Caged Birds
In Cavern's Shade: 16th Chapter
"Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist,
I will still not have the power to forget you."
- Ovid
Author's note: I swear that this is the last of the super long chapters (for now). Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and especially to everyone who reviewed! I really appreciate it!
There was a reason that Thingol had given the task of alerting the green elves and the Avari to Celeborn. It was true that Beleg and Maglor were superior warriors, though not by very much, or so Celeborn liked to think to himself. But, there was none who knew the land better than Celeborn, not even Thingol himself, and even Melian, for all of her prescience and power, could not sense the earth as well as he.
Finding the green elves had been easy enough, for though they were adept at hiding from the Noldor and especially from Melkor's beasts, they had no reason or desire to hide from the Sindar. And, having fought together for hundreds of years, the Sindar were well accustomed to their ways and could track them easily.
They had journeyed to Arthorien, within the guarded forests of Doriath where the guest elves were and then onwards to Ossiriand, where some of Denethor's people still lived outside of the girdle. Whereas the elves of Arthorien had come out readily to greet them, the elves of Ossiriand had been harder to find, having become accustomed to hiding from Melkor's orcs. Yet, when they had seen that it was Celeborn and a host from Menegroth that approached they had readily revealed themselves, listening in full to the message.
After that, Celeborn's party had turned southward, seeking the Avari and this would be a difficult search for the Avari preferred to remain hidden and unknown, even from the Sindar, for whom they bore no love. They were a secretive people and did not congregate in large numbers as the green elves did. Rather, they were grouped into tribes, nomadic groups that travelled in small numbers of fifteen to twenty led by a chieftain. Other than that they had no centralized structure and their chieftains met only in times of dire emergency. The last time that Celeborn had seen any of them had been at the Battle of Beleriand and even then not many of them had come.
But the Sindar were not searching at random. There was a particular Avarin tribe that Celeborn was tracking, for if any could be called the king of the Avari it was this chieftain in particular. His name was Amdir and he was part Avari by birth, though his mother had been a Sinda of Doriath. He had lived as a Sinda once upon a time, a march warden of Doriath and Thingol's ambassador to the Avari until the battle of Beleriand.
How very distant that seemed, Celeborn thought, the times when they had fought in segregated units, but at the time it had seemed only natural. For the green elves naturally preferred to follow Denethor, their own king, and though there had been Avarin born soldiers in the ranks of Doriath's march wardens, they had refused to serve under Sindarin commanders and would follow either Amdir or no one. But it was not all because Green Elves and Avari did not want to fight under Sindarin commanders, part of their aversion, and it was no small part, was due to the distaste that Sindarin soldiers had for elves that, in their minds, had ignored the summons of the Valar.
"If they will not follow even the Valar, then they certainly will not follow us into battle! They will break rank and abandon us to be slaughtered by Melkor's creatures!" They had whispered not so quietly in the alehouses in the years before the battle. "Those who would deny the Valar know nothing of loyalty! How can we trust them as allies?" And Celeborn felt shame wash over him as he remembered how he had sat quietly and listened to such talk. He could easily excuse it by saying that he had been young and had not known any better, but the truth was that it had not been so very long ago and he had not been so young as to merit such ignorance.
And yet everyone, it seemed, had accepted it as a natural thing that the regiments should be segregated. Only Mablung had spoken out against it, saying that as Sindar, Avari, and Green Elves all die the same he saw no reason why they ought not die together. He had been largely ignored and yet, in the end, it was Mablung who had proven the most prescient of all. But it had not been the Green Elves or the Avari who had abandoned the Sindar. Indeed, it was they who had been abandoned.
The Sindar had set out from Menegroth, a great army riding beneath the brilliant blue and silver of Thingol's banners, their armor and mail shining in the light of the stars. A great Sindarin army they had been, riding behind their King, and Celeborn himself had ridden at Thingol's side, for he had been given command of the eastern flank of the army, a prestigious post for one so young, but he was a prince of Doriath. Mablung had been on the western flank with Thingol commanding the main part of the army and Beleg's archers sped through the trees overtop of the galloping horses below.
Celeborn's heart had been filled with joy and with such excitement as he had never known before, for this was his chance at last to prove himself worthy of the great position that his uncle had granted to him, and an opportunity to prove his manhood in war. It was patriotism that had made his heart beat and he had been proud, oh so proud, to know that he was a Sinda by birth, a prince of the blood of Doriath. And when they had first broken from the forest to the east, coming upon Melkor's army, the sound of arrows whistling through the air had been to him the sweetest of sounds.
The army had cheered, and shouted, and chanted their war songs, but their voices began to falter and die as Belegur's army approached, for they saw now what his army was and it was then that they began to understand the full extent of Melkor's malice. Marching towards them were orcs, yes, but they were not as the other orcs they had discovered, for those had been strange creatures, blackened, charred as if burnt, of a strange build and they had not known where Belegur had discovered such creatures.
But as the army advanced, as they drew closer, they began to understand that he had not discovered them at all…he had…created them. It was all a perversion, a mockery of them, of elves. For the creatures marching towards them now were not yet orcs, but they were no longer elves either, though they had been once. They had been twisted and broken, but their faces were still familiar, faces of those they had once known, those they had once loved: friends and family, husbands and wives.
Celeborn's heart had broken out into a furious beat and his confidence, his pride of but a few moments earlier was entirely crushed and defeated, fear and despair quickly filling the vacuum left behind. Even his hands were trembling now and he did not feel like a general, though he was one, in shining new armor atop a fine charger, but as a child, and he wanted nothing more than to flee back to Menegroth and hide himself behind Melian's skirts but he stood, transfixed, as all of them stood, unable to believe this horror marching towards them.
A great crying and wailing rose up from the ranks of the Sindar and Celeborn turned towards Thingol, breathless, but the King's visage was calm as the calmest sea and he turned towards Celeborn and Mablung, who himself looked uncharacteristically shaken. "Do you see that?" He asked quietly. "That is what war is. That is who Belegur is. Look upon it well and do not forget it all the days of your life."
And then the king turned away, drawing his sword and raising it high in the air. "Doriath with me!" He cried. "Make ready to attack."
Celeborn gripped his axe with still trembling hands, trying to settle himself and called out in what he hoped was a voice more secure than he felt, "eastern flank with me!" He could hear the creaking of the bows as Beleg's archers, hidden in the tree line, nocked their arrows.
"Loose!" Thingol called, and the hail of white tipped arrows flew forth. "For Beleriand!" And they had charged.
It had not been the first time that Celeborn had killed. Indeed, he had been a warden since he was in his twenties, and yet something about killing seemed more difficult to him now, almost as though his heart were rebelling against it. Belegur had done this on purpose to mock them. Yet still he pushed forward, swinging his battle axe from the back of his horse, cutting his foes down as he rode, and his army followed him to the east as they had been trained to do, until they had moved against the eastern side of Belegur's army while Thingol pushed from the front and Mablung from the west. Having boxed the orcs in they were able to cut them down easily, and yet it was slow going simply because of the sheer numbers of them.
For many long hours the battle raged and Celeborn was soaked with sweat and with blood, some of it his own, by the time that the messenger came riding up to him. "Your Royal Highness," the elf woman gasped, quite out of breath, "King Denethor is trapped on Amon Ereb and requests immediate assistance."
