In Cavern's Shade

by Castile181

During the first age, when Beleriand itself stands on the brink of destruction and Doriath falls from the height of glory to begin its long decline, Celeborn, a Sindarin prince as quick to wisdom as he is to anger, meets Artanis, a Noldorin princess plagued by a dark secret, and they soon find themselves plunged into a world of intrigue, lies, and mystery as ties grow turbulent.

28. Chapter 28: Fire on the Mountain

Fire on the Mountain

Doriath: 28th Chapter

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"I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain."

– Dune, Frank Herbert

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(long) Author's note: WOW! I was shocked by how much Celeborn was mentioned in the reviews. I hardly ever get feedback about him and I had no idea you guys wanted to see him fight that much. But I am super happy that you do! I will definitely put more of that in. I promise.

Also, there WILL be a full 13 chapters in Part III. And, there will be an epilogue chapter.

AND, I am thinking about doing a rewrite/edit of the first 4 chapters. I wouldn't change the content but, looking over them, it seems like the tone I took in those chapters is different from the rest of the story so I was considering homogenizing it. Idk if anyone has any opinions on this?

Luna: Thanks! I wanted to do something that was really low key and fit his style. I'm so glad you liked Nimloth. It was challenging to write a child. Their wedding is, unfortunately, going to be on hold for a little bit here with mourning and stuff but I promise it will happen.

Leeza: I know! Geez! Elves are so frustrating and slow! Don't worry, I'll give them a little kick. I went in and added some scenes of Celeborn fighting and just generally tearing it up on the battlefield in the upcoming chapters per popular request :)

A few of you have asked me about characterization recently or where the inspiration for certain characters came from so I think I am going to start talking a little bit about a character in each note. If you are not interested go ahead and skip to the chapter, and if you are interested then keep reading!

So today I want to talk about Melian. I knew when I was formulating the ideas for this story and trying to get a grasp of who the characters were, that I wanted Melian to be elf-like and yet noticeably different from elves. Most of all, I wanted to emphasize her power and to ultimately make her, for lack of a better phrase, "pants-shitingly terrifying." I really see the Maiar as more like forces than like people and I wanted to emphasize that in Melian. It is also one of the reasons why she doesn't appear in the story so much as Thingol does. I want people to like Melian but I don't want them to be comfortable with her. I want her to be someone who kind of keeps you on edge. And, I think that when you get really familiar with a character and when they are in the main action of the story a lot they kind of lose that mysterious quality that can help make them a little frightening. I think this is a big reason that Tolkien had to make Gandalf 'conveniently disappear' so often in the Hobbit and in LOTR. He's too powerful to use except in small doses. As far as who Melian is based on archetypally, I really drew a lot of inspiration for her from the character of Morgan la Fey from Arthurian legend, who I absolutely adore and who has always fascinated me. I wanted her to have that kind of dark and intriguing edge to her. I hope that the full impact of her power comes out by the end of the story!

Ok, so that's Melian. Let me know in the reviews who you want me to talk about in the next author's note and I'll choose whichever character most reviewers pick.

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"You cannot go!" Galadriel cried, her eyes fierce with anger as she watched her betrothed buckling on his armor. It was a very frightening thing to watch, for she had seen him don his leather hunting armor, had even seen him wear the armor of mail, and bone, and plate that he wore when he went to the borders, but this was the first time that she had seen him don armor for war and it frightened her. She could not help but imagine that Angrod and Aegnor must have looked so similar just before their deaths.

"I must," he said, "for both your sake and mine." She knew what he meant, that she was relying on him overly much for comfort, that it was unhealthy, but knowing that in her mind could not force her heart to accept it and she felt fear course over her like a wave, pushing her beneath its surface.

"If Finrod is dead then your death will not bring him back!" She grasped desperately at Celeborn's arm but, gently, he pushed her hands away.

"What if he is alive?" Celeborn asked. "What if there is some chance that he could be rescued?" Galadriel squeezed her eyes tight shut and shook her head.

"If you loved me you would not endanger your life," she said. It was a horrible thing to say, she knew, but Celeborn understood her meaning better than she herself did.

"Galadriel," he took her shoulders gently in his hands, "I am a soldier. I am accustomed to war and to fighting. This is not the first time I have left for battle, nor will it be the last. I am sorry but you must grow accustomed to it, as must I. I will return to you," he fixed his eyes on hers, trying to make her believe, but Galadriel only shook her head and wiped away the tears that threatened to fall. He will always come back to you, Lúthien had said, but Celeborn could not command death, no one could, not Finwe, not even Feanor who had himself caused so much death had been able to stop his own.

Celeborn sighed. Of course he was worried about going out there to that battlefield, for though the battle itself had tapered off there was no telling what he might find there. He had discovered enough foul things in his lifetime upon Morgoth's battlefields to be wary. But Galadriel's recent desperation to keep him so close at hand, panicking the second he even set foot in a different room than her, concerned him greatly, even more, perhaps, than this mission he was about to embark upon.

Melian had told him that those who suffer great tragedy sometimes rebuild themselves around another. He had seen it often enough himself in his own wardens, in his own people after the Battle of Beleriand: how grief could destroy a life just as surely as a sword could. If anything ever happened to him…if he were killed then it would destroy Galadriel as well. He had to wean her from him, the way a pup is weaned from its mother, until she was strong enough again to stand on her own. But he had not doubted her strength. He remembered the night he had first met her. She would endure. She would rebuild. She would smile again – one day, only she had to grow the courage herself to stand on her own two feet once more.

"I will come back to you. I swear it," he said, clasping her hands tightly within his own. Galadriel looked doubtful. "You must leave this room," Celeborn implored her, "find something you can turn your mind to, something to keep you from thinking overly much on your tragedy." Galadriel shook her head emphatically.

"No, no," she said. "I don't want to be reminded of it. There…" She sighed and turned away, pacing with short, quick steps to one end of the room and back. "There's death up there." She faced the fireplace rather than him because she could not bear to look at him. He approached, the metal of his armor clinking, the footfalls of his boots heavy upon the ground until she knew he stood behind her, could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. She should have expected hard love from him.

"Do you think," he said, "that this will be the last time you ever see me don armor?" Galadriel said nothing because she did not want to admit, even though she knew, that she would surely see Celeborn put on his armor time and time again. "This is my battle and I must go out and fight it," he said. "Your battle lies here, if you so choose to accept it." Galadriel said nothing. He stepped back, picking up his pack and his helm. "Will you come see me off?" He asked.

"I have no desire to watch you ride off to your death," Galadriel stammered, twisting her sweaty hands in her skirt almost manically. She heard Celeborn sigh and squeezed her eyes shut, as thought that would make this entire situation disappear. She knew he did not begrudge her her fear and yet she felt guilt sweep through her that she hadn't the strength to do what he asked.

"I love you," he said softly and she felt his hand in her hair, pushing it aside gently so that he could press a tender kiss to the back of her neck.

"I love you," she managed to whisper before she heard his retreat through the room and down the hallway, the door clicking closed behind him.

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and then the tears began to fall as she wept, wrapping her arms around herself as though that could shield her from the world. She paced back and forth in cramped little steps like a madwoman and then she ran to the door, throwing herself bodily against it, her hands grasping at the wood. It was not locked. It would have been easy for her to open it and yet it was such an impossible thing to do.

"Celeborn, Celeborn," she gasped his name over and over again as though that would conjure him while she collapsed against the door, falling to the floor where she stayed. In her mind she knew that this was his way of showing his love for her, that she did need to be able to stand on her own again, that she should not depend on him, but in her heart it felt otherwise. The possibility that he might die was far too frightening and she contemplated a world in which his spirit was confined to Mandos's halls while she roamed this earthen hell.

The elves spoke so often of the spirit being immortal and the body merely its vessel, a fragile thing that could be destroyed whereupon the soul made houseless would flee to Mandos's halls. But Galadriel knew that a man's spirit could be torn apart and cease and yet his body could keep on living so that he became lonesome and estranged from everything and everyone around him, walking the earth like a shadow, a spiritless cage. She had seen it on the docks of Alqualonde, had felt it in the bitterness that had clouded her heart, a cold far colder than that of the Helcaraxe, had seen it in Curufin's gaze, had smelt it on Maedhros's skin, the putrefaction of the soul.

She slept in the hot, pounding beat of a fever dream in which it was Celeborn who lay beneath that crystalline casket of ice, his face cold and purple and unmoving, his green eyes staring ahead unseeing, his silver hair floating in the dark waters of that murky grave and she pounded at the ice with her fists, clawed at it until her fingernails tore away like scraps of paper and blood poured forth, until her skin tore away and she scratched at that icy abyss with her bones: brittle, and weak, and broken.

