Flight of the Nightingale
In Cavern's Shade: 30th Chapter
"His mind is in bondage.
He is haunted by a great, unsolved doubt.
He is one of those who don't want millions,
but an answer to their questions."
– Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
Author's Note: Ahhh! You all inspired me so much! Thank you! I can't believe that we crossed the 100 review mark. You guys seriously are my muses and I could never have done this without each and every one of you. You guys point out so many things in the story that I am not even aware of but that help me keep making it better and better! I wish I could give each of you a present so I will tell you the title of the next book: Canticle of the Haunted.
Leeza: I really do want to write a Mablung romance into this story! It was so hard to write that breakdown on one hand because it was personally very sad for me to destroy a family I have been building for 29 chapters and on the other hand because everything at the end of the first age happens so quickly that there is little time to build or develop things anymore, so I tried to build everything in Parts I and II to compensate for that. So now I can just…knock the dominoes down. Yeah, I could also see him as the son of one of Galadhon's sisters. I haven't thought much about his parentage but I like that idea. Oropher and Thranduil play a much larger role in the next book so I will try to cover that sort of stuff then. :)
Luna: The end of the story is super exciting! You will see ;) I really enjoyed Celeborn's gravitas in the novel too and I wish Tolkien would have written more about C&G. I am really glad you are enjoying the character profiles. I am having a fun time writing them!
Guest: Oh, I know! Poor Lúthien! She's just such a good person and she tragically assumes everyone else is as good a person as she is (which they're not). I'm actually doing the fall of Nargothrond pretty soon. You'll know which one it is when you see the chapter title. Tolkien wrote in his personal notes that Celeborn escaped Menegroth during the sack, so just a hint but I can't reveal anything else about it right now. Good to hear from you! I hope you will keep reading and reviewing.
This week: Curufin!
Starting to realize that there are themes and stuff in this story that I didn't mean to put in but that are in here somehow anyway…my subconscious?
Figuring out how I was going to tackle the Feanorians was a huge part of this story. The LOTR fandom in general seems to have a very pro-Feanorian bias so I was afraid to write a story that portrays them negatively but I felt that I had to because…well…what they do IS very negative, especially to the Sindar, who are my favorite. Then I realized that there already is a book about the terrible stuff the Feanorians do and…it's called The Silmarillion, so I didn't feel bad writing their dark side anymore.
But, I get why people have affection for them. They do horrible things and yet you still feel kind of bad for them and so that is what I wanted to portray: nuanced villains that you kind of have sympathy for. Because I think that real life villains are also usually very nuanced. I also wanted each of them to have a distinctly different personality. Basically they are dealing with everything that has happened to them but they each cope with it in a different way. Maedhros and Maglor do the best job of coping and well…Curufin…doesn't.
Essentially, Tolkien said he was Feanor's favorite and the most like him. So I imagined that Curufin did all of these horrible things, like the kinslaying, out of love for and devotion to his father but then had this moment where he thought that if his father really loved him he would never have allowed or encouraged him to do something that would doom his soul. Worse, there was a part of him that was satisfied by doing those horrible things because he feels the world is deeply unfair and his way of making things fair is to try to hurt people and make them as damaged as he is. Basically, realizing all of this caused him such a crisis of self where he is completely unable to deal with the reality of his thoughts and feelings.
Celeborn and Curufin have only met a handful of times but I think they both realized upon meeting how very similar they are and thus, though they don't spend much time together, they actually have a deeply intimate relationship. Their personalities are very similar, Celeborn has this part of him that enjoys killing too (as we will see more of in the next book), and Celeborn has with Thingol what Curufin used to have with his father. For Celeborn, every time he meets Curufin he is very aware that he could become like that if he isn't careful so it causes him to be more cautious of Thingol and more introspective about where his own loyalties lie. And, though Thingol actually does care about Celeborn very much, his personality is such that he does tend to kind of push Celeborn down Curufin's path at times and Celeborn has come to realize that, which is one of the reasons he was willing to fight Thingol in the last chapter. Galadriel is the person, and Doriath is the thing, that pulls Celeborn back from that cliff every time, brings him back to who he really wants to be, and reminds him of what is really important…which is why Celeborn's loyalty has begun to swing more heavily in Galadriel's favor than Thingol's. Melian could pull Thingol back if he would let her…and if she wanted to…which we are going to explore more in this chapter.
As for Curufin, he has developed really weird feelings for Celeborn. He sees him almost as a second self in some ways and, for him, Celeborn is representative of that good side he used to have. He almost feels as though if Celeborn would kill him he would feel some sort of redemption from that, as if his good had won out over his evil. On some level I think Celeborn realizes that and he kind of wants to give that to Curufin. Curufin also weirdly sees Celeborn as a sort of father figure replacement for Feanor. Then, on another level he almost has romantic feelings for Celeborn. I suppose it is the whole thing of he wants to make himself whole again.
Poor Celebrimbor is actually very aware of all of this though he doesn't let on that he does. It really is a struggle for him though! But that is a big thing I explore in the next book where Celebrimbor is a main character!
Thinking of doing Finrod next week unless you guys want somebody else. Let me know! Choices for after that are: Thingol, Beleg & Mablung, Galathil, Lúthien, Venessiel, Amdír, Beren, etc… let me know.
The hall was filled only with the sound of the scraping of the knife's blade against Celeborn's skin and he stared down at the growing pile of long silver tresses on the floor before him, a feeling of deep humiliation beating hot through him like a drum, pulsing so that his skin felt too tight, as if it were constricting him so that any moment his soul would be forced out and he would vomit it up upon the ground for all there to see. All he really wanted to do was to hide it away, and not only that, but to hide all of himself: his thoughts, his feelings, his face.
It seemed such an impossible task, even now he could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes and he did his best to blink them away. That would only add to the humiliation after all, make him seem a child, and he no longer had any hair to hide tears behind. He had never felt such shame.
After all he had done for this kingdom, after all he had sacrificed for Doriath, for Thingol, he could hardly believe that the king would do this to him. He wanted to look up, to meet Galadriel's eyes and find courage in the strength that he knew he would see there but they were pushing his head down and so he could not raise it. But, Galadriel seemed to understand his thoughts, as she always did and in his mind he suddenly saw the memory of a small, golden-haired child reaching up to take his hand, leading him through the diamond-strewed streets of a great and magnificent city where the noontide light shone bright and golden and a silver lamp glimmered on a hill. He knew that she was willing him to endure this and he knew that with her trust he would not crumble and fall beneath the blade of the knife that hacked his hair away. But the memory she had planted in his mind flickered away and died, overwhelmed by the pain that was coursing through his heart.
There was no greater shame than this, to be stripped of the symbol of his birthright, his heritage, in this fashion, to be branded a traitor to his own kingdom and to the king who had raised him as his own child. He could feel a strange prickling in his eyes but he willed himself not to weep, if only because he would not surrender that last modicum of authority to Thingol. But without his hair he felt as though he were nothing, worse than nothing.