"What? How can that be?" Celeborn exclaimed incredulously. "He was to rendezvous with us here, not there! Why has he proceeded alone to Amon Ereb?"
"I do not know your highness," the messenger said. "But King Thingol has ordered all forces to advance upon Amon Ereb with all haste, lest the Green Elves be overrun and routed."
"Tell the King that I have received his command and will obey," Celeborn said tersely and the messenger turned, galloping back towards where Thingol must be. "Forward!" Celeborn commanded and they leapt into the fray, pushing hard, as hard as they were able, for the hill in the distance. What could have caused Denethor to advance before they had planned it?
It was hard fighting, pushing through Belegur's army now, and Celeborn was aware that his numbers were dwindling, though his army was so great that many remained. His horse was cut out from beneath him and he fell, the soldiers swarming around to protect him, but he rose, cutting his way forward once more.
Thingol had gotten there first and by the time that they had reached the hill, Belegur's forces had drawn back somewhat. The fighting trailed off and at last stopped, during which there was a lull in the battle of a few hours while both sides regrouped. It was not good, Celeborn knew. He could see Thingol's sullen face from the crest of the hill and yet even as he climbed it he grew conscious of the fact that the bodies he was climbing over were those of green elves, not orcs. It had been a massacre. And when he reached the top of the hill at last he saw Thingol there, kneeling upon the ground, and cradled in his lap was Denethor's head, his body having been shot through with a myriad of black arrows.
"We were too late," Thingol whispered. "And all for nothing. They were slaughtered even as we pressed forward, needlessly spending Sindarin lives for a rescue that had failed before it began." He sounded angry and yet there were unspent tears in his eyes.
"Their armor was too weak!" Celeborn cried, angry, looking down at the corpses that surrounded him. They were dressed only in their usual clothing with sparse leather armor, carrying thin hunting bows, not the massive, strong, war bows that the Sindar carried. "Why would he go into battle with an army so ill prepared?"
"It is their land too," Thingol said, laying Denethor upon the ground and rising. "They have the right to fight for it, die for it if they see fit."
"Then they should have come to us!" Celeborn fumed. "We could have outfitted them properly."
"Do you think so?" Thingol said, turning to his nephew with an appraising eye. "I think they would rather have died as Green Elves than put on Sindarin armor."
"Then they were fools!" Celeborn cried, dismayed at the terrible loss of life, but his uncle turned upon him with savagery.
"They died in the way they saw fit, as they would have wished to die! You should learn before you speak! You are too young to know these things. My trust in you was misplaced. I can see that now. Come, I will take counsel." The king stalked back down the hill. "Burn the bodies," he instructed a commander whom he passed. "And do it quickly. I will not have those who died with honor perverted by the orcs."
They descended the hill to the King's war tent, which had only just now been erected, and entered within. Thingol's rebuke still burned hot in Celeborn's chest and he felt awash with shame, with anger. Beleg was not there, for he and his archers were moving in the tree tops, picking off Belegur's commanders, but Mablung was there, breathing hard, his shining armor dulled by blood and dirt, and Saeros as well, looking as upset as one could have expected to find him, given that nearly all of his kinsmen had just been slain. A few other commanders milled about yet just as they were about to convene about Thingol's war table a messenger burst through the door.
"Your Royal Highness," he addressed the king, "Beleg's scouts are reporting that the Avarin army has been cut off to the North. They are taking heavy casualties. Perhaps that is what urged Denethor to go forward ahead of time. He may have been seeking to help or extract them."
Thingol bristled. "I have not the strength nor the forces to seek to rescue yet another rogue army!" He cried. "We already sustained such dire losses in seeking to aid Denethor, and it was all for naught; he had already been slain! How could I possibly consider another such foolish attempt?"
"We cannot abandon them!" Oropher cried.
"We can and we must," Mablung replied. "We suffered heavy casualties in this last bout. We cannot risk doing it again. We might be cut off and we would not be able to fight our way back into Doriath. How many more would die needlessly? We are beyond wrong and right here. This is a matter of numbers and our numbers are insufficient."
"Denethor died because these Avari went rogue!" Saeros cried, having lost complete control of himself. "My people are dead because of them, because of that Amdir! Let him die. Let them all die!"
"Will death remedy death?" Oropher replied.
"Saeros!" Thingol turned on the commander. "This is not a personal matter, do not make it one."
Celeborn said nothing, but the anger was burning hot in his chest, lancing through him like lightening until he thought that he very well might explode with it. He glanced up and his eyes met Oropher's. His cousin seemed to know what he was thinking. The silver haired prince turned and quit the tent, stalking away, ignoring the shouts that followed him, the commands for him to return.
"Give me a horse," he commanded and someone handed him a pair of reins.
"Are you going?" He heard Oropher's voice behind him and turned to his cousin. The golden haired Sinda had fire in his eyes.
"Yes," Celeborn said simply. "I've already disappointed him; I have already lost his trust. What is one more disappointment?"
"Then I'm coming with you," Oropher proclaimed. "When they speak of the elves of Doriath let them not say that we abandoned our comrades to death on the battlefield. You saw those…those creatures that Belegur fashioned, those orcs. How are we any different from them if we abandon our brothers to such a fate? We would be just as twisted, just as foul."
Oropher too found a horse and Celeborn marshaled his army, telling them what he intended to do and informing them that they need not follow him if they did not wish, and some did not, but the greater part of them stepped forward and, turning northwards, they had began the assault.
Celeborn stood with a sigh, leaving his memories of the Battle of Beleriand behind. The ground here yielded no clues as to where Amdir's tribe might be. The Avari were wily and secretive and they knew the outskirts of Beleriand better than the Sindar, better even than the small force of gifted trackers and fighters he had brought with him.
They had travelled in the trees and on the ground, searching for snapped twigs, leaves that had been disturbed. Whenever they came across a cave they had entered it, looking for signs of a fire, yet the Avari were careful and they found very few clues as to their whereabouts, which forced them to proceed more slowly than they would have liked. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months and still they had not found them.
They were often forced to stop for hours at a time so that Celeborn could listen to the voices of the trees or so that he could lay with his ear pressed to the ground, listening. It was the only way that they made any progress and it was the only way they could be sure they were tracking Amdir's tribe.
"We will make camp here," Celeborn directed his wardens and they began to make a fire, unrolling their bedrolls around it, grateful for the rest. Though the daylight made it easier to track the Avari, it was too dangerous to rest at night, when orcs roamed free, and so they had been searching at night and sleeping during the day. Celeborn watched as the wardens set a brace of rabbits over the fire to cook. He did not feel particularly hungry, though he had not eaten in a while.
He had been haunted by the nightmares, the dreams of the Battle of Beleriand, ever since he and Luthien had returned from Himlad. And, as of late, his thoughts disturbed him so much that his appetite had waned, along with his interest in everything else, and so he walked a little ways away from the campsite, climbing a tall beech where he sat in the upper branches, feeling the breeze in his hair, listening to the rustling of the leaves around him, and trying to find some measure of peace.
Yet he was unable to forget the look in Curufin's eyes. It haunted his dreams - that insanity, it took him back to a time when there had been no sun and no moon. He found himself in the midst of the Battle of Beleriand once more, pushing forward and forward, ever forward, slaying orcs as he went, with Oropher at his side. They had seemed almost elven to him before and he had found it difficult to kill them, but now that he had seen what they had done to the Green Elves, what they had done to Denethor, he found almost a perverse delight in feeling the blade of his axe sink into orcish flesh.