When she had awoken she had been covered in sweat, her clothes soaked through with it, her fingertips bloody and raw from scraping at the stone and earth of the floor, Celeborn's name a whispered litany on her lips. And then she wondered what she was doing here lying on a floor when Angrod and Aegnor had given up their lives to stop Morgoth, when Finrod might be fighting him still, when Celeborn was leading an army of Sindar to the front lines in a desperate bid to save lives.

She pushed herself up on trembling arms and stood on weary legs, going to wash her hands in the white earthenware basin that stood in a corner. The water turned dark from the dried blood and dirt that had been lodged under her fingernails and she dried her now clean hands on her skirt. She allowed herself to linger for a brief moment, sitting upon the edge of Celeborn's unmade bed, running her hands over the thick fur of the wolf-hair blankets, and then she took his pillow, holding it to her, breathing in his scent: the smell of pines, and leather, and evening.

Stepping out into the halls she saw that they were bustling with elves scurrying here and there and she knew that everyone must be very busy, for thousands of the Green Elves and the Sindar from the outskirts of Beleriand had been flooding into the city in the past weeks and even now still more of them were coming. The kitchens, the laundries, the houses of healing, the weavers must be overloaded with work trying to provide for all of these people who had so suddenly found themselves homeless and destitute.

She went now seeking Inwen who, after she had questioned a few people, told her of a place that had been turned into a temporary infirmary since the houses of healing had been far too small to accommodate all of those who had been injured in the fighting that had so suddenly broken out. At last she found the place but the sight that awaited her was dreadful.

The room was very long and lined with cots upon which sat or lay elves who had been maimed in horrific ways. Some of them were covered in bandages from head to toe, crying out in pain at the burning in their flesh that would not stop, others had lost limbs, still others had lost husbands or wives, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, children.

Galadriel nearly staggered back as she was overwhelmed with memories of Alqualonde and she trembled as she walked amongst the cots, looking down into the eyes of tiny elflings, eyes that had gone cold and vacant in death, observing with shuddering heart a wife sobbing, tearing out her hair as she cradled her husband's dead body. There were Sindar, she could see, and many Green elves, and, even a few Avari here and there, easily distinguishable by their abundance of ear piercings and the black ink with which they marked their skin.

"Are you sure you should be here?" She heard a soft voice and the touch of a gentle hand on her arm, turning to find Inwen standing behind her. She was wearing her healer's uniform, a white cap covering her dark hair, a bloodstained apron pinned to her front. "You have lost much, Galadriel," she said, "perhaps seeing such things will only exacerbate the wounds that are still fresh in your heart."

"I want to help," Galadriel said, trying to will confidence into her voice, into her heart. She half wanted to flee this place, to get away from the blood, and the ruin, and the death. "Can you teach me how to…how to heal them, what to do?" Morgoth had had the victory at Alqualonde but he would not have the victory here, not if there was anything she could do to prevent it. She straightened, squaring her shoulders, determined. Inwen met her gaze for a moment and then nodded.

"Yes," she said, "but you must be prepared for what it will require of you. We are still losing a great many, mostly due to poisoned wounds or severe burns. Are you prepared for that?"

Galadriel nodded. "Yes," she said, feeling far surer of her decision now, "let me do what I can. I want to be useful. I want to help, to alleviate their suffering if I am able. I have seen death before," she said. But that doesn't mean that I am not still frightened by it, she vision flashed through her mind, Celeborn cold and dead on the floor of Menegroth, blood pooling around him, Lúthien, lying still, her dark hair scattered with white niphredil, Finrod in some deep, dark, dungeon. She calmed her mind, breathing deeply as Melian had taught her. A vision shows me possible paths, not absolute truths, she reminded herself.

"Then come with me," Inwen instructed and Galadriel followed her through rows upon rows of injured. Actually practicing healing seemed to dredge up some of the latent skills that Melian and the healers of Aman had instilled in her. Indeed, after a few days, she was able to do simple tasks such as changing dressings and bandaging wounds without the assistance of any of the healers or nurses, and, though the work was heartbreaking at times, and unpleasant all of the time, there was something about doing repetitive tasks that seemed to exorcise her soul of the pain of her brothers' deaths, or at least make it bearable.

Galadriel withdrew a fresh bandage from her pocket and approached the curly-haired Sindar who was sitting on a cot looking incredibly downtrodden. "I'm afraid it is time to change your bandage, Nellas," Galadriel said and the Sinda sighed, baring her arm for Galadriel.

"I didn't expect to see you again for a long while," the Sinda said as Galadriel wet the old bandage and slowly began to peel it off.

"I don't think any of us expected this," Galadriel told her. Nellas hissed at the pain as the dressing caught on her skin a bit before coming free at last.

"I don't know where the fire came from," Nellas said. "Before I knew what was happening it was just pouring down the mountains like a river." The skin beneath where the bandage had been was bright red and the muscle was exposed in many places with yellowish green pus seeping through here and there, though scabs were beginning to form, Galadriel noted with satisfaction. "Nasty isn't it?" Nellas said with a laugh.

"You'll heal very well though, I think," Galadriel said and Nellas sat in silence as she cleaned the wound and began to apply the new dressing. There were patients she was concerned about, elves who seemed to have lost their will to live, but Nellas was not one of them. The Sindarin girl was remarkably resilient.

"Beleg went with Celeborn, didn't he?" Nellas murmured and Galadriel glanced up from her task to meet the Sinda's brown eyes. Not that she had interacted with Nellas overly much, but she had never heard anything concerning her and Beleg before and now she wondered if there was some relationship she was not aware of.

"Yes," she said, nodding and silence fell between them.

"He's my friend," Nellas said quickly, as if to offset whatever it was she imagined Galadriel must be thinking and Galadriel nodded again, beginning to wrap the bandage around the Sinda's arm. "Are you…are you worried?" The younger elf asked her.

"Yes," Galadriel said, sighing, but it was a topic she would rather not dwell on and so a sort of awkward silence fell between them. Then Galadriel asked, more to break the silence than to know the answer, "will you stay in Menegroth?"

"I suppose," Nellas said. "It isn't as if we could ever return to where we were living before. Everything out there is destroyed. It's hard to imagine a normal life after this…that I could ever have a family…children of my own," she sighed and shrugged. "I might establish some sort of village within the girdle perhaps…I just can't fathom living in a city my whole life."

Galadriel laughed. "I can't imagine living in a forest my whole life," she said and Nellas smiled, having forgotten the pain from the burns on her arm.

"I suppose we must agree to disagree," she said. "I…" she paused and then shook her head.

"What is it?" Galadriel asked.

"I don't want to hurt you," Nellas replied. "Forget it."

"You were about to offer your condolences," Galadriel said and Nellas nodded. "It's alright," Galadriel told her, looking up at the Sinda, though she felt the pain lancing keenly through her heart. "I suppose I have to learn to talk about it sooner or later. I might as well start now."

"I'm sorry," Nellas said.

"No, it's quite alright," Galadriel reassured her.

"I…I've lost a lot of friends, lovers, out there on the borders," Nellas said. "I know I'm young but I've buried everyone who ever courted me, most of my relatives. I was just going to say that the pain…it doesn't ever stop, so don't waste your time on trying to get rid of it, but you will learn to live with it, eventually, and things will get better."

Galadriel nodded, "thank you." She whispered, feeling her throat tightening in sorrow. Nellas reached out and grasped her hand.

"Galadriel," she said, "he'll come back to you, Celeborn will. There's no standing in his way when it comes to you." Galadriel smiled at her, standing, having finished dressing her bandage, grateful for the Sindarin maid's plainspoken manner.

"You should rest now," Galadriel said, "and…perhaps you don't want to stay in the capital but we could really use people like you here, people who know where they stand and who they are, whose loyalties cannot be bought."

"I'll think on that," Nellas said with a smile, lying back down on her cot once more.

Not all of the work was that pleasant, indeed, most of it wasn't. Galadriel had felt the tears prickling at her eyes as she held down a young man who sobbed and screamed as Inwen amputated his leg below the knee. She wept openly as tiny elflings, orphans, died in her arms from the burns that they had sustained. She cradled their little bodies to her, wishing that there were more she could do, wondering why Mandos seemed so devoid of compassion, wishing beyond wish that war had never come. And she held mothers who had lost their children, wives who had lost their husbands, knowing that none of their medicines or procedures or potions could heal the wounds that had torn their hearts asunder.