It seemed interminable but at last, somehow, it was finished and they released him. He was heavy on his knees on the floor and pressed the tips of his fingers to the earth, trying to find the strength to stand but it was not there. His head felt cold, his heart felt colder, but the tender hand on his shoulder was warm: Lúthien's, and then it was gone as she, weeping still, was pulled away from him. The pile of silver lay in a heap before him and Thingol strode over to stand atop it, his boots soiling it, addressing all gathered there.
"Let all here bear witness to the way that I shall treat with traitors, be they strangers or of my own kin, princes of this realm or the lowliest of paupers! This is the decree of your king and it shall stand unquestioned!"
It was over at last then, and Celeborn felt someone pulling him up from the floor, the whole world seeming to be a blur about him, and then he felt Galadriel's hand in his, strong and reassuring, and together they left that place. He was still numb when they reached his chambers, hardly seeming to know or remember how they had gotten there. But Galadriel sat, drawing him down into her arms, cradling his head in her lap, and he was grateful to her, grateful that she did not say, 'you should not have done it,' or 'it was foolish of you,' or even, 'thank you.' She knew why he had done it; she understood his heart with clarity and she respected him for it. He tried not to let on that he was crying, turning his head so that his tears fell into her skirt, feeling shame for it, but he was certain that she knew and she rested her warm hands against the bare skin of his head.
There came a frantic rapping at the door and then the yelp of the page as somebody pushed past him, not waiting for permission to enter, and Galadriel looked up to see Galathil storm in, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes hard, and angry, and hurt, and he took up Celeborn's knife that Galadriel had discarded on the divan, casting the sheathe aside as he drew the blade.
"I'm sorry," he said in a choked voice, tears beginning to stream down his face. "I am sorry that I did nothing. I am only a useless musician and I have not his bravery."
"Galathil!" Galadriel gasped, seeking to placate the younger brother as Celeborn stirred in her arms, rising to a sitting position. But Galathil had raised the blade to his own dark hair and began to hack it off in great chunks.
"If we all do it then it has no meaning, no shame," he said. "If we all do it then Celeborn is not alone."
"Galathil!" Galadriel rose, going to him and stilling his hand, taking the blade. "Let me do it," she said quietly and Galathil looked at her for a moment with tear-filled eyes before nodding. Galadriel guided him to sit across from Celeborn and the brothers clasped hands as she raised the knife to Galathil's head and shore off the remainder of his dark brown hair. He breathed deeply when at last she finished, casting his eyes down, but looked up in surprise when he felt her pressing the handle of the knife into his hands.
"Mine next," she said, her gaze steady, her voice full of conviction, and Galathil's eyes went wide.
"I couldn't…" he stammered, "not yours."
"Please," Galadriel said and Galathil nodded.
Galadriel stormed through the halls of Menegroth, the sharp staccato of the heels of her golden slippers echoing about the caverns, a crumpled letter clutched in her trembling hand, fingers clenched so tightly about the paper that her knuckles had turned white. Her face too had gone pale and cold but her eyes glinted with a fearsome light. Not pausing for even a moment, she threw the door open and strode through it, Melian's maidens scattering before her like leaves in the breeze as the Noldo marched towards their queen, who had risen from her loom in surprise, coming to stand before it, facing the granddaughter of Finwë.
"You are a Maia," Galadriel said, her voice low and trembling with anger, "you could put a stop to all of this if you so chose." But in the next instant her breath had caught in her throat as Melian's eyes flashed and she threw out her hand. Galadriel came to an involuntary halt, suspended in place, it seemed, as if some massive hand clutched her in a fist. The queen's gaze was cold, calculating.
But Galadriel's anger burned hotter than the spell that bound her and, gathering her energy, she forced it outwards in an explosion of power and light that echoed around the room like a thunderclap. The handmaidens shrieked, cowering in a corner, while Galadriel and Melian faced each other with intensity, both reverberating as if a current of lightening was burning through them.
"You will never do that to me again," Galadriel growled and Melian's lips narrowed to a thin line.
"You give me orders in my own palace," Melian replied, her voice cold and savage. And now Galadriel could see it fully as she never had been able to before: that Melian and Thingol were two sides of the same card, that while one played the face that everyone saw, the other played the back, disguising the hand that they held until the proper moment.
"Did you think that you could turn me against my husband?" Melian asked, striding forward, her voice deathly quiet, stopping a mere hair's breadth from Galadriel.
"You have disagreed with his treatment of Lúthien before. You rebuked him publicly before the court," Galadriel said, trembling in repressed anger.
"His treatment of her, refusing her freedom, I may disagree with, and I do, but I am in agreement with his reasoning and, in that, he and I are of the same mind. But it is not my duty to explain, not is it your prerogative to question, my relationship with my husband."
"It is when my brother will die for it," Galadriel said coldly, brandishing the crumpled letter at Melian. "He has departed Nargothrond to rendezvous with Beren at the River Narog and aid him in this quest. I have seen his death at the hands of Sauron. Even now you could stop this foolishness that has been set into motion, Thingol could stop it. And yet you gods will do nothing while Middle Earth falls into ruin!"
Melian crossed her arms over her chest, her body thrumming with energy and, for a brief moment there was pity in her eyes. But there was no doubt there. "Your brother will die and for that I am sorry. But my daughter will live. And, if you ask me to weigh Finrod's life against Lúthien's then the scale will always tip in her favor."
"And yet you have doomed her to a lifetime of wandering, as you yourself have said," Galadriel replied.
"Wandering, yes, but not death," Melian said in a voice as cold as ice.
"Of what value is a life without happiness or love?" Galadriel cried.
"She can find another," Melian said.
"But he is her choice," Galadriel said. "She loves him and yet you wish him dead!"
"I never would have wished him dead," Melian said, her voice a low rumbling, "and for that I am angered with the King. But neither do I wish for Lúthien to marry a mortal, Galadriel."
Hearing her name from Melian's mouth was nearly akin to a slap in the face to Galadriel, for usually the queen would call her her sunbeam, or her daylight child, or the light of Laurelin, but never Galadriel. Her heart quivered at the wound. "Then you are happy that they shall be sundered forever!" She cried.
"I am not happy!" Melian hissed. Her eyes had gone milky white, crackling with a purple energy like vivid lightening as her hair that began to float over her head like some dark cloud. "I am not happy but I would be less happy to see my daughter cold and dead in the ground." Galadriel took a step back, suddenly frightened by the queen.
"It is her choice," Galadriel said, "not yours, not Thingol's. And at what price will you strip her of that choice? Will you see Menegroth brought to wreck and ruin? Will you see those we love destroyed?"
"A vision is only a possibility, not an absolute truth," Melian said, her words harsh.
"As you have told me many times," Galadriel replied, her voice strong but trembling. "But you also taught me to respect the power of a vision, to consider the possibility that it will come to pass as well as to consider that I may not be able to change the outcome. Have you considered that things may be further out of your control than you think? Have you considered that perhaps you have not seen all that is yet to come, that some thing may lie beyond your sight?"