Thingol had taught him to look an enemy in the eyes when dealing him death, the last sign of respect, and Celeborn did, enjoying the fear he saw in them, laughing as he rode, beheading them, slicing through their skulls, exposing their brain matter, trampling them beneath the hooves of his horse. The blood sprayed upwards, coating him in red, his armor was slick with it. Red and silver. Curufin holding the lock of hair that he had cut from his head, the bead of red blood trailing down it. Red and silver. Galadriel awash with blood in Alqualonde, surrounded by the corpses of her silver-haired Telerin relatives. Red and silver.
They had almost been too late, but when Celeborn, in a blood rage, had reached that spot where the Avari were, there were some of them still alive and, most miraculously of all, there was Amdir, still standing, though not unhurt.
"Celeborn," he had murmured in grateful thanks as he looked upon the Sindarin prince, "we had thought we would perish…" there was fear in his eyes too and Celeborn realized how he must look, awash in blood. Red and silver.
"Of course they would send you." The voice was quiet, barely indistinguishable from the breeze yet Celeborn's eyes snapped open upon hearing it, but his thoughts of the Battle of Beleriand were not entirely forgotten, for that was the last time that he had ever heard that voice. Amdir. "Don't move. Your wardens do not know I am here." The Avari said. Celeborn could not see Amdir but he could see the two sentinels pacing several yards away, oblivious to the fact that the Avari chieftain was in their midst.
"I will speak to you but I will speak to you alone." The voice was coming from above but Celeborn did not raise his eyes, did not wish to provoke Amdir's ire. If the Avari wished to remain unseen then he would allow him that. "There is a stream about a mile north of here, follow it east until you come to a tall pine. I will meet you there at noon. Bring no one with you." Amdir was gone just as quickly as he had come and Celeborn sat there until noon. It felt strange to be awake during the day.
He looked up at the sun, shining bright overhead, and Finrod's words echoed in his mind for a moment. You do know you're not supposed to look directly at it, don't you Celeborn? The thought of his one time friend nearly brought a smile to his face. It was so bright. He remembered the girl with hair woven of sunlight and, for the first time, it was not apathy or anger that filled his heart, but a hollow sadness. With each passing year the memory of her grew fainter. He had almost forgotten her face and yet he dreaded that the next place Thingol would send him would be Nargothrond. He was afraid of what he might find there, and he did not know why. He pushed the thoughts from his mind with some difficulty but it would not do any good for him to dwell on them, not when he could not even understand his own thoughts.
He dropped to the ground, informing his sentinels that he was going for a brief time and ordering them not to follow. They were worried and expressed their concerns but they obeyed him nonetheless. He made sure that it was so, stopping periodically to see if they were following; they weren't. As the sun blazed high in the sky, he drew closer to the designated place and Amdir dropped from the branches.
Time had changed him. Whatever part of him had been Sindarin seemed to have been completely forgotten. He wore his dark hair closely cropped with the sides shaved so that the only hair on his head was a strip running from his brow to the nape of his neck. His skin was darkly tanned by the sun and he wore no clothing save for a pair of deerskin breeches and short deerskin boots but his ears had been pierced many times over, all the way up to the tips, and polished bits of wood had been inserted in the holes. His bow and quiver were strung over his bare back and he stared at Celeborn with unflinching yellow eyes as the Sinda approached. Several of his followers stepped out from behind the pine and one of them made to bind Celeborn's eyes with a black cloth but Amdir held out a hand, stopping him.
"It would do no good to bind this one. He knows the forest well and does not need his eyes to see," the chieftain said in his tribe's tongue. As with most of the tribes it was a variation on a common Avarin language that Celeborn understood and it was not difficult for him to discern its meaning. "Come." Amdir and his people turned and began to walk through the forest and Celeborn followed. They all wore their hair in a similar style and their backs were thickly muscled, crossed by a network of scars, the price of living outside the girdle; it was a hard life.
They walked for some time, at last approaching what appeared to be a small settlement. There were five tent-like structures there composed of wooden poles over which tanned deer hides had been stretched. The people came out to stare at him, the males dressed in much the same manner as Amdir himself while the women wore short deerskin skirts elaborately embroidered with beads, their breasts uncovered. There were several elflings and these ran about completely naked.
"Let us speak in my tent," Amdir said, pushing aside the flap. They entered and Celeborn saw that there was a dark haired female there, her black hair hanging in a long braid down her back, and a young elfling, no more than three, who stared at him with wide, curious eyes. "My wife, Hwin, and my son, Amroth," Amdir said, placing his hand on the child's head. The boy approached Celeborn, standing toe to toe with the Sinda and staring up at him, arms reaching up. The Sindarin prince bent down and the child grabbed a lock of his silver hair, playing with it while speaking in the Avari tongue.
"The tale I have come to tell is not a happy one. Perhaps it would be best if your son did not hear it." Celeborn said but Amdir waved his hand dismissively.
"He may be young but he has already shed his first blood, a hare. We do not shield our children from unpleasant matters here. It is good for him to hear these things."
"Hwin," he turned to his wife but she merely glared at Celeborn before saying something to her husband in a deep guttural language and exiting the tent. "She is from another tribe, an older tribe. They have no love for your people or your king. Sit," Amdir said and they seated themselves upon the ground while the child played nearby.
"I will not pretend that I am happy to see you for I am not," Amdir spoke now in the tongue of his tribe. "Our only wish is that you Sindar would leave us alone yet you seem incapable of that."
"Then I will not bother with pleasantries," Celeborn said as Amdir packed a pipe full of pipeweed and lit it, taking a long pull from it. He blew the smoke out, watching it rise through the air.
"You have had dealings with the Noldor," Amdir said, passing the pipe to Celeborn, who took a long draw from it.
"With Finrod and Artanis, two of Finarfin's children. The rest have been forbidden entrance to Doriath."
"Why? Have you forgotten how we fought in segregated armies at the Battle of Beleriand, segregated at the command of your king? How are you Sindar any different than them?"
"Things are not that way anymore," Celeborn said. "And that was your legacy. There are many green elves among our ranks, who have chosen to make their homes in Menegroth, and by Thingol's order they mix freely with the Sindar in all matters." Amdir said nothing, but his eyes bore witness to his skepticism.
"Have you forgotten what I did for you?" Celeborn asked. "Thingol would not speak to me for years. My cousin Oropher almost died rescuing you. I almost died. I endangered the lives of my soldiers."
"And you won the battle," Amdir interjected. "Winning requires risk. That is what war is, a king risking the lives of his people, hoping that it pays off. You played your hand and you won. Why should you be upset about it? Thingol created you in his image."
"The Noldor slander me for it but it is only because I know what being a king costs that I do not wish to be one," Celeborn said. "The guilt of what I have done consumes me," His voice filled with anger, his eyes flashing. Amdir respected anger. He sat, observing the silver haired prince.
"I know what you sacrificed," Amdir said, "and I respect it." They were silent for a few moments before the Avari continued.