It was at times like that that her thoughts returned to Tirion, to her mother who had so vehemently protested their leaving. As if their abandoning her hadn't been pain enough, Galadriel wondered what she must have felt when she had learned of the kinslaying.

"You have made the decision to leave knowing the consequences," she had heard her mother say to her father from the other side of a locked door, "and so if you ever come back you will find even Namo to be more forgiving than I." At the time, Galadriel had felt anger and pride flare in her heart, wondering that her mother could be so cold to those who loved her, but now she thought she understood, that Earwen had known that there could be no healing for the wounds they planned to inflict upon her. Perhaps she alone among them had understood that the tensions between the elves of Aman were at last coming to a head. Of course, in retrospect, it seemed so obvious that it would be so. Who could ever have predicted the kinslaying? Galadriel had thought in its aftermath. Only a fool could not have seen it coming, she thought now; what a fool she had been when she had first come here.

And that was why she was so worried now, for once again she could see the tensions brewing, a result of so quickly forcing so many disparate peoples into one place with which none of them were familiar, and all of them having just suffered a great tragedy, unsure of what their futures would be. Of course she knew that the Green Elves, and especially the Avari, bore no love for the Noldo and thus she had not been surprised when some of them refused to allow her to touch them, turning her away, preferring to wait hours or even days for treatment from one of the Sindarin healers.

But she had been a bit more surprised, though not completely so, for she had observed much of the differences between the elves of Middle Earth herself, and what she had not observed she had heard from Celeborn, or Bainwen, or Lúthien, when squabbles had broken out between Sindar and Laiquendi, or Laiquendi and Avari, or Sindar and Avari. Then the guards would come running, calming those involved, cautioning them about what would become of those who dared fight within the walls of Thingol's palace.

The king himself was certainly aware of the situation, Galadriel noted, for she had seen elves that she knew to be informants of the king milling about in the infirmary and in the great hall as well, where many of the refugees were being temporarily lodged. Not only that but the guard had been increased and she had noted that many of the guards posted to the infirmary and the great hall were Laiquendi themselves; Thingol was being judicious in his choices.

Of course, Galadriel was not the only one who had noticed this; many of the refugees had noticed as well and some of them had taken to picking fights with the guards.

"You might be green on the outside but you're a grey elf on the inside," she had heard a Green elf say to one of Thingol's guards who was a Laiquendi, "serving the king of the grey elves rather than your own people. Don't you remember Denthor and what happened to him?" Galadriel found herself grateful that Thingol's guards had so much discipline as to be able to ignore such comments. The common people, however, had not, and the stress of being so crammed together in temporary living quarters had sparked more than a few fistfights between Sindar, and Avari, and Laiquendi.

Galadriel began to wish most ardently that Celeborn would return, not just because she feared for his safety and because she hoped that he would return bearing news that Finrod lived, but also because she knew that both the Green Elves and the Avari, especially, trusted Doriath's prince far more than they trusted her king and, if there was anyone who could calm the simmering tensions that were silently threatening to throw this city into chaos, she trusted that it was he.

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Celeborn knew that Galadriel resented him for having left her alone but he had seen for himself far too often the crippling effects of dependency in the wake of tragedy. Still, even though he knew with conviction that he had done what was best, even though he did not doubt the capacity of her strength and fortitude, he worried for her and, what was more, his own heart ached for her. He knew well what it was to lose friends and loved ones to war. At the moment he was desperately hoping that Finrod would not be another such friend.

Then again, there was the fact that military encampments were not a particularly pleasant place to live and, though his soldiers were jovial and friendly, nights spent sleeping in burlap tents made him long for her, for his bed that she sometimes shared, for something, someone who did not smell of death and ruination. The battlefields they had stumbled across so far were bare, with nary a trace of life, though death lay thick over these lands now like a suffocating smog. The very earth herself seemed to cry out to him, burnt and charred and oozing like a wound. The trees were mere blackened stumps of their former living glory and there were no animals about, no deer, no rabbits, no bears even.

They had ridden for weeks but it had been slow going for they were under strict orders to avoid engaging the enemy if at all possible, which often meant a good deal of waiting, and backtracking, and traveling through difficult terrain. Now Celeborn's company had dismounted and they were walking through the swirling mists of those barren plains, hoping that going at a slower pace might make it easier for them to recognize clues as to the whereabouts of the Noldor. Yet all they seemed to find was death and destruction. The earth trembled like a frightened animal beneath their feet and her surface was littered with charred and blackened corpses, the corpses of elves, of orcs, of creatures that Celeborn had to assume were the humans that Finrod had been speaking about. It would have been proper, fitting, just, to bury them but Celeborn knew that was an impossibility. There were simply too many. Most of them appeared to have perished in some great conflagration, as if a fire had swept through this land, reduced to nothing more than armor and bones.

The earth herself seemed to be nothing more than a skeleton. The stench was nigh unbearable and Celeborn kept his gloved hand over his nose to keep it out as best he could, but it was little relief. He stopped next to yet another elven corpse. Insignia, livery…everything of cloth had been burnt away leaving only the blackened and burnt armor and bones behind. There was no way of telling whose soldiers these had been: the Feanorian's, the Fingolfinian's, the Finarfinian's. He sighed. He knew that he ought to be more disturbed by what he was seeing, and that was what troubled him most, that he seemed to have grown used to this. Truthfully, it was not so surprising, for war was his trade, but he wondered at himself that he could look at such a scene as this and feel so unmoved.

He came to a stop, looking up at the sky, clogged with blackened oily smoke, and out across the plains from which columns of charred ash seemed to be rising into the air. All was darkness here, not the darkness of night, but the darkness of battle, of pollution, of destruction. He smelt them before he saw them: orcs; the stench of shit and death, and his soldiers smelt them too, pulling into tight formation, standing at the ready.

Then from across the bloody cooled plain of war gone dead they saw them scurrying towards them across the ground like glittering black beetles and he knew that there would be no evading this fight. With a flick of his wrist he signaled to his soldiers to ready their weapons and the cavalry swung up into their saddles while the infantry and archers made ready. They too, seemed to have been anticipating a fight and Celeborn glanced to his right, listening to the creaking noise of Beleg drawing his great black war bow. He too carried a bow but instead he drew his axe and, in his other hand, his knife. Arrows made for remote, impersonal kills but Celeborn preferred the intimacy of a blade.

He raised his hand again and, with the merest gesture of his fingers, signaled for his soldiers to engage, feeling the arrows whistle past his head in response as they fell upon the orcs like bitter rain. Another flick of his wrist and he heard them shoulder their bows, heard the scraping of metal as knives and axes were drawn. The orcs were squealing, grunting like pigs as they rushed forward, drawing crude and blackened blades. They had changed over the centuries, looking less elven now, and Celeborn was glad for it. It did not make it as difficult to kill them, did not make it so easy to remember what they had once been.

"You want a fight Morgoth?" He whispered. "Then bring it to me." His hand tightened around his knife and he could feel his warhorse tremble with excitement beneath him before he gave the order and then they were charging across the ground, the horses' hooves thundering across the scorched earth and he raised up a great, whooping battle cry, his soldiers crying out in unison as thy met the front line of the orcen army like a tidal wave of cold steel crashing upon the shore.

Celeborn swung his axe down into the upturned grisly face of an orc and then tore it free, black blood dripping from the sharp blade, before beheading another. The orcs were swarming his horse but the animal was trained for combat and lashed out, kicking even as his rider pulled a screeching orc up into his saddle, opening his arteries with his curved knife before casting the lifeless corpse aside. Celeborn hefted his axe, preparing to swing while with the other hand he drove his knife down through the top of an orc's skull.

But, before he could swing, he was knocked from the saddle as a warg collided with his horse. He hit the ground with an almighty thud, having fallen at great speed, and rolled over before he came to a stop. He felt an orc climb on his back and twisted around to grasp the grimy wrist that threatened to drive a knife clear through him, twisting his hands and breaking every bone in the orc's arm. He drove his knee into the orc's chest and then took its head into his hands, snapping his neck with a satisfying crack. Grabbing up his axe and his knife, he leapt to his feet, swinging his axe in a wide arc of silver that caused the heads of two orcs to go flying.