The Maia reached out and grasped Galadriel's chin between fingers that felt as though they were made of steel, her eyes boring into the elf's. "When your own children have been brought to ruin, when they are nothing but a memory, when Celeborn's son dies within you and your womb turns to dust then you may seek me out in Aman, if you so dare, and then you will have a right to question me," Melian said. She took her hand away and Galadriel, feeling as if all vitality had been sucked from her, collapsed to the floor as the queen strode by and, in a gale force wind, quit the room.
It was in a blur of half-contemplated pounding emotion and trembling steps that Galadriel, grasping at the wall the entire way, feeling as if she had just run a very long and exhausting race, managed to return to her and Celeborn's chambers. It was as if she had been holding herself back from the brink of exhaustion until she was assured that she could collapse into the security of his arms and knew she must make it just a few steps further, down the hall and past the servants' quarters and into the main room where she leaned against the wall heavily, having not the energy to take even one more step.
"Galadriel!" Celeborn had bolted up from where he had been sitting, hurriedly tossing down the book he had been reading and, as she felt his arms close around her, Galadriel collapsed into him. He lifted her, carrying her up the stairs to the bed and laying her down there before he moved to sit at her side, smoothing his hand across her bare head. Galadriel reached up with a trembling hand and brushed her fingertips over the silvery stubble that was what remained of his once-magnificent hair. Celeborn caught her hand in his.
"What has happened?" He asked and Galadriel opened her fist to reveal a crumpled letter, a letter bearing Finrod's cracked and broken seal and written in his hand; a single piece of paper that told him what he had already expected, that Finrod would go with Beren, that he felt bound by the vow he had made to Barahir. Celeborn set the letter down and sighed deeply.
"Melian…I…confronted her" Galadriel said, but no sooner were the words out of her mouth than the enchanted ceiling of Menegroth flickered to darkness and back like a candle deprived of oxygen. Celeborn gasped, looking up with fright. There seemed to be a strange breeze winding its way through the palace, shaking the leaves of the trees above, and the feeling of something fell, something that caused Celeborn's skin to prickle. It seemed as though the whole palace had taken on some sinister air.
"I received that letter some hours ago," Galadriel continued. "No one will do anything," she said, her voice going hard, her eyes glinting with sudden anger. "Everyone is so complacent about the loss of life. Even the gods do nothing! And now my brother goes out to die." She was quivering with fury now. "I am not ready to stop fighting, Celeborn, I'm not!" She cried, feeling a sudden flux of energy, trying to sit up but Celeborn bent over her, gripping her arms tightly, and forced her back down.
"They're not our friends, Galadriel," he told her, his eyes dark. "Melian and Thingol. They can be friendly and we can love them and they can love us, even as parents, but do not forget who they are. They are our rulers. They're not our friends. Thingol taught me that with the blade of his knife. Even Fëanor was not a father to his sons in the end."
"I know," Galadriel said, the feeling of hopelessness coming over her once again. "I know…I've always known only I didn't want to..." She grew silent, staring into the fire. "I know they have massive responsibilities…responsibilities for this kingdom that we could not even begin to imagine but… Celeborn…if we ever become the King and Queen of someplace will we…will we become like that? Is that the price we will pay? I could not bear for my heart to become so hardened."
Celeborn sighed, looking at her for a moment and then shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know." And he didn't, but he wished he did. He wished there was some way out of this, yet he felt like a rabbit in a trap, struggling futilely against the snare that held it, waiting for the hunter to come and bring the end with him.
"I want answers," Galadriel whispered.
"I wish I could give them to you," he told her, "but I can only give you myself and hope that it is enough." Galadriel squeezed his hand.
"Forgive me," she whispered. "I know that this has been just as difficult for you. Indeed, long have your people suffered the apathy of the Valar."
"There is no need for you to apologize," he told her. "But sleep now and we shall speak again when you awake, when you are not so tired."
"You are the one person who brings me comfort these days," Galadriel replied, her eyes already beginning to flutter closed under the weight of sleep. Her body seemed to be crying out for release from this waking and Celeborn curled up at her side, pulling her into his arms as sleep overcame her and she fell…down…down…down into the abyss of dreams.
She was turning, turning in the widening gyre, falling through a shower of rain into blackness before she materialized like ink staining parchment in Doriath's great hall and there before her on a bier of black velvet encircled by candles gone cold and dark, their wicks burnt down to black stumps lay Lúthien: cold, and white, and still, and dead. The purple dusk of mortality stained her once pink lips like shadow, her hair, black as midnight, was strewn with snowy niphredil blossoms.
Then the great hall became a thin line of darkness that slowly bled out to reveal that dungeon deep and dark that she had seen before, where Finrod hung from wrists that had become mere skin and bones in tightly clasped manacles of cold and unforgiving steel. She heard the footsteps in the hall once more, splashing through the stagnant bilge that coated the floor, and Finrod raised haunted eyes, one word slipping past his dry and cracked lips: "Sauron." Her heart hammering, Galadriel turned to find him towering over them, a form clothed in darkness wearing a heavy crown of blackest steel, his eyes blazing like burning coals in a face so devoid of color it might as well have been glass.
His body moved with a strange creaking noise that sent a chill coursing through her bones and then she was screaming in terror as she was caught up in a river of her brother's blood, a river that poured over the edge of the world into night and then she was sliding in that blood down the walls of Doriath, walls that seemed interminably long, before she crashed to the floor with a sickening crunch. There was Celeborn through a screen of darkness and, sobbing, she crawled towards him, her fragile fingers breaking on the hard earthen floor. She pulled his lifeless form into her lap, cradling his head, kissing him as if that could bring him back to her. Then his face changed and, suddenly, she found herself staring at Thingol, her horrified face reflected in his cold, dead eyes.
The world went pure white then, light exploding outward like stardust, and she saw a brilliant glow so bright that she could not stand to look at it and turned away, shielding her eyes. She gasped as she felt someone slip something cold about her throat, a necklace that glowed with a strange pulsing light and it grew tighter, so tight that it was choking her, cutting off her air and she pulled at it, trying to loosen it, to tear it off, but she could not get her fingers beneath it and she could feel it cutting into her skin now, closing her airway, her lungs pleading for air. She was choking, her body beginning to spasm as her eyes rolled back in her head and the world began to go dark, her ears echoing with the whispers of her cousins' voices.
And then she heard a different voice, an otherworldly voice as deep as the ocean, as the depths of the earth. "Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever…"
She turned her eyes up to the mountains where the dark shadowy figure of Námo stood and yet it was Namo no longer, but Melian. Strange and fey she looked, clothed in black and tattered clothes, her hair of shadows and midnight caught in the breeze like a hurricane and she stared down from those heights with a tearstained face before, from her back, sprouted black wings of leathery skin and scraggly feathers that molted from her back, falling like black snow. A horrible screeching noise was ringing in her ears.
"Galadriel! Galadriel come back to me!" She heard a voice calling to her and then there was some force in her mind, something foreign and yet familiar, pushing back the darkness that threatened to overwhelm her. Images of autumn began to crowd into her head and suddenly she felt as though she were sitting in a hollow filled with crisp golden leaves, the pleasant musky scent of the earth surrounding her as the sun shone down warmly on her skin.