"You should come live amongst us Celeborn. You would do well as one of us. I saw your frustration all those years ago. They never listened to you either, always jostling for their own personal gain, so eager to step on anyone to get to the top, and I was the lowest of them all, the most expendable, simply because of my Avarin blood. Don't you ever get sick of it all? With wisdom like yours you could be a chieftain, yet you are always relegated when they can form a majority against you. Can you tell me now that things are better, that they still do not conspire against you? They care not for wisdom. Even Thingol allows his passions to rule over his head."
"I am more cunning than they and I have learned to manipulate them well. It is not often nowadays that the cards do not fall as I mean them to," Celeborn said. It was only a half truth. His worries about Saeros and the matter of the logging at Hithrim clouded his mind.
"In other words you have become one of them."
"I do not act on my own behalf but for the good of Doriath and her people."
"Their good, as you judge it."
"Have you not just said that you trust my judgment?"
"I suppose I did," Amdir smiled at last but it was not a true smile. "Yet word has reached me that you have taken one of these Noldo, this Artanis as you called her, into your bed."
"Things between she and I have been finished for many decades now," Celeborn replied dismissively.
"It will be better for you. If there is anything worse than your people it is most certainly the Noldor."
"You are a hypocrite Amdir. You want equality amongst Sindar and Green Elves and Avari yet you are all too willing to place divisions between our people and the Noldor," Celeborn said as Amdir passed the pipe back to him.
"You can call it what you like Celeborn, call it hypocrisy, but I gave up on ideals a long time ago and it would behoove you to do the same. Use them when they are useful and discard them when it will benefit you to do so. It is the only way to survive. Thingol taught me that lesson by example, when he left me to die on a battlefield, and I learned it well. Long did I wait, trusting in the King's word while my wardens were slaughtered around me and in the end he betrayed me. If I had had the courage to act on my own as I do now then I might have found another way out before so many of my soldiers sacrificed their lives for me. You can speak of honor but first I would ask you walk the field of Amon Ereb and ask those who fell in the battle what good honor did them." They sat in silence and Celeborn passed the pipe back to Amdir.
"I am sick of this, for I have spoken of it many times and I do not wish to speak of it anymore," Amdir said, sounding suddenly frustrated. "Let us speak of other things. Why have you come here? It had better not be because your lot is going to war again."
"No, we are not. I have brought you a warning, for we have received the worst sort of news and Thingol wished you to know and to spread the word to the others." Then he told Amdir the entire tale: of how the Noldor had first come to Menegroth, of all that had occurred while they were there, of how they had finally come to know of the Silmarils and, at last, how Artanis had told them of the kinslaying." When he had heard the entire tale Amdir sat in silence, his jaw clenched and darkness in his eyes. It was a long while before he spoke and the pipe lay at his side, forgotten, cold.
"Only when the last tree has died and the last river has been poisoned and the last fish been caught will they realize they cannot eat jewels," Amdir said at last. "I never could have expected this. It is very dark news indeed, worse than anything I could have imagined. Something tells me this is the beginning of the end." His yellow eyes met Celeborn's, confirming that the same thought lurked at the back of the Sinda's mind.
"I cannot leave Menegroth but you could go, all of you, taking your people east over the mountains. They have kin there who would provide you refuge." Celeborn said but Amdir laughed at the prince's words.
"Take them east? This is their home and they would sooner die than leave these forests. I am their chief, not their king. It is they who make the decisions, not I. I am merely the guide. And will you stay in Menegroth even in the event that Doriath comes to stand between them and their oath?"
"I will remain where I belong, in Doriath," Celeborn replied simply.
"And so we have made the same choice," Amdir said.
She already knew it was he, she had been summoned after all, but her heart seemed to quell with each step that she took across the cold and unforgiving marble towards the door, for as much as she wished, as much as she dreamed in all of her dreams that he would take her into his arms and kiss her and call her his Galadriel once more, she knew that she could not expect such a happy reception and, more than that, that she did not deserve one. And for all of the courage and confidence that she had spoken to Finrod with regarding Celeborn, faced with the prince himself now she found both courage and confidence to be swiftly fading.
She had thought to pause and recoup herself before the door for a few moments but no, it wouldn't do; he would have heard her coming and he would know that she dallied. Grasping the golden handle she pulled and her heart dropped to her feet the second she entered the room for there he was. There was Celeborn. And, as much as she had wished to see him again, had longed for that moment and feared it would never come, so had she dreaded it with her entire being, feared seeing derision and anger in eyes where she had once seen love, the pained expression of one whom she had wronged in the worst and most intimate way, or, worst of all, nothing. And so she could not bring herself to look at him directly but cast her eyes to the floor. This was to be no lovers meeting.
He stood from his seat at the table as was proper upon the entrance of a lady and she saw that he had indeed come on official business, not personal, for he was dressed in the garb of an emissary, fine clothes the like of which he had only worn on the most somber of occasions. Over his shoulders was a gray cape, the collar of which was lined with white wolf's fur and clasped with a green enamel brooch in the shape of a leaf. His star-bright hair cascaded over his shoulders like a stream of pure silver and upon his brow was the crown of the prince of Doriath. Its dangling accouterments jingled as he seated himself once more.
He had chosen his clothing carefully she knew, and the point had been made: she was a subject before a foreign prince, the lord of a sovereign nation, and she bowed carefully, eyes downcast, before seating herself opposite him. She dared not meet his gaze, both afraid of what she might find there and conscious of her own weakness, already moisture had gathered in her eyes and she tried to will it away, concentrating on the table that sat between them rather than his face, even as her heart leapt about like a rabbit in her chest. Her shoulders were shaking. She had meant to be brave, calm, collected, but she had not expected it to be this difficult and she found that all she wanted to do was shout at him in anger and pain.
The table at which they sat was not a very large table but it was stacked with parchment, and quills, and ink. He had come for information then. She traced the engraved vines on the edge of the table with a finger, needing something to occupy the long silence, but it seemed inappropriate and so she abandoned the self appointed task, clasping her hands in her lap instead, finding that they were trembling, clutching the lock of hair she held.
"Lady Artanis, I have come seeking information per the request of Thingol, King of Doriath, High King of Beleriand, and Lord of the Sindar." He spoke without looking up. It was a voice she had not heard in so very long and the sound of it rattled her soul. "I submit for your perusal the subpoena, sealed by the king himself, ordering your testimony as to the characters of the persons listed therein. Please remember that you swear your testimony to be the whole and entire truth to the best of your knowledge and that, if it is found that your testimony is false in part or in whole that you will be subject to punishment in accordance with the laws of Doriath," he pushed the document across the table at her and she looked at it, numb.
Their hands were separated by the span of a mere inch yet an inch could be miles depending upon the map used to read it and though she felt the warmth of him so very near to her, she knew that his heart was many leagues away, or at least he acted as though it were. But beneath his collected demeanor she sensed some inner turmoil and her heart began to burn with fury. Was this how it was to be? Where has his straightforwardness, where had his honesty gone? There were so many things that had been left unsaid between them but it seemed that he would rather feign he had never known her. They were both acting, and neither one of them was particularly adept at it.
"Have you read and understood this document?" He asked her. For all of his coldness it was as though they had never even met before yet she remembered every night that she had spent in his bed, in his embrace; she remembered the warmth of him, every line of him, the touch of his lips upon her skin.