He drove his knife into the diaphragm of the next orc that came at him and watched as he gasped futilely for air before he clove another orc's head in half with his axe. A tall thin orc swinging a fanged sword came running at him but he easily ducked beneath the blow and came up to embed the pointed end of his axe into the orc's chin, driving it up into his face. Ripping the point out he turned weapon about and beat the orc's face in until blood sprayed wildly and brain matter leaked out. Turning about, he swung the great blade and beheaded another orc, tossing the head aside, but another one of them grabbed his axe arm and he fought to free it, reaching out with his free hand and crushing the orc's windpipe. He let go when it released its hold of his axe and let the corpse fall to the ground.

He broke the neck of the next one with his bare hands and ripped the windpipe from the neck of the one that followed that. He was a blur, working fast, an efficient butcher, and the orcs feared him, the weaker and younger ones fleeing before him. But they stood no chance and he caught them, some of which he finished with his axe, and for the others he opened their chests. He was breathing heavily but never did he stop. The continuous action prevented him from thinking about what had become of Finrod, what would become of Galadriel, of him, of this kingdom. The blood was pounding in his head, his heart pounding in his chest.

All about him his soldiers were fighting bravely and then he saw that they were not fighting alone, that from the other end of this orcish army were soldiers in gold mail battling their way towards them through the swarm of orcs, Noldorin soldiers. They looked to be a ragtag band of survivors, bearing not even a standard with them, but Celeborn was glad to see them, for perhaps these were Finrod's men or, if not his, someone who could at least tell him of Finrod's fate.

They were fighting side by side with the Noldor now, hewing the orcs down as if they were no more than flies and then, at last, the orcs were no more and Celeborn's army in resplendent armor of silver, stood opposite the Noldorin army in glittering armor of gold. Then, from across the plains, he saw a figure coming towards them through the haze, a figure in golden armor. "Finrod!" He gasped, hardly daring to believe it for a moment, and he lowered his axe to his side. But a second and more wary glance told him that this was not Finrod after all, for though the elf's face was covered by a helm, he knew his friend's walk and that was not it. The figure stopped before the Noldorin army, his sword dripping with the foul blood of orcs, standing silent.

"Peace, friend!" Celeborn called, raising his hand in greeting and he heard his army come to a halt at his back, standing at the ready. "I am Celeborn, Prince of Doriath, and I come in the name of Elu Thingol to lend you what assistance I may!"

The commander of this army strode forward and Celeborn moved to meet him, to extend a hand in greeting, but it was not a greeting that he was met with, rather the ferocious swing of the Noldo's sword and Celeborn was forced withdraw his hand quickly, to raise his axe, to meet the blow, to block it. He heard his soldiers draw their bows in response even as the Noldorin soldiers drew theirs.

"Hold!" Celeborn cried to his soldiers, bidding them not fire upon the Noldor, even as he held against this strange captain. Yet, in his chest his heart was pounding like a hammer upon an anvil, wondering what madness this must be for one elf to draw a weapon upon another. He pushed up on his axe, keeping the pressure steady, preventing this Noldo from driving the blade of his sword through his head. His eyes searched the narrow slit on the visor of this elf's helm, looking for some sign of who he was and then…then he found it; he had seen these eyes before, and his heart plummeted to his feet.

"Celeborn. Now that," said the elf with a voice like black oil, "is a name I have not heard in a very long time. You do remember, don't you, what I promised to do to you if ever we met again?" A pair of eyes lit with an otherworldly madness stared at Celeborn.

"Curufin Feanorian," Celeborn whispered and then he pushed into Curufin with his shoulder, knocking him away as he brought his axe up, guarding against further attack. Curufin reached up, tearing his helm from his head and discarding it, his black hair spilling across his shoulders, and Celeborn could see the madness in his eyes, the perverse delight that seemed to infuse every line of his face as a sickly smile wormed its way across his lips. The son of Feanor circled him, sword at the ready.

"What a wonder that you illiterate cave-dwellers have wandered out of your hiding hole and into the light of day," Curufin said with a grin. Celeborn glanced to the side and saw that Celegorm had come now to stand the head of the army now, saying nothing, only watching him with dark and mysterious eyes.

He felt his heart clench with dread and found himself extremely glad that he had an army at his back. Still, that army might prove to be more of a liability than a blessing for things would go ill for Doriath indeed if they were forced into a battle with the Feanorians and Celeborn did not doubt that Curufin knew this as well, that perhaps that was what he was trying to do.

Curufin took the opportunity of Celeborn's momentary distraction to strike but Celeborn was faster and more skilled than he had anticipated, blocking his blow with ease. "It's just a friendly match, Prince of Doriath," Curufin whispered as they circled one another, "just a little bit of fun."

But Celeborn's heart clenched within him in dread. He very much believed that Curufin's idea of fun involved his death. But he found himself startled as he looked into those eyes lit with insanity, that the idea of killing Curufin was not entirely repulsive to him, that the idea of eliminating that constant threat was even a bit appealing.

Yet Curufin seemed agitated by Celeborn's defensive posture, by his unwillingness to strike. "What's the matter, Cele-born," the Noldo hissed, deliberately mispronouncing Celeborn's name, "afraid you can't beat a Calaquendi? Why don't we raise the stakes? If you win, I leave Beleriand. If I win, I send your mutilated corpse back to that golden-haired whore of a cousin of mine. Just think of what that would do to her hm? Poor thing, just after her brothers have died, after all she has been through. Think of what that would do to her soul, Celeborn." Curufin grinned gleefully at the thought but Celeborn felt his skin prickle in revulsion.

"Or," the son of Feanor remarked, "we could just start shooting and see who comes out on top." He grinned. Celeborn felt a muscle involuntarily clench in his jaw. He knew he must back down, that to kill Curufin meant war, and yet, horrifyingly enough, that seemed to be exactly what the son of Feanor wished for: death and it seemed not to matter much to him whose it would be: his or Celeborn's.

"What's the matter dark elf?" He hissed. "Too pure to slay another elf? Too weak to give me what I want? Won't you have some pity on me? Everything is so fucking dull. This war is so fucking dull."

His copper eyes remained fixed on Celeborn's green ones, smiling, and then he stopped. "Do you remember this?" He hissed in the purring tone of a lover sharing some deep secret as he drew forth from beneath his armor a prism of crystal on a silver chain. "I had it made especially for you." Celeborn tried to keep the horror from his face as he recognized the silver hair, stained with blood that was imprisoned within the stone; it was his own. "Crude, isn't it?" Curufin said. "Nothing like my father's Silmarils, but then who could ever imagine that the hair of a little darkie such as yourself could shine with the light of the trees, silver though it be – shadow elf – and they had the perverse audacity to name you 'silver tree' as if you, a Moriquendi, could ever resemble Telperion." His face twisted into a smile. "My father wanted to put Artanis's hair in his Silmarils. Three times he begged her for just one strand from her golden head but she refused."

Curufin struck again, first left, then right and Celeborn blocked both, their weapons locked together now between their chests, their faces a mere hair's breadth apart. The son of Feanor's breath was hot with hatred as it danced against Celeborn's skin, his eyes steeped in madness. "When next I see her," he whispered, quivering with perverse excitement, "I will take her whole fucking head." With those words, Curufin drew his sword up in the blink of an eye but Celeborn had anticipated it and brought his axe up just as quickly, blocking the blow, and Curufin was forced to push up hard on his sword to keep Celeborn from driving the blade of his axe through his head.

But Celeborn had had enough and he noted with satisfaction that the son of Feanor was unused to fighting against axes, that he, unlike Finrod who had taken so much care and time to learn the Sindarin fighting techniques, was entirely unfamiliar with the Doriathrin style of fighting. Celeborn almost smiled at that but he would not give Curufin the satisfaction and he managed to maintain a straight face even as he exerted as much pressure on his weapon as he was able, hearing the satisfying crunch as one of Curufin's wrists snapped.

But it was not anger that glazed the Noldo's eyes in response, nor even pride, but rather it was sheer lust unbridled and he let out a soft and gentle breath laced with orgasmic joy as his eyes met Celeborn's and he whispered, "you did it at last. I thought you never would." His foul lips curled into an even fouler grin. "I nearly felt something. I nearly felt alive," he breathed as he backed away, holding his sword in his off hand, his right hand hanging limply.

"My Lords Curufin and Celegorm!" A gruff voice accompanied by a laugh called. "Whatever is the matter here?" And at the interruption Celeborn breathed a sigh of relief, for the soldiers of both sides had been distracted by the new arrival and lowered their bows of their own accord. The uncomfortable tension had come to an end and Celeborn returned his axe to its sheathe.