She turned her head up to see the canopy of trees overhead: a brilliant symphony of reds, and oranges, and golds. And, at her side was Celeborn, dressed in hunting clothes, his hair long and silver once more, a great bow strung across his back but he was staring not at her, but out at the sunset, watching with a smile as it painted the crimson and gold foliage in evening shades of soft lavender and glowing fuchsia so that the entire horizon looked as though it had been lit aflame. There were several small blue birds playing in the leaves nearby and, with a smile, Celeborn extended his arm and one of the little birds eagerly hopped onto his finger, preening her feathers there. He began to sing softly while the bird rested upon his finger.
We circle round, we circle round,
The boundaries of the earth.
We circle round, we circle round,
The boundaries of the earth.
Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly,
Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly.
We circle round, we circle round,
The boundaries of the sky.
And then he laughed softly, joyfully as the bird perked up at the end of his song, ruffling her feathers once more before she was gone in a burst of energy, winging high into the sky. Galadriel smiled too and then she was looking up into his green eyes as his face swam in and out of view. "Celeborn?" She whispered, confused.
"Galadriel," He breathed a sigh of relief and she could feel that his hands, which were clasping her face, were trembling. She gradually became aware that her chest was heaving, her lungs tight, as though she had just run a race or been underwater unable to breathe for a very long time. She tried to move but found that her bones ached so terribly she was unable to do so. "Just lie still," Celeborn said. She could hear the worry in his voice.
"What happened?" She asked, surprised to find that her throat was sore and that her voice was raspy. She reached up, grasping at her neck, but her hands were slick with sweat and slipped away. "What happened?" She choked the words out again. Celeborn seemed uncharacteristically frantic.
"What did you see?" He asked her, eyes concerned. "I sent your handmaiden for Inwen."
"I saw Finrod again…" she said, breathing hard, sweat pouring down her body, "and Sauron."
"Your screaming woke me," he told her. "You were screaming as you have never done before…your handmaiden came running out, startled, you were convulsing, grasping at your neck, choking yourself, and when I tried to pull your hands away I could hardly do it. It was as if there was something otherworldly in you. Your strength was greater than usual. I couldn't pull you out of it," his words came tumbling out in a quiet rush. His gaze was unusually intense, afraid.
"Galadriel!" Inwen had arrived and she wasted no time in tending to Galadriel, who seemed to Celeborn to be very reticent to speak though she did allow Inwen to examine the damage she had caused to her throat. But, after the healer had left she was strange, sitting in bed with her knees pulled up to her chest, resting her chin on them.
"Did I do the wrong thing in sending for her?" He asked, sitting opposite her atop the coverlet, crossing his legs. Galadriel merely sighed and closed her eyes, saying nothing. They sat in silence for a while and then he spoke again. "What did you see?" He asked again.
Her eyes flicked open and he was surprised by how completely devoid of emotion they were. "Finrod will die at Sauron's hands in a dungeon, you will be cut down in Menegroth's halls, I will die with my cousins' hands about my throat, Lúthien we will lay to rest amongst the niphredil this spring, Thingol will die choking in his own blood, and Melian will depart this world forever."
Silence stretched between them once again after that, a silence that seemed interminable, and Celeborn stood, finding himself possessed by a strange manic energy as he paced about, hands on his hips, trying to puzzle it all out. Galadriel watched him with a strange nonchalance.
"You're like me now," she said in a rasping whisper, "just some animal trapped in a cage, no way out, waiting for that axe to fall…and you know it will, but you do not know the hour. It is enough to drive anyone mad." And Celeborn remembered Curufin's gaze.
"We can change it!" He said, turning towards her, his heart filled with resolution. "Doriath has stood for ages of the world and for all those ages Melian and Thingol have stood against all the forces of Morgoth himself. We will not fall!" It was almost as though by saying it with such force he thought he could make himself believe it.
"I have seen it," she said hollowly.
"Not everything is certain!" Celeborn told her, still pacing. "The visions are only possible paths, not certainties. We can make a stand! We can fight!"
"Maybe that is why I first loved you," she said, her voice growing sad, her eyes wistful, "because you believe you can change things…" she cast her eyes down, shaking her golden head, "I would have thought that after all you have endured in Middle Earth you would be broken by now." She looked back up at him with eyes filled with profound sadness. "Doom is upon us, Celeborn, and we cannot change it."
"We can," he said, heart burning. "We can do something. We must do something. I will not sit here and let our future slip away."
"This world is dying," she told him. "We are dying." And with that she lay down, her back to him while he said nothing, pondering all that she had said. At last she fell into a weak and worried sleep and Celeborn sat, watching her toss and turn in the dying firelight. But he found no solace in sleep, staying awake until well after the candles had burned themselves down to mere stumps. And he worried over the change that he had seen in Galadriel of late, and not only her, but Thingol as well, even Melian. He wondered what this world was coming to when they would all simply accept what was happening, when they were content to accept fate, no longer willing to fight it. And he cursed the Valar on their thrones.
He watched her in her shallow and troubled sleep, remembering the night he had first seen her, slender as a willow but unbreakable, a thin flame among the frosted rushes bathed in moonlight and yet stronger than steel, glowing with ethereal light. Her laugh had been the happiest sound he had ever heard, her eyes so magnificent that even on that first night he had been unable to look away, though he had known it was impolite, her touch had lit his heart aflame, had inspired him, her courage…her courage had made him anew.
And now…now he knew what he must do. He would make her eyes shine once more, would make her smile again, would bring joy to her heart. He would show her that her visions were not written in stone, that it was possible to prevail, that at least one person in this kingdom was not content to accept fate, that he still cared even if the Valar did not, that he would fight against the dawning of darkness that Melkor brought to his people and this earth be it with the very last breath he held in his body.
He closed his eyes, blinking the tears away, placing his hand upon her brow and he began to sing in a soft and low voice, a song of love, sending her of to a world of blissful dreams, of old things that rested peacefully in the night.
Beloved you are my heaven,
you are my only devotion.
You are my wish,
you are the peace of my soul.
You are the soothing of my eyes,
you are the beat in my heart.
Never shall I forget your fragrance,
the balm of your words.
I was undeserving but you laid the world at my feet,
O brightness of my heart you are the wealth of centuries.
And I know nothing else, only this:
I see the light in your eyes, my beloved,
My soul bows down in worship of you,
I see the light in your eyes,
What else could I do but love you?
His voice trailed off into silence and, gradually, she grew still, her breathing deepening, as she fell into an enchanted sleep. Then slowly he took his hand from her brow and, where it had been, he pressed a kiss, drawing back to allow his eyes to linger upon her one final time, the woman who would have been his wife. The parting was made all the more bitter because he knew that even if he were reborn in Aman he would never again see her, for she was banished from there for all eternity by Námo himself. This then, was the final parting. He would never know her as his wife, but he resolved in his heart that he would never love another and that he would thus remain unwed until Illúvatar began the final music and then, perhaps, they would meet again, not as elves, but as stars in the heavens.
"Galadriel,"he whispered, moving to tuck her hair behind her ear. And then he took the silver ring from his finger, slipping it between her hands and, in sleep, she wrapped her fingers tight around it. "I release you," he whispered and then, because he doubted his resolve if he did not leave and quickly, he stood, pulling on his hunting clothes and his heaviest armor, clasping the cloak she had made for him, a cloak woven of her love, about his shoulders.