"I have," she replied tersely, placing it back upon the table and returned her hands to her lap, clenching them there. He removed the cork from the inkpot and dipped a long quill in, blotting it before poising his hand. It would be more usual for a scribe to take dictation but he meant to do it himself. She remembered that he had told her he did that to concentrate when his heart was troubled and yet she suspected that his reasons now ran even deeper than that: that he wished for privacy. And she found she was very glad indeed that they were in private, for there were many things she wished to say to him and she was determined to speak her mind.
"Shall we begin?" He asked.
"If it is information that you desire then would it not profit you more, my lord, to speak to Finrod Felagund? He is the lord of Nargothrond, not I," she said, pointedly, but it provoked no reaction from him.
"I have already had words with Felagund," he said. "Thingol wishes to know what lies in their hearts. Looking into others' minds is your realm of expertise is it not?" He said, still not looking at her though she had at last gathered the courage to raise her eyes to him, incensed by his answer, and tears sprang to her eyes now, all regard for comportment gone. How dare he sit there and pretend that this was nothing, that he cared not at all?
"You once called that a gift! You swore to stand by my side in my troubles and now you will use them, use me as a weapon?" She asked him. He looked up then, his eyes lingering briefly upon the Elessar, and she wondered if he had not noticed it before and if that was because he had not looked at her since she had entered, just as she had avoided looking at him. He raised his eyes to meet hers then, and his were cold, though not devoid of emotion, an emotion she did not understand.
"You have been ordered to comply by Thingol himself for the protection of Doriath," he said, his voice dangerous. "If you do not wish to comply then I will be left with no choice but to put you under arrest."
"At least if you arrest me you shall have to take me back to Menegroth," she spat, "even if it is in shackles."
"Menegroth – where you are hated, despised, loathed, where your name is the foulest of curses!" He shouted and his words, the release of what he had been holding back, shocked her into silence. He seemed to recover from his brief outburst of anger then but she could tell that there was much he wished to say that remained unsaid, angry bitter words, and he could no longer pretend that he was not uneasy. "We were under the impression that you wished to work against the Feanorians," he said instead, but she could tell that his anger was seething just beneath the surface.
"I do," she replied, calming herself again though her own anger simmered at the back of her mind. There were many things that remained unsaid, things that ought to have been said long ago, but had now festered like open sores for the better part of a century. "I will comply." And she would, for now, but not forever.
"Very well," he wiped away a spot where the ink had dripped. "Let us begin. What do you know of Maedhros Feanorian?"
She told him the entire tale then, testifying to the character of each of her cousins, being careful to spare no detail. She spoke of the terrible oath of Feanor, of Maedhros's sense of duty as the firstborn that had driven him to be the first to swear to it. She spoke of Maglor, the kindest of her cousins who, though he regretted the kinslaying with all of his heart would still not turn from the oath he had sworn, and of Celegorm and Curufin who were never seen one without the other, telling of the strange illness that had invaded their minds, darkening them and causing them to dwell upon perverse thoughts that did not commonly enter the minds of the eldar. She told him of Caranthir as well, the quickest to anger and the last to forgive. Lastly she told him the sad tale of Amrod and of his twin Amras, killed by his own father. And though she hoped that the information she was providing would be useful to Thingol, the greater part of her heart was given over to sadness, for well did she remember her cousins in their youth, the promise that each of them had shown, the opportunities they might have had with their lives, but now it was as if those people she had once known were now strangers to her.
"Maedhros and Maglor are reasonable. But these three: Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir, they are the most dangerous of Feanor's sons," she cautioned him, "and you would do well to avoid them altogether. For their minds have been warped by evil and they kill because they have come to enjoy it, because it pleases them. If it is protection that you seek then you should watch these three with particular caution and you should instruct Thingol to do the same and to trust nothing you might hear from them." Her words trailed off into silence and Celeborn seemed to be pondering whether or not to speak.
"Celegorm, and especially Curufin, I have already seen with my own eyes," he said then, almost as though he were confiding in her, as though what he had seen of her cousins had shaken him to his core. "What you have told me coincides with what I observed myself." His words confirmed the rumors that she had heard and she felt her anger dissipate as quickly as mist.
"You should not have gone there," she said then, the words falling from her lips as though she were powerless to stop them, her heart trembling in fear, concern overwhelming her pride, "for they love nothing more than to kill." The image of silver Telerin scalps hanging from her cousins' belts was still fresh in her mind. "Indeed, I have already heard tell of your visit there and my heart was greatly troubled by it for I fear for you, and for Luthien also, for those three do not easily forget a slight, whether real or presumed, and I am certain that you have not seen the last of Curufin. At worst they will seek you out and at the least they will cause you trouble whenever the opportunity presents itself." Then, for the first time in the many hours that they had been speaking, did she see Celeborn show any sign of misgiving for he had not expected her to know that he had been there and it had shaken his collected façade if only a little. And she wondered at what Curufin must have done to disturb Celeborn so.
"Who told you this?" He asked her, his eyes flashing, sensing that something yet was unspoken. It was then that she unclenched her shaking fist to reveal a lock of silver hair stained with blood, his own, a part of what Curufin had taken those years ago.
"Curufin…" he said, his voice a whisper.
"Valar," she gasped, her voice sounding as though it was about to break. "You do not know how I feared for you, how foolish it was for you to go to Himlad!" But the sight of that lock of hair, the sight of red and silver, dredged up angry memories long suppressed and feelings that were confusing to Celeborn, perplexing beyond his ability to understand them.
"Who told you?" He asked again, angrier this time, the anger supplanting those old memories, providing him a means of escape from them.
"Celebrimbor, son of Curufin," she replied, casting her eyes down once more, for she did not wish to speak of him. "He is here and heard by letter from his father. But I had a letter from Curufin as well, and I knew the lock of hair it contained to be yours. I feared for your life. You do not know, Celeborn, how terrified I was for your life."
"You have continued to associate with the Feanorians," he said. "And here I thought that was one of Curufin's lies. If that is true then how much truth was in what else he said? Look at me!" He commanded, angrily and she complied, watching the flush of anger spread across his face.
"Celebrimbor came uninvited," she replied, meeting his gaze with firm eyes. "But he is not like the rest of them. Never did he raise his sword to slay his kin. Never have his words leant credence to the deeds of his father or his uncles. Indeed, he speaks out against them and condemns their wicked deeds." Celeborn was intensely interested now, his eyes boring into hers, seeking answers for what he suspected, for the questions that remained unspoken. The silence stretched between them as taut as a tripwire.
"Is it true that he came to court you?" Celeborn whispered at last, not a shy whisper, but the sort that came from a throat so dry that the speaker could hardly speak; the question that needed asking, the question that she did not wish to answer.
"It is. And what should it matter to you?" It was a cruel question to ask and his jaw tightened in response. She pressed her sweaty palms flat against the table, meeting his gaze with fire of her own, and she feared her own anger: that she would lash out and say how she had confided in him that she had a terrible secret, that knowing this he had still made pledges to her that he no longer kept, that he had betrayed her as well. And yet, she could hardly blame him for having broken them. She wanted so badly to remain cool, to remain calm, but she was quickly losing her control.
He stood, walking around the table and she gasped as she felt his hand against her chest, lifting the Elessar, turning it back and forth in the light. The touch startled her and she looked up, meeting his eyes. "Did he give you this?" He asked, his voice deep, thick with emotion.
"Yes," she replied, feeling as though her heart had skipped a beat. Celeborn's hand tightened around the stone, enclosing it within his fist, and she half wondered if he meant to tear it away.