A soldier had come riding up on a dark bay horse, so dark it was nearly black. Indeed, it was generous to call that creature a horse; hackneyed nag would have been more apt. And the man himself was outfitted in armor, though it was certainly nothing as fine as what either the soldiers of Curufin and Celegorm or the soldiers of Doriath were wearing. It seemed to mostly be made of leather, and shabby leather at that, with a few ill-fitting plates of battered metal holding it all together, shoddy chain mail clothing him beneath this armor. The man swung down from his equally shoddy saddle and removed his helmet to reveal a head of shaggy dark hair which he ran a hand through, and the beginnings of a beard's dark shadow around his jaw: a human man.

The man slapped his horse on the shoulder and then, taking the reins, walked over to where Curufin and Celegorm stood. "My Lord Finrod shall be up from the rear shortly with my father," the young man said. "My apologies. I fear that the injuries my father has sustained have not allowed them to travel at the same pace as you here in the vanguard."

Curufin said something that Celeborn could not hear and Celegorm merely nodded, looking extremely sour about the whole situation, as if he wondered whether or not his army ought to have taken the chance to kill the Sindar while they had had the chance. It was strange, Celeborn thought: that nowadays elves thought like this. But his attention quickly returned to the human for he was, after all, the first live human that Celeborn had ever seen and there was something about this man that was so fascinating after all.

He had turned now and was approaching Celeborn with a cheerful, broad grin, his stride confident and unassuming despite the intense conflict that he had just so handily disbanded. "Soldiers of Doriath," he said, barely able to restrain the excitement in his voice, "from the hidden kingdom! I never thought I would have the privilege!" He laughed and fastened his shoddy helmet to the shoddy saddle on his shoddy horse before reaching out to offer Celeborn his hand. But he quickly withdrew it before Celeborn could grasp it.

"My apologies," the man said with a grin, "I was not thinking and my hand is rather grimy I fear, certainly not fit to shake the hand of Thingol. I shall kneel instead."

"I am not Thingol," Celeborn said with a laugh, a grin tugging at the corners of his own mouth now. Despite the tension and fear of a few moments earlier something about this man brought a great deal of levity to the situation, as if he did not even know the meaning of fear. "And you need not kneel, nor withdraw your hand, for I have touched far worse things and, indeed, I would account meeting a human for the first time an honor." Celeborn found his heart, which had moments earlier been so very heavy, oddly lightened by this jovial an unassuming man. Indeed, something about his temperament was so reminiscent of Lúthien that Celeborn could not help but grin.

"Then I am honored to be your first," the man said with a cheeky grin and a wink as he and Celeborn clasped hands. "But I must ask, if you are not Thingol then are you Celeborn, Finrod's friend, or, ah, have I misspoken yet again?"

"Nay, in that you are correct," Celeborn said. He could not quite tell how old this man was, for by elven standards he would have accounted him nearly full grown, so perhaps 50 years of age or so, but Finrod had said that men reached maturity far earlier and so Celeborn was left with no idea whatsoever of what his age might be. Yet, old or no, his eyes, which were dark and kind, also seemed to hold great wisdom and Celeborn knew that, despite his bravado upon arrival and his handy way of smoothing the entire situation over as if it had been nothing, this young man had immediately and fully grasped the dire nature of the situation.

"Ah, Finrod has arrived at last," the young man sighed, as if this was a great relief to him. "You can't trust these lot," he whispered to Celeborn with a grin, jerking his head towards the sons of Feanor.

"Felagund!" The man called, raising his hand in the air in greeting and striding forward towards the Noldo, leading his horse behind him, but Finrod had already dismounted, having handed his reins to a squire and was now striding quickly towards them.

"Celeborn!" He cried in a weary voice, as though the weight of the world sat upon his shoulders. "You cannot possibly fathom what a relief it is to see you." And so saying he embraced his friend warmly, drawing back. "I see you've met Beren," he said, nodding towards the human, "and that is good. I hope that you had no trouble with my cousins. I was detained at the rear of the army, caring for Beren's father, my dear friend Barahir, to whom I owe my life." Finrod seemed nearly out of breath, was clearly exhausted. "Why have you come?"

"In search of you," Celeborn said. "We were all very concerned when we heard… when we learned of Angrod and Aegnor. Galadriel was beside herself with anguish."

"Ah yes," Finrod said, drawing in a deep, shaking breath and pursing his lips as if the memory of his brothers was still too fresh to speak of. "I…I rode as fast as I was able from Nargothrond but…but I was too late." He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Let us speak of it later," he said.

"Come back to Menegroth with me," Celeborn implored him, "even if it is only for a day. Galadriel needs you. Let our healers tend to your wounds and you may have a bed, a proper supper."

"Yes, yes," Finrod said, "I think I will but first…" he sighed, "first I must deal with this lot I fear." He glanced back towards his cousins.

"They drew on us," Celeborn informed him and Curufin seemed to find this an ideal time to speak his mind once more.

"Artanis's little silver-haired dog," Curufin interjected. "Strange to see Celeborn of the Trees not cowering behind a woman's skirts for once."

"That is enough!" Finrod said with vehemence, turning to his cousin. "Celeborn is my friend and my liege lord."

"And the imbiber of your dear sister's sweet nectar," Curufin sneered. Finrod's hand went to his sword.

"Say but one more word, son of Feanor, and your tongue shall never speak again," Finrod spat while Celegorm looked on with dark, unamused eyes. The Feanorian had enough sense at that moment to quiet himself but Celeborn did not doubt, looking into those mad eyes that he would never be able to forget, that there was much yet that Curufin wished to say and even more that he wished to do. His threats may have been mad, but they were not idle.

"Let us rest here for the night," Finrod said to all those gathered there, "for we have many with us who are gravely injured and it would do us good, perhaps, to recuperate for a short while."

"Perhaps it would do you good," Curufin said, "but the sons of Feanor do not deem it suitable to rest and dine with second-born and dark elves."

"Very well," Finrod said, turning angry eyes upon his cousin. "We would be glad to be rid of you as well, for though you fought fiercely, your violence seems to not be confined to the battlefield but plagues us even now."

"Then we shall go indeed," Curufin said, "perhaps we'll even stop by Nargothrond and pay Angrod's dullard son Orodreth and his Moriquendi wife and their mixed-breed children a visit."

"Perhaps you will try," Finrod said, "but Orodreth will not allow you to pass within my city." Curufin turned with a sneer, mounted his horse, and before long he, Celegorm, and their army were nothing more than a fading dot on the horizon marked only by the dust that their horses' hooves kicked up.

"I am sorry for the unpleasantness," Finrod said, turning to Celeborn once more.

"It is no fault of yours," Celeborn told him.

"Tell me," Finrod said, "have you any healers in your retinue?" And Celeborn nodded.

"Indeed we have," he said, "though of course they are not used to tending humans."

"That doesn't matter," Finrod assured him, "indeed, I believe elvish medicine will set humans to right very quickly." Celeborn had nodded and summoned the healers forward, ordering his army to make camp, and by the time that the moon rose and the stars had begun to appear in the sky, the tents were set up and the bonfires were crackling away as the smell of roast venison pervaded the air.

Celeborn removed his riding gloves and set them across his knee, staring blankly into the crackling fire as he seated himself beside Felagund.

"You are betrothed," Finrod said quietly and Celeborn turned to his friend, startled, stretching out his hand to look at the silver and pearl ring that glimmered there on his index finger.

"Oh, yes," he said, surprised almost, for the engagement had been the furthest thing from his mind of late, overshadowed as it had been by everything else. "I meant to tell you only I forgot. It was the morning that we received word the peace had been broken that we became engaged. We were in the Falas and we rode straight back to Menegroth immediately. It was a week later that I set out from Menegroth in search of you. There were so many other things on my mind: the death of your brothers and Fingolfin, Morgoth's growing strength, wondering whether you still lived…"

"You left her alone so soon after that tragedy," Finrod said, and there was some bitterness in his voice.

"I comforted her as best I was able," Celeborn replied, fixing his gaze upon his friend's eyes. "Yet the pain was beyond my power to heal. That she must do herself, and she could not do it while I was still there, for she was using me as a crutch, as a way to escape the reality of what had happened. You need not fear for your sister, Finrod, for she is steel and this fire will temper her."

"Forgive me," Finrod said after a moment of silence. "I…it is just that with Angrod and Aegnor dead I cannot bear the thought of any harm coming to her…." His voice trailed off into silence.

"You need not apologize, my friend," Celeborn said. "You spoke in the trouble of your heart and that is no crime. You have endured much in these past few weeks, more than anyone should."