He paused a moment before setting pen to paper. There were so many things to say and yet all of them so impossible to express. And so he wrote:
My beloved,
I will find Finrod and offer myself to Sauron in his place so that he and Beren may go free and that both you and Doriath may be spared. Be happy, I beg of you. The only thing I ask is that you plant a tree where you make your home, name it after me and always remember me fondly when you look upon it. Recall not the sorrow that passed between us, but only the joy, for happiness was the greater and love was stronger than despair. And whatever the years may bring, do not forget that there was love once between a princess of Valinor and a prince of Doriath; that even the greatest of sunderings may be mended. There is hope, Galadriel."
That was all he wrote, leaving it there on the table for her. And then he took up his glimmering crown from where it sat, watching for a moment as the black metal glittering with the dust of a meteorite shone in the dying flames of the fire and he saw reflected there a face that might have been Thingol's for the resemblance, eyes that could have been Curufin's for all the darkness in them. "I am different," he whispered to the darkness and silence.
His hands were trembling as he laid the crown on the ground before the king's door. Thingol would know what it meant. He wished he could have bid Galathil farewell, but had he seen his brother's face he would have faltered in his resolve. And, trying not to think about what he was doing, lest his heart grow weak with yearning for food, and drink, and merriment, home and heart and the warmth of Galadriel's arms, he wrapped the cloak all the more tightly around himself, resolved not to look back as he strode forth from Menegroth's halls.
The stable boy had been asleep. "Your Royal Highness," he had protested weakly, "the king said no one is to come or leave."
"I am the crown prince of this kingdom and I have ordered you to ready my horse," Celeborn commanded harshly and the boy had complied.
The plains were cold and frozen in late autumn, the grasses standing tall encased within prisms of ice that glimmered in the moonlight and the trees were naked and barren in this the denouement of autumn. The breath of his horse was a chill mist in the cold night air and the sky up above was a perfect black in which a myriad of stars like diamonds shone with a fierce and wild brightness as if they had been flung across the sky by some godlike hand. The land had a primeval feel to it this night, as though he could stand still here for all time frozen and nothing would change, as if old and unseen things still walked this earth. But change it must he knew for that was they way of the world and yet it would not be his world, but a world that he would bequeath to those who would live.
When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home. The words that Thingol had spoken to him so long ago, before the battle of Beleriand, echoed in his mind. His king had been a different man then, unbroken. He opened his mouth, but the words of his battle cry died like dust upon his lips.
The moon shone down in silver beams, silver the color his hair had been, painting the forest floor in savage light and Celeborn wheeled his horse about, making for the rendezvous point that Finrod had mentioned in his letter, thundering across the earth with a reckless abandon, hoping beyond hope that he was not too late, that they were still there.
He saw it at last, the crackling fire, and slowed his horse, gazing into the darkness. He could hardly believe that it might be them, these 12 figures sitting around a lonesome fire and he nearly gasped in surprise for they looked so small and he had expected a great army from Nargothrond…not this small band of companions. He dismounted then, slowly making his way forward and they heard him, leaping up from their seats, drawing weapons, thinking, perhaps that he was a bear, but then Finrod saw him and his face was confused for a moment before it relaxed.
"Celeborn?" He said, sheathing his knife and walking slowly forward, still puzzled. "Is that you?"
"It is I," the Sinda replied and he saw the others sheath their weapons, saw Beren, a concerned look upon his face, begin to step forward, but Finrod motioned to him to return to the fire and he did so as the Noldo stepped out of the woods into the clearing, wrapping his cloak tight about him in the chill of autumn, coming to stand across from his friend. Finrod's face was wistful almost, his eyes wells of memory, but there was also a strange contentment in his gaze, as though he had made his peace with the world.
"Your…hair…" he murmured to Celeborn. "I almost didn't recognize you."
"It was Thingol who did it," Celeborn replied, reaching up to run a self-conscious hand over his head.
"Thingol?" Finrod reached out to place a hand on his friend's shoulder, his eyes filled with concern, and Celeborn pursed his lips, shaking his head.
"After Beren left Galadriel confronted Thingol and he drew his blade on her," Celeborn said, watching as Finrod's eyes grew wide. "And I drew my blade on him to defend her but also to show him the error of his ways, or so I thought, but he saw it only as treason and treated it as such."
"Beren told me some of the madness that has come over him," Finrod said. "But I never imagined that he would harm those he loves in such a way."
"His thoughts are born of fear," Celeborn said, "and thus he reacts with desperation rather than reason, which is why I have come."
"And why is that?" Finrod inquired.
"Let me go in your place," Celeborn said. "Galadriel has had a vision of your death at Sauron's hands and it torments her. Go back to her and I will stand in your stead."
Finrod shook his head as if this were a preposterous idea. "You swore to me," he said, his eyes burning into his friend's. "You swore that you would care for my sister when I was gone."
"She needs you," Celeborn replied with equal conviction.
"She needs you more," Finrod said, his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I will not pretend that this is honorable, or beautiful, or somehow just – the trading of one life for another. It is a filthy business Celeborn, a business that we are all caught up in. Would I spare Galadriel my death if it were possible? Aye, I would, but it is not and I cannot. For I have sworn an oath, just as surely as you swore an oath to me, and I must be free to fulfill it."
"Break it!" Celeborn urged him. "Break it and return with me to Menegroth, all of you. We will find some way to make this all right. Of what value is honored compared to a life? We will think of something!"
"You know that is impossible," Finrod said, his eyes watching Celeborn's, seeing the truth there. "Doriath will need you, Celeborn. She is as a ship in a storm with no captain at the helm. You must guide her now that Thingol has been lost. But, leave me this choice. For it was my choice to fulfill this oath, not only because of my allegiance to Barahir, but because Galadriel is not the only child of Finarfin to be cursed with foresight."
"A vision is only a possibility, not a truth!" Celeborn cried.
"If I do not go then Beren shall perish and ruin come upon us all," Finrod told him. "Mayhap it will still come but I can buy you time with my life…I can buy Galadriel time and a chance, a chance to live. If I die then perhaps she need not. Perhaps she can escape the doom of Mandos."
"Let me go in your place!" Celeborn begged. "She will be utterly alone! What family will she have left if you perish?"
"You," Finrod said. "She will have you, Celeborn. My death will pain her…your death would kill her. After she refused to come to Nargothrond with me when I first founded it I grew troubled and angry with her, jealous of you that you had stolen my constant friend and companion from me. And, for that, I became cruel to her, saying and doing many things that I now regret so that I might selfishly hoard her affection. But the night that she fled Nargothrond I understood at last what it was that you had offered her: a future." Felagund's voice cracked and he dropped his head, his eyes clouding with bitter tears.
"After the betrayal at Alqualondë, after abandonment by our father, after the pain and heartache of the Helcaraxë, the starving time in the wilds of Beleriand, the wretched secret that I forced her to keep against her will…that is what she needed, Celeborn: a future, hope; and I could not give it to her, still I cannot. If I stay here I will grow to loathe this place, to resent it and all who dwell in it, and that hatred will twist me and turn me into someone who I do not want to be, someone who will injure and destroy those who love me."