"You have agreed to marry him…" Celeborn said.
"Do not put words in my mouth," she commanded with fire of her own. "I have done no such thing!"
"Then why do you wear his jewel?" Celeborn cried, and the anger was written clearly upon his face now. "This is a marriage custom among your people is it not?" He released the Elessar as if it had burned him. "Have you forgotten me so quickly, so easily?"
"And why should you care?" She cried again, meeting fire with fire and she flew up from her seat, slamming her hands upon the table. "You stopped loving me ere I said anything of the secret! You tried to bind yourself to me though you loved me not! I have not forgotten the tears you shed as you lay in my arms! Do you think that that did not tear my heart into shreds! And what of all of the promises you made me? What of your promises to help me, to always listen to my council, to love me? I told you that you would not love me if you knew who I truly was and you swore that was not true! You once wanted to marry me, Celeborn! Have you forgotten?"
"I have forgotten nothing of the promises I made you while I was yet deceived!" Celeborn shouted back, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "But I did not think you were a murderer, a traitor! And what of the promise of our future together? What of our dreams? I wanted to marry you! Did you think I was not serious? Did you think it was just a dalliance for me? Why did you ever agree to courtship if in secret you planned for my destruction? Was it because you never loved me? I thought you would be the mother of my children! I dreamed of building a home with you! And you ripped all of that away from me because of your own selfishness, because you cared more for your own security than for my dreams, our dreams! I was slandered in my own court for my associations with you but still I defended you, I believed in you, I loved you!"
"But you loved Doriath more!" She shrieked, angry tears bubbling in her eyes.
"How typical of you, Artanis! You can never be second in anyone's affections can you? Yet you will place everyone else second to your greatest love: yourself. Even now you string poor Celebrimbor along because you cannot bear for him, for anyone to look at you with distaste!" The tears nearly spilled from her eyes, for his words stung with the worst sting of all: truth. Trust Celeborn to be so brutally honest; Celebrimbor would never have dared to tell her the naked truth, though she suspected he had thought it before.
"I love Doriath more than you and I love this earth more than you and I always have and I always will! I am not one of you Calaquendi! Do not expect me to act like one! If you loved me, if you truly loved me, then you would know that and you would accept it, you would have accepted it a long time ago! I am a Moriquendi, Artanis, and that is what it means to love a Moriquendi! It means taking second place! It is a hard truth, I know, but I will not deceive you, even if you have deceived me!"
"Do not use that word!" She cried, incensed. "It is foul and I will not hear it!"
"Won't you?" He cried. "The rest of your people seem to have no problem with it. Indeed, Curufin insists upon using it. Is that not the company you keep nowadays? Go to Celebrimbor then, and tell him some twisted version of the truth as you always do to your suitors. I am sure that he will comfort you with the words of a man deceived, as I once did, but now I will speak the truth or I will not speak at all."
"You want to know why I wear his jewel?" She cried, brandishing the Elessar, her eyes full of tears. "Do you want to accuse me of having forgotten you so easily and quickly? You do not know your own power, Celeborn. I wear this because it reminds me of your eyes! Yes, he is good, and kind, and noble, and handsome and yes, very probably I could marry him and be happy, but not while you yet live. For beside my love for you, the affection I bear him is as hollow as chaff after a harvest, so easily lifted and dispersed by the breeze, gone as quickly as the seasons. But my love for you is as the eternal rocks beneath this earth, neither great, nor splendid, nor beautiful, but necessary, more necessary to me than the air I breathe. For with you I saw some glimpse of a greater world and I would move heaven and earth itself to see it for but a moment more."
Her words conjured the memory of the night when they had first kissed and she did not doubt that, at that moment, he recalled it too. There was a flash in his eyes, some darkness there that she had not seen before and suddenly he seemed to snap; screaming in rage he grabbed the clay inkpot and threw it with all of his might against the wall where it exploded, painting the stone with a fresh bloom of black ink that dripped and ran to the floor like blood from a wound.
His shoulders shook and he turned towards her, looking for all the world like a man haunted by anger and torment. "I do not know," he said, his words a strangled whisper, "if what I feel for you could be called love for it dwells so near to hatred, like twin brothers at their mother's breast," his voice lapsed into silence until all she could hear was the faint drumming of her frightened heart within her chest.
"Celeborn…" she whispered, half fearful as he turned towards her, fists and shoulders trembling, his eyes unreadable yet troubled, as though a hurricane churned in the depths of him. He strode towards her and she stepped back, feeling the edge of the table connect with her legs, and the next thing she knew he had gripped her arms, painfully tight, pressing her back hard against the table. He had never been gentle but he was even less so now and the fierce look in his eyes startled her at the same time as it appealed to her more basic nature as well, as ever it had. She understood his words now, for she too knew not whether she wanted to kill him or make love to him.
He grabbed her hips, pushing her up onto the table as she watched his eyes, both of them breathing hard, feeling his hands beneath her skirt, forcing it up, pulling her tight to him. He seemed to struggle, as though he wished to speak but could not bring himself to say the words and she could feel his hands trembling where they gripped her skin tightly while she wrapped her hands in his silver hair, pulling hard. The intensity of his eyes bore into her own as the minutes passed while words did not. Only the sound of their labored breathing filled the air and she wondered if he meant to take her then and there, knowing that she would not stop him, did not want to stop him.
"Valar," she breathed, "you are more myself than I am." His mouth came down on hers, hard, and she kissed him back with equal fervor as each of them pulled the other desperately against them, as if they could become so close that they would become one. It was as if fire coursed through her, as if she were alight with burning energy, fueled so fully that she could take on anyone: her brothers, her cousins, or Thingol, or Mandos, even Morgoth himself. That power, raw and aching, moved through her, filled her, made her tremble. When Celeborn kissed her she feared nothing. And for all the beauty of Celebrimbor's Elessar, for all its magic, it had not that power.
But he seemed to regain some control over himself, pulling away, trembling, agitated, still angry, and she could already feel the soreness in her hips where he had gripped them. There would be bruises in the morning to remember him by. "No…" he stammered, "no…I don't want this." He backed away, as if she were a snake that had just bitten him. And then, putting his emotions away he said, "my apologies." He turned away from her for a moment, "that was a most indecent thing to do. I hope I haven't pained you."
The silence persisted for a few minutes, both of them shaken, before either of them managed to muster words, and it was Celeborn who managed it first. "What is the price that you would ask of me Artanis?" He asked, turning back to her with those dark, accusing eyes. If judgment was an art then Celeborn had perfected it. Slowly, for her hips already hurt where he had gripped her, she slid off of the table, pulling her skirt back down, her heart still pounding within her chest.
"Freedom," she said coldly, though his heat remained imprinted upon her body, seared into her skin where his hands had grasped her shoulders, her thighs, "I have known so many cages: Aman, here, Menegroth. I would be caged no longer."
And Celeborn merely shook his head, the anger gone now and, instead, it seemed that her answer had made him very sad. "I cannot free you from yourself…or your choices," he said, his voice falling.
Turning his eyes from her, he picked up the papers that he had cast to the floor, rolling them up and binding them. She watched him intently, torn. She half wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg for forgiveness. That was all it would take; he had only just now been a mere breath away from confessing that he still loved her too. But she had defended the Teleri after all, and why should he cite her killing of the Feanorians as murder when they had been in the wrong, why should he continue to levy that blame upon her? But he had just rejected her yet again and she had not the courage to endure further rejection. Fear and hope warred in her mind.