"They're…" Finrod stopped and started. "I buried them where I found them rather than contemplate bringing them to Doriath for burial. I hardly recognized them anymore…Galadriel's heart would have broken at the sight. War makes some things pointless…I could not imagine a funeral…"

"I am sure that she will understand," Celeborn assured him and Finrod nodded, but Celeborn saw the tears that had gathered in his friend's eyes.

"Forgive me," Finrod said. "I am so weary and I worry greatly over Barahir's condition. These humans…their spirits are so strong but their bodies so frail. Wounds that would be but superficial to us are the death of them."

"I am sure he will be well again soon," Celeborn said, "for our elvish medicine worked very quickly upon the humans who were injured, so great was its strength. Even the healers were amazed. And besides, his son Beren seems a very good and diligent lad. I am certain that he will properly see to his care."

"It is just that I could never forgive myself if any ill were to come to either of them," Finrod explained. His eyes met his friend's and Celeborn could see the worry churning in the depths of them. "I…I was cut off from my forces in the Fen of Serech when the rivers of flame began to flow down from Thangorodrim," Finrod said. "And I knew that I would not reach my brothers, that they were already dead, or doubtlessly would be soon. But I thought then that I would most assuredly perish as well, for I had only a small company with me and the orcs swarmed thick as ants across the earth."

"Celeborn, I…" Finrod stopped for a moment, choking back tears, "I could not help in those moments, moments that I believed to be my last, but think of Galadriel and that she would lose all of her brothers on the same day." He reached up, quickly wiping tears away with rough hands, almost as if he were ashamed of them. "My poor sister," he said, his voice cracking. They sat in silence for a few moments as he recouped and then Finrod continued.

"Barahir rushed in with his son and a troupe of soldiers, making a wall of spears about me. It was the only thing that saved me, that saved Galadriel from the pain of my death. I owe him my life. His losses were heavy, and all for my sake. Such kindness where I had done nothing to deserve it…" Finrod fell silent and Celeborn sat in contemplation.

"You are a true and loyal friend, Finrod," he said, "which is something that everyone knows." The Noldo merely shook his golden head.

"What sort of friend was I when I first came to Menegroth?" He asked. "I…" he laughed ruefully, "I was so bothered by the idea of a dark elf courting my sister. I told you as much, I told you that I thought of the Sindar as lesser. And what sort of brother have I been to my sister? I sought to protect her at the expense of her own happiness. I forced her to keep a secret against her conscience. The things I said to her…how can I forgive myself?"

"I have forgiven you, Thingol has forgiven you, Galadriel has forgiven you. You are good, Finrod, and loyal, and true. Your cousins have not half your worth," Celeborn said, "even Maedhros, enlightened though he was for a Feanorian, still saw others as lesser."

"I am not good enough," Finrod replied.

"Can you not let go of the sins of the past as Galadriel has done, live a new life here?" Celeborn asked gently.

"There are some wrongs for which there is no remedy," Finrod murmured. "Amarie awaits…" He fell silent for a while before speaking again. "I am happy," he said at last with a small smile as he gazed upon the ring on Celeborn's finger, "that you will wed my sister. She deserves to have one man in her life who does not let her down, who will always come back to her. Swear it to me, Celeborn, swear to me that you will care for her when I am gone."

"Felagund," Celeborn exclaimed, his heart deeply troubled by his friend's somber and foreboding words, "there is no need for such a thing! You will go on to rule for many thousands of years!"

"Ah, my friend," Finrod said, "Galadriel is not the only child of Finarfin to be cursed with foresight."

Celeborn thought it rude to argue with him and so he did not, for Finrod was in a strange mood indeed, and so he merely said, "then I swear it to you that I shall care for her for ever and for always when you are gone, though it is my most ardent hope that such a promise will not be necessary." Their conversation lapsed into silence as they both gazed into the fire then and, as Celeborn looked upon his friend, he could see that doom lay upon him as a shadow and that Felagund would not cast it off, but would go into darkness and his heart grew unbearably sad at the thought.

They managed, at last, to get some sleep that night and, when they awoke, they found that the elvish medicine had indeed worked wonders and Barahir and his men were in much better condition the next day when they rode off, thanking the elves many times before returning to their life in the wild, but the elven armies of Celeborn and Felagund turned south, crossing through the mists of the girdle and into the heart of Doriath's forests, headed for Menegroth. And Celeborn found that he could not quite shake Finrod's dark words and they followed them, hanging over him as a cloud, until at last they reached the gates of the city.

---

"Celeborn!" He had not expected to find Galadriel here in the infirmary but there she was all the same, standing there in a blue woolen dress covered in stains with a white apron pinned over her front that, truthfully, was more red than white, covered as it was in dried or drying blood. Her golden hair was pushed back in a cap and there were bandages stuffed in her apron pockets. She had never looked more beautiful. Indeed, the mere sight of her had robbed him of breath. She plunged her hands into a basin of water, drying them on a nearby towel. Her pace was brisk, the last few steps a jog as she crossed the room to embrace him. "Celeborn," she whispered his name again as he caught her in his arms, holding her tight against him, inhaling the heavenly, freshly-washed scent of her hair, so different from the death he had seen out there on that battlefield. "Thank the Valar you have returned," she said, "this city is in need of you. I need you."

"And what of me?" She heard a tired voice ask. "It is all 'Celeborn this' and 'Celeborn that' and no care given for Finrod."

"Oh Finrod!" Galadriel moved to embrace her brother, holding him as tightly as she was able, brushing tears away from her eyes as she stepped back to look into his grinning face. "Are you hurt?" She asked him, concerned.

"Nothing much," Finrod said. "Some cuts, some bruises. But I was hoping the healers might take a look at some of these burns."

"Of course," Galadriel said, glancing towards Celeborn.

"I am unhurt," he said with a smile and her eyes softened. Inwen came over then and they all helped Finrod out of his armor before the healer had him sit so that she might examine him more carefully.

"Water, Galadriel," Inwen said and the Noldo hurried off to fetch it. They wet the area of his shirt around the burn before they gently began to pull the fabric away but it still stuck a little before it came loose and Finrod hissed when at last it came free. The burn across his chest was a violent shade of crimson and oozing a foul-smelling yellowish pus that seeped through the cracks in his raw, red skin. There were white marks where it seemed that the skin had been seared against the metal of his armor like meat in a hot skillet.

"How did you get these burns?" Galadriel asked her brother softly, as she applied ointment to his wounds and wrapped them in fresh bandages.

"There were great rivers of fire flowing down from Thangorodrim, as if the whole world had been lit aflame," he said. "But let us speak of this later, in private, and I will tell you all that passed and how our brothers lost their lives"

---

Celeborn had sat up waiting for her in his room, for he had suspected that she would come to him when she was finished speaking with Finrod rather than return to her own rooms, and indeed she had, though it was quite late in the day and most of the city was already asleep.

"I…I hope you don't mind," she said, looking up at him furtively as she entered. He could tell that she had been crying, for her eyes were swollen and red.

"Of course not," he said, stirring in his bed, setting his book aside and sitting up. Galadriel took off her apron, tossing it to the floor, her cap following close behind, and then she moved to sit on the edge of the bed, her back facing him.

"Could you?" She asked and, wordlessly, he reached out, undoing the laces that ran down the back of the woolen gown until it fell from her shoulders and Galadriel pulled her arms out of the sleeves so that the top of the dress fell to pool in her lap. She sighed as if that had taken some monumental amount of strength, and Celeborn reached up to take the pins out of her hair, watching as her eyes fluttered closed and silent tears began to wet the golden lashes pressed tight against her cheeks. The thick waves of her hair tumbled down to her waist as he removed the last pin, moving to set the delicate little things aside on a table.

Galadriel pressed her fingers to her temples and sighed, the tears falling slowly down her face now, and Celeborn moved to sit beside her, stroking her hair. She raised a hand to her face, wiping the tears away. "Sometimes I feel like glass," she said, "perched precariously on a ledge, that sooner or later I will fall and shatter."

"And yet glass can withstand dragonfire," Celeborn said. He felt that it wasn't enough, that words could never suffice, that this was a wound he could not heal. He wanted to fix things but he was powerless to do so. Galadriel stood, pushing her gown to the floor, and straightened the shoulders of her cotton shift before climbing into bed and pulling the sheets and blankets overtop her. Celeborn climbed in beside her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close.