"It is your choice," Celeborn said.
"It is," Finrod said, "and I have made it. I know that a grave lies at the end of this road. I could change things. I could choose to walk a different road, but this is the path that I have chosen. It is not that I am unafraid. Indeed, the fear I feel is greater than any I have ever known, but more than I fear death, I fear the person I will become if I do not make this choice." Then Celeborn knew Finrod's heart and bowed his head in acceptance.
Finrod reached out, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder. "You have been the best of friends to me…always," he said. "Even now you offer your life for the sake of Galadriel's happiness, for the sake of your kingdom, for my sake. I am honored that you shall marry my sister; there is none more worthy of her. And she will need you, Celeborn, and you her in the ages to come, more than either of you know," he paused, managing a small grin. "Tell me, if ever the Valar grant me mercy I am reborn in Aman, shall I put in a good word for you to my parents?" Celeborn nodded numbly, feeling his throat grow tight.
"This is the last time I will see you…isn't it?" He asked, already knowing the answer and Finrod nodded, certainty in his eyes.
"In this world, yes," he said and Celeborn reached up, unclasping the cloak he wore and fastening it about Finrod's shoulders instead.
"Galadriel made this," he told his friend, "may it protect you as it has protected me." Finrod grasped his hand and, in the next moment they had drawn each other into a tight embrace, weeping until neither of them had tears left to shed and then, wordlessly, because there were absolutely no words that could do justice to this moment, they stepped apart, grasping hands one last time.
And, as Celeborn strode away, leading his horse behind him, he turned back one last time to see Felagund standing there in the forest like a spark of gold, his hand raised in farewell and Celeborn raised his hand to his friend one last time. Then, steadying his heart, he turned back towards Menegroth, the sound of the crackling fire in the distance faded and then all he heard was the sound of his boots crunching across the frosted forest floor.
He suddenly felt very alone though he had never felt alone in the midst of trees before and he walked through the forest with a kind of numbness, as if he had been dulled to all sensation or as if by this impassivity he sought to defer the emotions that had been building for so very long, that threatened to overwhelm him. He feared those thoughts and feelings, for he knew not how they might manifest and he had seen the effect of such things before. Only earlier this night he had seen his own eyes reflected in the cold metal of his crown and seen in them churning the same fear that had taken the heart of Curufin…of Thingol. And he knew that he was capable of the same anger, the same aggression, the same brutal disregard for the living.
I am different, he had said to himself. He said it again now aloud. "I am different." The trouble was in believing it. He had passed through the trees and now came to stand in a clearing where the moon shone down on the frosted grass, making it glitter like diamonds and, as he raised his eyes to the heavens he saw the stars so fiercely bright scattered across the sky. His horse stopped, sniffing at the grass, his breath rising up in a warm vapor, and Celeborn gave the animal a small smile. Then he bent, touching his hands to the ground, kneeling, closing his eyes as the musky scent of autumn leaves in the hollow of the world greeted him and he could feel the thrumming deep-beating of the heart of the earth coursing through his hands, through his skin, pulsing through his blood.
It felt like greeting an old friend and he took a deep breath, drawing the life into himself, feeling the warm growing of the soil in his hands, the whispers of the trees on the wind, all life in communion there in the womb of the earth. He welcomed it in, feeling the strength of rivers coursing through him like white water thundering over a cliff to pools whose azure depths extended to the core of the earth itself. And he breathed deep the scent of the earth, carried to him on the breeze that surrounded him, enveloped him, of the soil that tugged at his heart and the grasses that wrapped themselves around his fingertips as a mother might wrap her hand around the tiny one of her child. He sank down, heavy on his knees in the earth and felt her energy growing within him, the conduit for her power, even as the emotions grew in his heart like a raging river, fear, and anger, and betrayal, and loss, and helplessness, and desire, and striving, and love piling one over the other like waves upon the seashore.
Then in a colossal surge of power it all burst forth from him like a dam breaking, surging outwards like lightening into the earth, the grasses, the trees, and he felt the ground shake beneath him with the violence of an earthquake, the energy surging outwards as the grasses burst free from their icy prisons, blossoming with new and verdant life, as the bare and black branches of the trees suddenly erupted with fresh green leaves that grew in a matter of seconds to maturity, and flowers began to spread like wildfire across the clearing, opening their pearly white petals to the glory of the moon. The heavens exploded with the sound of nightingales singing and, his entire body shaking, Celeborn looked up at the life that had flowed forth from him. That. He had not known he was capable of that. He rose to his feet in slow reverence at the glory of the earth and then he knew…he knew exactly where he stood.
This was the beginning of the end, as Melian had told him so long ago when Galadriel had first arrived in Menegroth, but even in that doom there was hope and, what was more, there was life. Perhaps it would very well end in defeat but he would not step down from this fight, nor would he step away from this earth that he loved or the kingdom who loved him. When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.
Thingol's words of old beat in his heart like a savage drum and, courage swelling in his soul as an eddy in the Sirion, he looked out across that plain to the north where, far away and unseen, the dark lord sat upon his dark throne. "I am still here!" He shouted, his heart growing hot within him. "And I am unafraid! So come and claim me if you dare to try but I swear with every fiber in my being that I will outlast you!" He raised his hand, pointing northward. "When you are chained in the hell of your making still I shall be and when all your foul machinations come to ruin my children and my children's children shall inherit this earth and rule it as kings!" Returning to Menegroth, he sang his war song with pride and courage.
The four winds are blowing,
The dark lord's war party came a riding,
They came riding on wolves.
Their teeth they were sharp,
Sharp as knives in the dark.
Our arrows they were sharper,
Our blades they were sharper,
We have obliterated every trace of them!
We circle round, we circle round,
The boundaries of the earth.
We circle round, we circle round,
The boundaries of the earth.
Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly,
Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly.
We circle round, we circle round,
The boundaries of the sky.
I am in my power.
I stand in my power.
I sing in my power.
I am. I am.
He had been gone less than a night and yet it felt as though he had traveled to the other end of the world and back. The palace was only just waking but he had asked the first guard he had encountered as to the King's whereabouts and been directed to the great hall where he found Thingol seated on his throne not like a king, regal and proud and calm as still waters, but like a vagrant: meager and scheming and afraid. He fears death. The thought had risen unbidden to his mind but rang with veracity.
Celeborn strode forward, passing between the trees and crossing the creeks with feet that were sure of the weight that they carried, his footsteps falling heavy in the silence of that deserted hall. And, as he approached, Thingol raised sunken and tired eyes to him and Celeborn saw there the light of the trees gone faint, as if it was dying. Upon his knee, clasped in a worried and trembling hand, was Celeborn's crown.
"I thought you had gone out to die," Thingol said, his voice a ragged whisper as he clutched his robe about himself. He looked old, like a stag that has passed his prime and will never know another summer.
