, beginning to stalk back and forth again.

"You do not know," Finrod said, his voice full of worry, "how much it pains me to see you waste away in grief after Celeborn! Do you think that I have not heard your tears as I passed by your room in the night, or noticed your deep sorrow, or how you take no delight in things that you used to love. You are a shadow of yourself."

"It is not only for him that I mourn," she replied, "but also for the person that I used to be, for the city that I loved, for the future that was promised but now is lost forever. You have your dream, Finrod," she gestured madly about at the palace, "you have your Nargothrond. What of my dreams, what of my ambitions?"

"My dream? I would rather have your happiness than this entire palace," Finrod said. "But your happiness ought not depend on him, or upon Doriath, or Menegroth, or any of it! You can find joy in this world still Artanis! Celebrimbor has much to recommend him: he is one of the chief smiths of Gondolin, a man of keen mind, very handsome in appearance, skilled in all manner of arts, a courageous warrior, and possessed of a kind heart."

"He is not so kind as you think," she said, "he is extraordinarily possessive, most especially of me."

"Why can you not at least speak to him? Why can you not accept that he may have grown in character? You have not seen him for nearly a century now."

"And I have been all the happier for it," Artanis retorted.

"You are not happy now," Finrod said and Artanis stopped her pacing. "Perhaps you will find that you could be happy with him. You could be a lady of Gondolin, Artanis, everything that you want he can offer to you, and he will. At least speak to him, I beg of you, he has brought you an extraordinary gift and…it would make me happy if I were to see you joyful again."

"What I want I will win by my own hand. I very much doubt that I shall find any happiness in Celebrimbor," Artanis replied, her anger abating, "but for your sake, Finrod, I will at least speak to him." And, having so said, she swept from the room, leaving an exhausted Finrod to collapse upon his throne. His sister was, as ever, very difficult and, of late, his thoughts were growing darker.

Artanis had intended to greet Celebrimbor rather angrily but, as she strode to the smithies, she found that her heart was turned by that strange fascination that sometimes comes over one when meeting someone you have not seen in a very long time and so, though she did not greet him with any particular joy, neither did she greet him with anger.

"Hello Celebrimbor," she said, and she wondered if something of the Sindar had rubbed off on her for he jumped upon hearing her words behind him, as though he had not heard her approach.

"Artanis!" He turned as though he meant to embrace her but drew back, sensing her unease. "Forgive me," he said with a broad smile, "it is just that I am so very pleased to see you. It has been a long while since last we met." He was a handsome elf, tall, with mahogany dark hair that hung long and straight behind him, a strip of fabric was about his forehead and tied behind his head, keeping his hair out of his eyes. His clothes were stylish, as ever, and meticulously clean, despite the fact that he worked in a smithy. He wore a white linen shirt that was open at the collar over which he wore a red velvet vest embroidered with gold stitching and fastened with golden clasps that were emblazoned with the seal of Finwe. His breeches were of a rich brown and his boots were fawn colored, with gold toes. He wore a thick oilskin apron that was tied about his waist and neck, the sign of a smith.

"And I am surprised to see you," she replied. One never needed to make much effort when in conversation with Celebrimbor, for he was of such a gregarious character that he could steer a conversation in any which direction with seemingly little effort. His remarkable tact and charm, she thought, stood in stark contrast to Celeborn's rough speech and straightforward, brash mannerisms. Celebrimbor, she was sure, would never dare to ask her any of the bold and uncomfortable questions that Celeborn frequently had.

"I thought you might be," he said, "and I apologize for that. I know that you must not be very pleased that I am here and I will keep my distance, if that is what you wish." Artanis could not help but be a bit shocked by such open acknowledgement of this fact from him, for the matter of his pursuit of her and her continued rejection of him had been a sore issue for over a century. Perhaps he had grown in character after all. "But I have heard from Finrod that you have been very unhappy of late and, well, it did pain me to hear that." Artanis silently cursed her brother for divulging this information. "Then I thought," he said, with great excitement, "that perhaps I could craft something for you, something that would heal your heart and bring you joy again, something spectacular."