And Celeborn glanced at her again, one last time, as if he were waiting, but momentarily he turned, strode to the door and paused with his hand upon the handle. Even now she could stop him, run after him, tell him again that she loved him with all her heart, with all her mind, that she would admit to having done wrong, that she would accept any punishment for his sake, that she was willing to fight for him, for Doriath, that second place was good enough for her.
"Goodbye Galadriel," he said. The door clicked shut behind him and he was gone.
"Goodbye Celeborn," she said into the silence.
"Celebrimbor, I presume," the voice was as cool as water but deep as the ocean itself and Celebrimbor nearly jumped out of his own skin at the shock for he had presumed himself alone and knew not when someone else might have entered the smithy without his knowing, nor how long they had been there.
"And who are you?" He said, looking up from the gemstone he was working on, for he had not recognized the voice. What he saw was a shock indeed, something he had not seen the like of since Alqualonde and nay, not even there.
Sitting there on the stool upon which Artanis customarily sat was a very large elf, taller than Celebrimbor certainly, though he was, perhaps, no stronger than the smith. But it was not his height or his strength that most caught Celebrimbor's eye, it was that hair, pure silver long and straight, like a river of moonlight that spilled over the elf's shoulders both in front and in back. His face was extraordinarily handsome, his skin of a dusky hue, and his eyes, Celebrimbor noted with a sinking feeling as if he would grow sick, were the color of evergreens or of summer leaves, the color of the Elessar, but there was no light in them; this was surely a Sinda, and of the royal house no less, for who else had hair like that.
Yet by his exquisite manner of dress he might have been a Telerin prince of Aman, for his clothes were the finest that Celebrimbor had yet seen an elf of Middle Earth wear and he was attired all in the colors of ice. He wore a long robe of heavy silver silk patterned with herons in flight that were embroidered in white thread. The robe crossed over his chest, secured by a wide belt of watered silk with the color and rich hue of a sapphire which was, in turn, secured by a thin rope of silver that ran over it and was fastened in the center by a silver broach bearing the crest of Thingol. The robe itself seemed to have many collars in various shades of grey and blue that were layered beneath its outer collar, each revealing a glimpse of color at the elf's throat. His boots were of glossy black leather with silver toes and his voluminous cape was of a very heavy navy blue velvet lined with an equally dark blue silk, the pelt of a white and grey wolf making up the collar. On his finger was the signet ring of Thingol, glimmering in the light of the forge, and upon his brow was a crown, simple yet elegant.
He was astonishingly beautiful and yet, though he had not been marked by the light of Aman, it could not be said that this world had not left his mark on him, for his entire form and figure seemed to make manifest a bleak and savage desolation. He appeared as a waterfall in a winter gorge, stunning, and cold, and remote. Celebrimbor felt as though his throat were dry and swallowed, having forgotten entirely what he had been doing, or even what he had said.
"You know who I am," the elf said quietly with not even a glimmer of doubt that his words were true. And indeed it was so, for though Celebrimbor had never laid eyes on Celeborn of Doriath, the High Prince of Beleriand, he knew with absolute certainty that he was the elf before him now. And Celebrimbor wanted so very much to rise up in anger against this cool, calm, elf, to shatter that confident and collected visage as if it were nothing more than fragile glass, to force him to divulge each and every sordid detail of his torrid affair with Artanis only so that he could know her fully and there would be nothing, nothing that she could keep secret from him anymore. But Celeborn used space and silence in the way that most people used swords, standing now, so that Celebrimbor's angry words died upon his lips ere ever they were born as his heart clouded over with fear. He had heard that the Sindarin nobles were the tallest of all elves, and the stature of this elf seemed to attest to that. Silver tree: he was aptly named.
The Sinda began to pace with slow, deliberate steps, the path around Celebrimbor's workbench, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes studying the floor as if there was nothing that interested him more, that silver mane of his flowing over his broad shoulders to the small of his back like a stream of stars. And Celebrimbor, who despised silence and the creeping discomfort it brought, frantically tried to think of some pleasantry, to ask the prince how he found Nargothrond, or on what errand he had come, or why he had deigned to pay him a visit, anything to break the silence. But just as he had formed both the words and the courage to say them, Celeborn stopped, looking up sharply to meet his eyes, barely a foot away, and how he had gotten so close without his realizing it Celebrimbor did not know.
"Did you think that you could purchase her?" He asked quietly, his face devoid of emotion, and the question was at once so very offensive and so very true that Celebrimbor quelled before the simple power of its implications. Who was this elf to ask such a thing? Finwe himself would never have been that bold! Celebrimbor's mind revolted against the arrogance of this dark elf, his anger beating impotently at the bars of his mind.
For he had been convinced, or perhaps he had hoped, that Artanis had fallen into folly, that she had given herself over to whims and had her senses addled, that this dark elf lover of hers, if ever he were to meet him, would be some crude and rustic wood elf, an inferior man hardly fit to be called a prince: destitute, simple, ignorant, common. He had thought that he would be the sort of man she would dally with for the mere novelty of it and later discard. He had believed that she had been mislead, thus, he had believed that he could lead her instead, but now that he had met Celeborn, he found that the very foundation upon which he had built his hopes had been inexorably crushed beneath this elf's silver toed boot, for an elf such as this, who wielded power so deftly, could have commanded the attention of kings, even if he were to walk the avenues of Valinor. He was no plaything, no exotic lover to be easily cast aside.
This angered the son of Curufin, who was not even first among the smiths of Gondolin, and, though his fear was great, his anger grew greater still, and he spoke, saying; "there are those who would call it a kindness, seeing as none other will wish to wed what you have tainted."
And in that moment he was his father's son; he had hoped to break the cool confidence of this Sinda, to exacerbate his emotions, if he had any, yet the silver-haired elf paid no heed to Celebrimbor's bait and said instead, "is it her association with me that taints her?" It was such a simple question, and yet Celebrimbor realized it for the master stroke that it was, for in those few unassuming words Celeborn had not only cut his argument down to a stump, he had uprooted it entirely. To argue against what he had just said would be tantamount to condoning the kinslaying.
Though Celebrimbor had never held with nor approved of the actions of his father and his father's brothers, he felt his hand twitching, as though it wanted to take up the dagger that was clasped to his waist and plunge it deep into that Sindarin prince's unfeeling heart if only to see the shock on his face, or the surprise in his eyes, or, at the very least, the dimming of his fea fleeing his body if only so that he might prove that he, Celebrimbor Curufinian had some modicum of control over this dark elf. No other elf had ever inspired such hateful or evil thoughts in him.
Their positions ought to be reversed, he thought with spite, for he, Celebrimbor Curufinian, had been born in Aman, born under the light of the trees, blessed and christened by the Valar themselves. And this…this Celeborn Galadhonian, his name was unknown to the Valar, he had been born into darkness and shadow, would have been an elf full grown ere he ever knew what light was, or experienced the coming of day.
"She owes you nothing," he said.
"No," Celeborn said calmly, "she owes me nothing, just as she owes you nothing." Celebrimbor felt hot tears of anger rise to his eyes even as his hands trembled, for it was one thing to know he had been defeated, and defeated so easily, but it was another thing to have his defeat made clear and verbalized, to have his hopes and dreams snatched away so handily.