"I did," Celeborn said, coming to a halt. "I went out seeking death and I found it, looked into its eyes and chose life instead. Do not shun the fear and the pain, o King, but welcome them into your heart and turn them, instead, into something greater. It is fear that binds you to this throne as if it were a prison, not the might and valor that you had of old."
Thingol drew himself up, his fingers going tight around the crown, his knuckles growing white, his eyes growing cold and hard, his nostrils flaring in anger. "I am a king," he said, "and I know no fear."
"I had thought that my loss might be enough to alter your mind," Celeborn told him and Thingol's eyes glinted with a strange sadness that was yet marred with pride.
"I thought I had lost you as well," he said.
"You have," Celeborn said, his voice quiet and even. "You lost me the moment you condemned Beren to death and Felagund along with him, you lost me the instant you sentenced my cousin to a life of pain and wandering, you lost me when you doomed the woman I love to mourn the only family that remains to her. Embrace your fear, Thingol, and face it. Recall Beren and Felagund. Let us fight Morgoth openly. If all of us band together perhaps there is some chance, who can say, but the only thing that is assured is that if we do nothing then the victory shall go to Morgoth. Already the fear that he propagates has crippled you, but cast it off as you would cast off a chain and let us meet him in battle uncowed and unbroken. Let us show him the greatness of Doriath and the courage of our people and of their king as we did of old. "
But Thingol's eyes grew hard at the thought, his heart twisted in anger, and he cast the crown down at Celeborn's feet, where it fell with a clatter. "Band together with slayers of kin, with murderers, with second born," Thingol trembled as the words fell from his lips. "You would set yourself at odds with the decrees of your king," he spat and pointed a trembling finger at the crown that lay on the floor. "Then take your collar and wear it like the dog that you are." And Celeborn bent slowly to pick it up.
"I do not take it for love of you," he said, "for what king I once loved as a father is no more, but because I will not abandon my people when you have already forsaken them." And having said, he turned and left, his heart beating not with anger, or pride, or pain, but only with the desire to know warmth, and affection, and love again, to know that these things were real, that they were not illusions.
The sound of the door opening and closing with a slam startled Galadriel and she looked up to see her betrothed striding down the hall. "Celeborn!" she gasped, her voice filled with equal parts shock and relief, and she dropped from trembling hands the armor that she had been about to don, the spear that had stood at the ready.
But, in the next instant a rage came upon her and her eyes flashed with fearsome anger. "How dare you," she growled as Celeborn strode towards her, not stopping for a moment, driven by some otherworldly ardor, his green eyes filled with some strange and ethereal light and she knew there was no fear in him any longer and no fear in her. "How dare you!" She shouted at him, pummeling her fists against his chest, slapping him. "How dare you go out to die without me! How dare you leave me alone in this world without you!" She grabbed her spear and launched it across the room, screaming, tears of fury streaming down her face, her body shaking in rage and the aching vestiges of sorrow.
"There is still life in this world," he said, his voice a strangled gasp, "there is still life in us," his hands went to either side of her face, cupping it, his fingers digging into her skin so tightly it nearly hurt but something about the pain sated her soul, reminded her that she was not numb, as his thumb dragged across her lower lip, pulling it down against her teeth as he turned her eyes up towards him. Galadriel felt her heart hammering in her chest as she met his gaze. So many centuries had passed and yet those eyes were still the same eyes of the young man she had met so long ago in Doriath, eyes that made her feel the power coursing through her own blood, eyes that demanded she act, eyes that caused her to see a frontier laid out before her, unexplored, unknown, eyes that were as savage and desolate as this land itself. And she saw the power moving in him, ancient, primal, visceral.
Their gazes met for one more moment, eyes flickering towards each other before they closed them and she felt his lips press hot and forceful against her own, opening her mouth and she opened it to him, drinking in the taste of him, the feel of the edge of his tongue against hers. He pressed her against the wall, the living stone at her back and him, living, and solid, and real, pressed tight against her. He released her from that bruising kiss at last, just when she thought that she must breathe or perish, and she gasped, pushing her head back against the wall as his teeth found gentle purchase in the curve of her neck.
"Make me feel something, anything. Make me believe that we are alive." She murmured and she clutched him to her, with her hands expressing the fear she had felt only a moment earlier: that he was lost, and gone, and dead. She cried out as he bit her and then pushed her back into the wall even more forcefully and she knew he needed it as badly as she did: to know that he lived, that this was no vision or dream or nightmare, but something so very real, so very tangible. She caught his head in her hands and pressed her lips to his again, biting at his bottom lip, pulling at it with her teeth.
Galadriel's breath was coming in deep gasps now as she frantically fumbled with the buckles of his armor and the laces of his jerkin, sighing as she heard his weapons clatter to the ground. She pushed the jerkin off, her hands practically tearing the clasps from his tunic as that soon followed the jerkin. His shirt she did tear, the small buttons popping off and she could feel his hands, demanding, at the collar of her own shirt, tearing it from her body. At last they were both bare and she felt him push her up against the wall once more, wrapping her legs about him in response, gasping at the longed for feeling of his flesh warm against her own skin. She could feel his heart pounding against hers, pumping blood through his body, blood that ran hot within his veins, and she needed that warmth, that assurance that there was life before the grave.
Their eyes met again and she again pressed her lips against his in a crushing kiss as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, digging her nails into his flesh. She felt him pick her up and then move to lay her down upon the bed. He climbed atop her and she pulled him down against her, wrapping her legs around his hips as he cupped her face in his hands. "Say it," he commanded her, "say that you live."
"I live," she growled, "touch me and know it to be true," she demanded of him and he did as she arched up into his embrace like a bow loosing an arrow. And then with eyes burning with fire she met his once more ordering that he do the same; "swear it to me," she gasped.
"I am alive," he swore, pressing the syllables of the words into her skin with his lips, searing them there like scars upon her flesh. "I am alive." And when he looked into her eyes he believed it: that his soul was not cold and dead within him.
"Marry me now," she whispered and he met her eyes. "I need to feel your life within me." He could taste the salt of her tears on her cheeks, the salt of his own mingling with them, and he wanted it too: to feel her life surrounding him. But he knew what wrath would come upon them if they wed now.
"Not in sadness," he said, and then in a massive expulsion of energy, as if with those words he had used the last of his strength, his body gave way and he collapsed on top of her as she pulled him as tightly against him as she was able, and together they wept for Alqualonde, for Aegnor and Angrod, for Beren and Lúthien, for Finrod, for Thingol and Melian, for Doriath.
"Your Royal Highness," the herald stepped into Celeborn's office, "my apologies for the interruption but the Lady Ambassador to the Noldor requests an audience."
"Thank you," Celeborn replied, "please inform her that I shall see her shortly once I have finished with the matter at hand."
"Highness," the herald said with a quick bow of confirmation before he exited the room. Celeborn knew by the way she had asked to be introduced that it was a matter of state rather than a personal matter that she intended to bring before him. Curiosity and an unpleasant sense of foreboding tugged at his mind but he turned his eyes back to the disgruntled fisherman before him.