"They were so close in age, only a few years apart," Galadriel whispered. "Somehow, it seems fitting that they died together." She turned around so that she was facing Celeborn now and he could see that the tears were still falling. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, laughing. "I remember," she said, "when Aredhel was just coming into her majority there," she sniffed, wiping tears away, "there was this boy she liked but she was so afraid to speak to him and so Angrod and Aegnor locked her in a closet with him." Galadriel grinned, wiping away tears again.

"How did that turn out?" Celeborn asked with a smile, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"When next we opened the closet we found them kissing," she said with a laugh, "in that awkward way that young people do, as if they hardly knew how." She smiled.

"Then there was that time…I had a goldfish as a child," she said.

"What's that?" Celeborn asked.

"You know, one of those little orange fish that people keep in bowls," she told him but he shook his head. "Do you not have them here?" She asked.

"Not that I am aware of," he told her.

"Well they don't live very long is the point," she told him. "Maybe a year or two at most, often only a few months. But mine lived for ten years, Celeborn, ten years. And I believed it as a child, that that was what had really happened, that my fish had outlived all other fish. Because I loved that fish, absolutely loved it. But I was so young that of course I was horrible at taking care of it and one day I came back to my room to find it still and unmoving. Then I wept and Aegnor came running in, asking what was the matter so I showed him. 'He's just sleeping, Artanis,' he told me. 'Just go to bed and when you wake up in the morning he'll be awake too.' So I did and, sure enough, the very next morning my fish was swimming around again, happy as could be. Of course, years later I figured out what he had done, that all those ten years he had been replacing the dead fish with live ones the whole time." Celeborn laughed.

"I know not whether that is an unkindness or a kindness," he said and Galadriel laughed too.

"A kindness to me," she said, "but think of all those poor fish!" They laughed again.

"And Angrod," she said, growing more solemn, "do you know he was the only one who agreed with me when we first came here, the only one who supported me when I said that I thought we ought to tell Thingol about the kinslaying straight away? All of my cousins, the Feanorians, Fingon, Turgon, Aredhel, my uncle Fingolfin, Finrod, Aegnor, all of them wanted to keep silent. I was ostracized in a way for wanting to speak of it and Angrod supported me. That time we went to Nargothrond I spoke to him of it and he was the one who made Finrod come here, who forced him to do it, who decided that we would tell Thingol at last, for my sake. I always knew that I could count on him to stand by my side, even when no one else would." She took a shuddering breath and wiped away the tears that began to fall once more, falling silent.

Celeborn stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, wished that there were some way that he could make this pain cease, but he knew that he could not. He hated this feeling of helplessness, of uselessness, of the inability to comfort the woman he loved. "What can I do?" He asked.

"Just hold me," she said, giving herself over once more to sorrow as he drew her into his arms, holding her tight.

---

Gradually life in Menegroth returned to normal, or as normal as it could ever be now, though sadness seemed to follow them like a shadow, even in their moments of happiness. But some things were different. In the years following, Nellas, true to her word and her heart, had taken her people from the capital city but they had not moved very far and now dwelled within the girdle, in the forest of Region. There were, however, many elves who had elected to remain in the city and it was for that reason that the halls seemed now to constantly ring with the sounds of picks and hammers, for the masons and miners were hard at work in carving out a new district for the city from caves of stone in which these newcomers might comfortably dwell. Menegroth was near packed to capacity it seemed.

"I really should have moved by now," Galadriel grumbled to herself at all the noise as she wound her way through the corridors of Menegroth, perusing the various notes and letters that had arrived from her cousins and from Finrod that were intended for Thingol. She was still living in those same cramped, inconveniently located rooms that she had purchased so long ago, despite the fact that she could certainly afford better now, and the new district was being built quite near to where she was living, which really was a massive inconvenience, not to mention a headache.

"I did offer you a better living arrangement," a familiar voice purred in her ear and Galadriel nearly leapt into the air in shock, her heart pounding wildly.

"Celeborn!" She gasped, turning to see her green-eyed lover laughing merrily at her side, nearly doubled over in mirth. "Why must you always do that?" She hit him with the sheaf of letters and proclamations for good measure.

"Because it vexes you so," he said with a grin, reaching out to tug on her hair. "All these years among the Sindar and you still haven't caught on to our wily, secretive ways," he teased her, slipping a hand about her waist.

"Not here, in public," she whispered, pushing his playful hands away. "I'm working."

"So am I," Celeborn told her. "For your information, there is a very important matter regarding the safety of our borders that I must speak to Thingol about."

"Well I," Galadriel said, brandishing her sheaf of documents at him, "have important missives from Gondolin to bring to his attention."

"I suppose then, Lady Ambassador, that it is all a matter of which of us gets to the king first," Celeborn said, raising an eyebrow with a chuckle.

"I am not going to wait for you to be finished," Galadriel groaned. "The two of you sometimes talk for hours and there are many other things I must do this evening."

Celeborn laughed, "well the matter I must discuss with him is very important," he said.

"Doesn't look like it," Galadriel teased him, glancing at his dirty moss green breeches, his scuffed and worn brown boots, his open, stained, white canvas shirt, his silver hair pulled back in a loose and messy plait.

"Looks aren't everything, Princess," he said with a smile, raising an eyebrow. "And besides, I was sparring with the wardens."

"Lose to Mablung again?" Galadriel asked him.

"Every time," Celeborn replied with a laugh, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his breeches.

"Oh dear, shall I console you?" Galadriel teased him, glancing about to be sure they were not being observed.

"What?" Celeborn asked, but Galadriel replied by pushing him into a secluded corridor and planting a kiss firmly on his lips, her hands slipping beneath his open shirt to ghost across his bare flesh before she clasped the hand upon which he wore his engagement band, bringing it to her lips and placing a soft kiss upon the silver ring as she slowly met his gaze. "Valar, you undo me," Celeborn gasped, watching her with hooded eyes.

"I know," Galadriel murmured with a grin before she turned and strode back the way they had come, making for Thingol's office as quickly as she was able. She knew he would not be able to follow her now, at least not for a few minutes, and she smiled, delighted with her deviousness.

Thingol's door was just ahead now and she inclined her head politely to his guards but she was startled by the sound of shouting and one of the guards stepped forward, placing a gloved hand on her arm.

"I beg pardon, Lady Galadriel, but I am afraid you will have to wait a moment. The king is occupied at present," the guard murmured with a furtive glance at the door.

"Of course," Galadriel replied, startled, moving to sit on one of the stone benches in the corridor. One of the voices had been Thingol's but the other she had not been able to discern. Celeborn had recovered, it seemed, and now was headed down the same hallway. He cast a curious glance at her before the guard motioned for him to wait as well and he seated himself at her side.

"That was very devious of you, Galadriel," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I hope you are proud of yourself."

"Wasn't it though?" She replied with a grin. "You almost make it too easy to torment you, Celeborn."

"Why deprive you of one of your greatest pleasure?" He quipped with a laugh and then their conversation was interrupted by the raised voices coming from within Thingol's office, making them forget their light-hearted banter.

"Am I to stay confined to this palace forever then? Is that what will make you happy?" It was unmistakably Lúthien's voice. Galadriel cast a glance at Celeborn and saw that he was just as surprised as she. Of course, Lúthien had confided in her before how frustrated she grew with her father, but Galadriel had certainly never heard them argue over it. Thingol said something they could not quite hear and then Lúthien spoke again.

"It is within the girdle!" She cried. "I only want to go visit Nellas's people, take them some gifts, some food. Everyone's spirits have been hard tried these past few years and it would do them good to be reminded that the royal family cares about them! And this in particular is a time when we ought to be smoothing over any problems. The tensions in this kingdom between our people and the Green elves and the Avari were terrible just after the Dagor Bragollach! There were fights breaking out in the houses of healing! Some display of goodwill…"

"You do not have enough experience in diplomatic affairs to presume to lecture me…" Thingol began, his voice deep and angry.

"Because you never allow me to gain any experience!" Lúthien shouted. "I am your daughter! I am the crown princess of this kingdom! I want to do something, anything to help our people but whenever there is anything to be done you always send Celeborn, or Oropher, or Mablung, never me! You haven't let me go anywhere since Himlad!"

"With good reason!" Thingol boomed. "You could have been killed there, Lúthien! Can you not understand that I fear for your safety?"

"Maybe Finrod was right about you all those years ago!" Lúthien cried. "You're nothing but a frightened king hiding in his caves. There's a whole world out there father! We ought to be doing our part and instead we are holed up here like moles!"

"You know not of what you speak!" Thingol shouted, his voice practically shaking the stone around them.

Galadriel saw that even Celeborn's eyes grew wide at that and he turned to her, whispering, "I…I don't think I want to speak to him after this." Galadriel nodded.