"For what purpose have you come here then, to me?" Celebrimbor fumed. "To gloat?"
"Over what?" Celeborn said, raising an eyebrow. "I too have lost her. No, I came only because I heard you were here and I wished to see the son of Curufin for myself. I wished to know you."
"It is only because you will not have her that you have lost her. If you desire her then take her!" Celebrimbor cried, admitting his loss. "What jewels, what gifts of mine could ever win her heart, much less keep it? For such is the madness of her love that she would surely follow you, even unto Mandos's halls themselves. There is not a man alive who could stop her! And all will know that the great Nerwen has at last been tamed by the ungentle hand of a Sindarin barbarian!" But even this had not provoked a reaction from Celeborn and the silver elf silently settled himself upon the stool once more.
"She is not mine to take or leave at my desire," Celeborn said simply and, to Celebrimbor's discontent, he smiled. "Nor anyone's. That is her choice." And having so said, he stood, tapping his fingertips upon the table briefly and then turned, slowly making his way down the corridor, and then he was gone.
"He came to Himlad you know, your Silver Tree," Celebrimbor said, breaking the long silence that had lain between them as each kept busy about their tasks: he was forging a sword, she – as usual, sitting on a stool by the side of his forge, her legs crossed at the ankles, firelight flickering on her hair, lost in her thoughts.
"Yes," she said, coming to as if she had dozed off, "I know. You are the one who told me, or have you forgotten?"
"Oh," the silence fell once more and Celebrimbor examined the blade carefully. He hissed softly, displeased with his work, for it was fine – that he knew, but it was hardly perfect and here and there the angle of the edge was not entirely uniform, though all but the most experienced of swordsmiths would not have been able to recognize that. Doubtless, it would keep its edge…though not as well as it could have had he made it without blemish. The Noldo grit his teeth, growing frustrated.
"It is very fine," Artanis said, "fit for Fingolfin himself, truly."
"Father didn't like him," he said curtly, finding that he had grown somewhat agitated at her words. It didn't matter that she may very well have meant what she said, the sword was imperfect, he knew it, and any comment other than that was false in his mind.
"What?" She asked, confused now. Celebrimbor turned the sword and slammed his hammer down, more to vent his frustration than anything else, for the metal of it had long cooled from its malleable state.
"That Sinda of yours," he said, looking up at her and wiping the sweat from his face. He put the sword down and tightened the strip of cloth with which he had tied back his long dark hair. "Father didn't like him. He didn't like him at all."
"I wouldn't have expected him to," Artanis said with a shrug, seeming unfazed, and this irked Celebrimbor even more, possibly, than his disobedient sword. She seemed to have changed since her Silver Tree had visited, as if she had expelled her anger at last and become far more contemplative in turn. Celebrimbor did not like when she was silent, he did not like the thought of her having ideas to which he was not privy, most especially when he suspected that those thoughts might concern him, that Celeborn.
"Well it isn't good for anyone when father is upset," he told her instead, examining the sword once more.
"Given our earlier conversations," she said, "I would have thought that you might find Curufin's displeasure to be proof of someone's merit." But her words fell on deaf ears, for in his growing desperation Celebrimbor had little use for words that he could not make fit his purpose, just as he had no use for this sword that would not mind his hammer.
"What did he tell you?" He asked her and she shrugged.
"Little, really. He did not say much of what passed at Himlad. I heard that he paid you a visit as well while he was here."
"That Sinda?" Celebrimbor asked.
"He has a name you know," Artanis replied, twisting her gown between her fingers as she met his gaze with perturbed eyes. Something about it engendered a sense of accomplishment in Celebrimbor, for her mood had changed and he had made her do it.
"Walking about like he is a prince –"
"He is a prince Celebrimbor," she interrupted him, "and a much higher one than you."
"What does it matter?" Celebrimbor asked. "From what I have heard he seems content to be a prince all his life and harbors no further ambitions, or so Celegorm said."
"He loves Thingol dearly, as a father, and would serve no other," she replied.
"Well I would be a King," Celebrimbor said. "And I will, one day." It was a reminder to her, a reminder that they shared the same dream, a dream that this Celeborn did not share.
"What is good for some is not good for others," she replied.
"He is a forester," Celebrimbor continued curtly, "a backwoods foundling with all of the arrogance of a prince of Aman who had the audacity to demand that he be treated the same as if he were a prince of Aman." It was not what he really thought of course, but it was what he had wanted to think. The fact that, when he had actually met this Celeborn, Thingol's protégé, he had looked so very regal after all, like such a proper king despite the fact that he was a dark elf, had made Celebrimbor very cross for it had not been so easy to discount the Sinda as he had planned on. He doubted not that his father had thought the same thing. And he had thought to make Artanis grim with what he had just said and thereby evaporate her insolence of a moment earlier as if it were nothing more than water dashed upon a hot stove but he was quite put out to see that, instead, it seemed to cause her despondence to lift; her face was lit with a radiant smile and, wonder of wonders, she laughed.
"His arrogance…his temper," she laughed. "I had worried," she said with a smile, "that I had broken his spirit somewhat, but I have found that he remains himself. I underestimated him."
That smile, that laugh, after he had first given her the Elessar he had thought, for a few joyful years, that she smiled on his account, but now he knew that it was not meant for himself, though he was the one at her side, but that it was meant for him – for this Celeborn whom he hated with an ardent passion the likes of which he had never known. And he almost wished that Telperion lived again just so he could hack away at his trunk. But he felt near immediate regret at having thought such a horrid and blasphemous thing and consoled himself instead by remembering that it was his jewel, after all, and not the Sindarin prince's ring that Artanis wore, his kiss and not Celeborn's that had most recently graced her lips. He glanced up to see the green jewel hanging in the cleft between the gentle swell of her breasts. Yes…there was still hope. She had taken his gift, after all, a gift of courtship, and she knew as well as he did that she would never be welcomed in Menegroth.
Indeed, he had heard the servants whispering after Celeborn had left, speaking of how when the Sindarin prince had spoken to Artanis they had heard such shouting as they had never heard before, how when they had entered the room later it was to find ink staining the wall, a shattered inkpot, a table turned over; they had quarreled. Meanwhile, she must know that the alliance between her brother and his uncles was growing ever more important in the wake of the withdrawal of Doriath's support from Nargothrond. Artanis had ever acted in the interest of others, in the interest of Finwe's house, of the Noldor. After all, had she not lied to the Sindar, to Celeborn himself for nearly twenty years all to protect the Noldor? She will come around, he thought. I will make her see. There is still hope.
Artanis had risen and he looked up, surprised, for she usually stayed longer and, besides, he liked her company while he was about his work. "What are you doing?" He asked her and she turned back with a smile.
"Leaving," she said. "It was just that you reminded me of something Celeborn once said - that a crown is a crown only so long as you can keep it."
"I don't take your meaning," he said, perturbed once again that she had brought up the hateful subject of that Sinda.
"Your sword," she said, "you are worried that you will lose your place as a chief smith of Gondolin. Well, it has occurred to me that perhaps a place is yours only so long as you can keep it."
And Celebrimbor was still puzzled at her words but his patience had grown thin with her and so he merely said, "well then, if you are leaving this early today then I shall expect you tomorrow."
Artanis merely smiled and said, "we shall see."