He stepped away from his workbench and took to hand a small and elegantly carved cedar box. "It is my finest work," he told her, smiling proudly, coming to stand before her and holding it out. She stepped forward only because she wished to be polite and not to injure him with harsh rejection, but she could see nothing spectacular about this box. Yes, the carvings were very fine, and the smell of the cedar was lovely, but it was not spectacular.

"Are the engravings of the Gardens of Lorien?" She asked him with feigned curiosity.

"They are indeed," he said, grinning broadly, "for well do I recall how you used to dance there."

Only because you followed me and watched me when I was unaware, she thought. But it was a very generous gesture and she ought to show more gratitude, she reasoned with herself and so she said, "thank you, Celebrimbor, that is very kind of you."

"No!" He laughed, "you must open it."

"Oh," she said, feeling foolish, and, somewhat awkwardly she reached out to flip open the small silver clasp and lift the lid. What lay inside left her breathless: There, atop a cushion of silk the color of the midnight sky lay the most beautiful stone that she had ever seen aside from the Silmarils themselves. It was the size of a small chicken's egg and of the most marvelous green, as though all of the colors of the leaves of summer were encapsulated within its crystal, the deep green of maple leaves and the cheery bright green of the beech, the richness of the elm and the silvery green of the willow. And within this stone they would be ever verdant, ever living, not subject to the passing of time or the harsh seasons as the leaves on the trees. And, perhaps most magnificent of all, it shone with the sheen of the sun passing through a verdant canopy of leaves, casting a soft, dappled golden glow about it. It was set in a broach of flawless silver, formed in the shape of an eagle so lifelike that she would not have been surprised to see it take flight from the cushion upon which it sat. And this was threaded on a chain of silver.

"I would have made you a Silmaril if I were able," he said, "so that you could always look upon the light of the trees but, alas, this will have to suffice I fear. It is not so simple as it looks," he said, "for as I have told you, I wished to see you smile again and so this stone is imbued with special properties so that it will show things that are withered or burnt or destroyed as though healed and whole again, and whosoever wears this stone will bring healing from hurt for it is imbued with the light of living things."

"Celebrimbor," she gasped, very much overwhelmed by his generosity, "I do not know what to say! It is…it is phenomenal. There is nothing, save the Silmarils, that surpasses its beauty." It was true, and she was almost afraid to touch something this magnificent, yet she could hardly restrain herself, reaching out with a trembling hand.

"Artanis," he said, taking her hand, "I am only an elf and I have my faults, but my heart is true. Can we not begin anew? Will you not do me the honor of wearing this, the finest of my creations?"

"I will wear it," she said, "if it pleases you, but I cannot make you any promises at this time." For even as she looked upon the magnificent jewel a sharp pang of sadness had shot through her as she remembered the gift, the only gift that Celeborn had given her, the name Galadriel, a gift that she had shunned and despised until that moment when it was all that remained of their ruined love. And then she had whispered it over and over in the darkest hours of the night as though it were a litany and, by saying it a thousand upon a thousand times, she might possibly become that woman that he had seen fit to grace with such a name.

But Celebrimbor seemed not to notice her sudden sadness through the immensity of his joy and he took the stone from its chest and clasped the silver chain about her neck, the brooch itself falling to settle in the cleft between the swell of her breasts and she looked down, watching it hanging there.

"This is the Elessar," Celebrimbor whispered, his hand gently tilting her chin up so that she looked at him rather than the jewel, "may it bring you much joy." He smiled and then released her, returning to his work, and they only passed a few more moments in conversation before she took her leave of him, for he was eager to start his crafting, but Artanis spent many an hour wandering about the palace and she knew Celebrimbor's words to be true, for the magic of the jewel seemed to work upon her even as a drug or a heady perfume so that everything that had before reminded of her pain now brought her only the happiest thoughts and broken things now appeared new, not least of all her heart.