"Me either," she said, swallowing hard. She had observed the change in the king herself, watching as he slowly reverted to the hopelessness and paranoia that had plagued him in the years before the long peace. She knew that Celeborn had seen it too, though they had never discussed it together, for she had come to recognize the tense manner in which the prince held his shoulders when Thingol was ill at ease, the way that the concern for his kingdom distracted his thoughts, the long silences he fell into when his mind was preoccupied with worry, how his usual sense of humor waned and then disappeared. She reached out, threading her fingers through Celeborn's, reminding him through her memories of the smell of spring niphredil blossoms, the freshness of clover in green meadows, the budding of new leaves on trees after a long frost and she felt him squeeze her hand in gratitude.

"I know exactly what I am saying!" Lúthien shouted back, her voice matching her father's in ferocity. "You don't even care about me or my happiness. I treat my dogs better than you treat me! What am I to you? Celeborn is more your child than I will ever be!"

"LÚTHIEN!" Thingol roared, but the princess had thrown open the doors of her father's study, pausing in surprise for a moment at the sight of Celeborn and Galadriel sitting there staring blankly and nervously at the door from which she had just exited. "WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING?" The king bellowed, appearing in the doorway.

"TO THE FOREST TO DANCE!" She shouted, turning back. "DON'T WORRY! I'LL TAKE DAIRON WITH ME SO HE CAN SPY ON ME FOR YOU!" She then stormed off, the earth trembling beneath her footfalls like an earthquake, tears streaming down her face.

Thingol stood in the doorway for a moment before turning and saying, "see that she does not leave the city," to one of his guards. His furious gaze then turned towards his nephew and Galadriel who tried and failed to shrink back into the shadows. "What do the two of you want?" He spat.

"Nothing," they said in unison, shaking their heads, before they quickly took their leave.

"Your room?" Galadriel asked and Celeborn nodded. They did not speak until the door had closed behind them and then Galadriel took Celeborn's hands in her own. "Swear to me," she said, "that if we have a daughter you will never, never, ever strip her of her freedom in order to preserve her safety." Her eyes were glinting with latent fire and Celeborn knew how worried she was for Lúthien. He too was worried for his cousin.

"I swear it," Celeborn said, looking into Galadriel's eyes with concern. "I am not Thingol, Galadriel. I am different."

"I know," Galadriel said with a sigh, shaking her head as if to clear the foul thoughts away. "I know. I'm sorry." She threw herself down on the divan and kicked off her shoes. "I just…" she shook her head, "I feel very sorry for her. She's right you know; he doesn't let her do anything. She is a princess in name only. And here I was thinking that Tirion was bad."

"I feel for her as well," Celeborn said, squeezing in behind Galadriel and pulling her up against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. "I almost feel as though it is my fault. Perhaps I could have done things differently at Himlad. And, if I had, maybe it all would have turned out for the better. I lost my temper and…"

"It isn't your fault," Galadriel said firmly. "Curufin is mad and there is no reason that Lúthien should have to suffer because of him."

"Thingol's paranoia is growing again," Celeborn murmured, "just as it was before the long peace began. You haven't seen him at his worst, Galadriel. I love him as a father but still, things were very bad just before the Battle of Beleriand. When he is under this kind of stress he becomes impulsive, overly proud, does not heed the words of his advisors or of Melian."

"He was bad enough just before the long peace," she said. "I still remember how concerned you were. What do you do when he acts like that?" She could feel Celeborn shrug against her back.

"I have found that the best thing is to just ignore him and do what I would have done anyway. Of course, he gets angry about that but he forgets it in time, once he has returned to a more reasonable state."

"Do you think that is what Lúthien will do?" Galadriel asked.

"No," Celeborn said with a sigh. "She is too much like her father. She is unable to just let things lie, to bide her time. She thrives off of winning hearts and minds, wilts when she cannot. She will stop at no lengths to change her father's mind, to turn his heart to her will. And he won't stop until he does the same to her."

"An impasse," Galadriel said.

"Yes," Celeborn replied.

"I wish there was something more I could do for her," Galadriel told him. "She has been confiding her frustrations in me of late, but still, that does not seem as though it is doing her much good."

"There is nothing we can do, I fear, except bide our time," Celeborn said. "They always work things out eventually, even if it does take an entire century."

"Or two, or three," Galadriel replied. She tilted her head back so that she could see Celeborn and he tweaked her nose with a grin before she settled back against his chest, closing her eyes and relishing in the warmth of him, in the beating of his heart beneath her ear. She heard him sigh and looked back up at him. "There is something else that is bothering you," she said.

"Perhaps it isn't the right time…what with this trouble between Lúthien and Thingol and with you still in mourning," Celeborn said. "I don't want to offend you." He shook his head and then gazed into the fire. His eyes almost seemed haunted but there was a yearning there as well.

"The engagement…" Galadriel said and Celeborn let out a sigh. She sat up, taking his hands in hers. "It has nearly been ten years," she told him. "In a few more months my period of mourning will be at an end."

"And then?" Celeborn asked, his eyes watching her.

"Then we shall have the betrothal ceremony, if you still wish it," Galadriel said happily and Celeborn cast his eyes down with a small smile before kissing her brow.

"I wish it, but I want more than that," he told her, meeting her gaze again and Galadriel felt her heart catch in her throat, as ever it did when he looked at her with such raw longing. "I have been thinking, Galadriel, ever since last I saw Finrod, that this war is growing and perhaps I shall have to go to battle again soon. I do not know what the future holds," he said, "but I would spend what time is left with you." He shook his head and laughed. "What I am trying to say," he told her, "is that I would like you to live here with me, as we spoke about when we renewed our courtship, if that is agreeable to you."

Galadriel turned about in his arms so that she might better look at him, smiling and tucking his silver hair behind his ear. "It seems so strange," she said, "that we eagerly anticipated our betrothal for so long and then, as soon as we were betrothed, so many things happened that superseded it. Let us go to Thingol and, when my period of mourning has finished, let us then have the betrothal feast, for I long to see Finrod again and then I shall live with you here. For, I too find myself longing for the comfort of your arms in my sleep, but I must admit that I rather fear that Doriath would soon have another unexpected prince or princess."

Celeborn laughed, "Indeed," he said, "I rather fear that as well. It is my singular reservation."

"It is no wonder then," Galadriel laughed, "that Thingol is so worried of late with princes like you and Galathil."

"Oropher, at least, went about things the proper way," Celeborn said with a laugh before bending down to kiss her forehead. "Will you risk it or no, Galadriel?" He asked. "If you like I could sleep on this divan and you could have the bed for yourself. I only want to be near you, to see you when I wake, and when I go to sleep."

"That won't be necessary," Galadriel said. "For I do wish to live here with you and you needn't sleep separately from me. I have been thinking of late," she said, "ever since Angrod and Aegnor died, that we ought not waste what time we have. Indeed, I have often thought on Melian's words that day that Finrod first spoke to us of the humans: that we ought enjoy what time is given to us and fill it with love. I never knew Andreth, nor do I know even if she still lives, but I think it rather tragic that the loved that she shared with my brother went unfulfilled and now shall go unfulfilled for all eternity. I can't help but think that…well…" she wrung her hands, "if something were to happen to you."

"Galadriel," Celeborn turned her chin towards him, "do not worry yourself over a vision that you yourself cannot see clearly."

She sighed. "There are not many things nowadays that give me hope, Celeborn, but this ring is one of them," she said, holding her hand up so that her engagement band glittered in the light of the fire.

"Very well then," Celeborn said, "let us go to my uncle when your period of mourning is over and we shall write to Finrod and invite him and then, at the feast, this betrothal will finally be official."

"And I want the marriage to be exactly a year from the betrothal date," Galadriel told him. "I will not wait a day longer than is required." Celeborn laughed and shifted so that she could rest her head on his chest.

"Indeed," he said with a grin, "I hope that we can manage to make it a full year.

She stayed with him that day, though it was Celeborn who was first claimed by sleep and Galadriel lay at his side, running her fingers through his long silver hair which gleamed in the firelight as though she held a shower of stars betwixt her fingers, remembering the dark visions that had been seared into her memory and the words of doom that Finrod had spoken. She had seen in Celeborn's eyes this night that he had not forgotten these thing either, that they haunted him still though he spoke of them not, that he wished for her to share his bed because he felt their time running out like sand in an hour glass, slipping away into the seas of time. "I will stand by your side," she said to him in the silence, "and together we shall fight the long defeat."