"As I was saying," he continued where he had left off before the herald had entered. "It seems clear to me from the evidence that was presented at your earlier trial that you have indeed violated the laws regarding overfishing of the Sirion and I have decided that the judgment of the court and the fine that was levied upon you in sentencing shall stand. This case will not go to an appeal." The fisherman did not look pleased about the matter, and of course he had no reason to be, but he accepted the judgment and stood, bowing his was out of the room before the herald ushered Galadriel in.
Celeborn could see from the look on her face that, whatever this was about, it was very bad. "Celegorm and Curufin," Galadriel said, tight-lipped, pushing a letter across the desk towards Celeborn before she reached up to run her fingers through the short golden hair that was sprouting now from her head.
Celeborn idly noted to himself that Galadriel was possessed of the rare ability to look equally as beautiful with no hair as she did with a wealth of it. But he turned his attention to the letter, glancing at the seals of Nargothrond and Orodreth that Galadriel had broken in opening it.
"From Orodreth?" He asked, perusing the letter and Galadriel nodded, her jaw clenched tight in agitation, her eyes hard with repressed anger. "Curufin and Celegorm have taken up residence in Nargothrond…" he murmured, feeling a sinking feeling of dread as he read the words then read them again. "No wonder that Finrod had such a small band of soldiers with him. I had wondered but he said nothing of it."
"That is because he puts more trust in Orodreth than he ought to," Galadriel said crossly. "Indeed, he puts more trust in Orodreth than Orodreth puts in himself. Finrod is like Lúthien: too trusting of others."
"Cynicism, Galadriel?" Celeborn queried with a raised brow.
"Realism," she said with a frown.
"Tell me," Celeborn said, leaning back in his chair, fingers on his chin.
"As Orodreth's aunt or as the ambassador?" Galadriel asked, Celeborn could tell she was chomping at the bit to get her thoughts out.
"Both," he said.
"Orodreth is a lovely person," she said, "but he is too young and inexperienced to rule. Nor is he capable of keeping Curufin and Celegorm in line. Even Maedhros and Finrod have not been capable of that."
"Did Angrod not raise him as a prince?" Celeborn asked.
"He did," Galadriel said, "and Orodreth has the knowledge, and the intelligence, but he has not the heart for ruling. He does not want to be a king but now the role has been thrust upon him, and in the most difficult of times as well."
"Neither do I wish to be a king," Celeborn said and Galadriel sighed.
"But you would be good at it if you were," she said. "Even if you did not want it you would have the ability to lead. You would not hate it. But Orodreth is not a leader. That is not where his heart lies. It would be as if Galathil, a fine person though he is, were suddenly made King of Doriath." Celeborn pursed his lips.
"Then, in other words, Curufin and Celegorm are essentially ruling Nargothrond now," he said.
"Essentially yes," Galadriel said and Celeborn looked down at the long list of complaints and grievances that Orodreth had outlined in the letter. It was plain even from what Angrod's son had written that he wanted to be rid of this problem more than to solve it.
Celeborn sighed. "We must speak to Thingol about this," he said and Galadriel nodded.
"Yes," she said, "but I wanted a reasonable opinion first."
"Thingol will do nothing," Celeborn said, "for his mind is elsewhere, on this matter with Lúthien, and of late he has often ignored advice he should take and situations that he ought to deal with. Indeed, even I must admit that his hands are somewhat tied on this matter. The only way he would be able to restore Orodreth to sovereignty in Nargothrond would be to topple Curufin and Celegorm by military force and that, of course, would start a war with the rest of the Fëanorians. If Orodreth wants Curufin and Celegorm gone then he will have to do it himself, reluctant though he may be."
"And if it were your choice," Galadriel said. "If you were the king of Doriath and emperor of Beleriand." Celeborn stilled and the silence hung between them as he appraised his betrothed with a critical eye.
"That is a very dangerous game, Galadriel," he murmured, "a very dangerous game indeed. If someone were to overhear you speaking in such a way…"
"If you were king of Doriath," Galadriel said, narrowing her eyes, ignoring what he had just said. The conversation lapsed into silence once more. She was determined and Celeborn knew how she was when she was determined.
"I would march on Nargothrond and install you as Queen regnant there," Celeborn said. "Then I would solidify that alliance by marrying you and making you queen consort of Doriath. You are the daughter of Finarfin. Even if Maedhros and Maglor sought to topple you, which they wouldn't, Fingon and Turgon would never support your ousting, even if they might turn a blind eye to Curufin deposing Orodreth. You would be too powerful to challenge," he said.
"You have already thought this through," Galadriel mused with a grin.
"I planned for that contingency the night that I realized Felagund was marching into peril," Celeborn said.
"Indeed, you are never without a plan, are you," Galadriel said.
"A plan it is, but it is still a bad plan," Celeborn said. "I would not choose war unless no other path was left open to me. Still, it seems to me that there is no good way out of this, not unless Orodreth can oust them, and even then a kingdom in the hands of a reluctant king is an endangered one."
"So it is," Galadriel said, growing solemn once more and her eyes flashed with ire. "They have doomed Finrod," she said, "and what is worse, I fear…nay, I know that the oath of Fëanor has been awakened and is again at work. They know what it is that Finrod and Beren set out to do and if Beren succeeds then they will come to Doriath and, girdle or no, they will find a way into this kingdom and they will seek the Silmaril, and vengeance along with it."
"As I am not king of Doriath, what would you advise?" Celeborn asked her.
"Impose strict trade sanctions on Nargothrond until such time as Orodreth is restored to power," Galadriel said. "And Doriath must openly declare in support of my nephew and make our stance against Curufin and Celegorm's rule known. You are right that it would be madness for Doriath to go to war to restore my nephew to power just as you are right that Thingol would never agree to such a thing. But we can at least hurt their pocketbooks and that will certainly garner the attention of the Fingolfinians, who might be persuaded to put pressure on them to leave Nargothrond. Do you think that Thingol would agree to that?" She asked and Celeborn nodded.
"He sees the sons of Fëanor as his enemy," Celeborn said, "and so long as we do not ask him to send an army I believe he will see this response as appropriate, no matter the anger he may feel towards us." Galadriel nodded in understanding.
"There is one more thing you should know," she said, "a personal matter." Celeborn raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "I spoke to Lúthien regarding my vision."
"How was she?" Celeborn asked. "I have hardly seen her these past few weeks."
"Unwell," Galadriel said softly, shaking her head. "Her handmaidens were under strict orders that I should not be allowed to see her but a few jewels given in secret solved that problem," she sighed. "This all weights so heavily upon her heart. I have never seen her so sad. And, to imagine that it was her own father and mother who stripped away her hard-won happiness…the thought is abhorrent."
"Are you sure that telling her was the right thing to do?" Celeborn asked. "In her current state of mind she may act rashly."
"I thought that she had a right to know. And she is familiar with foresight. She understands what visions can show and what they can't, what they may mean and what they may not. Besides, it may very well be that she is the only one with her best interests at heart," Galadriel said. "Thingol and Melian are certainly not doing what is right so perhaps someone else ought to."
"Have you told her aught of Curufin or Celegorm and how they have set themselves against Finrod and Beren?" Celeborn asked but Galadriel shook her head.
"No," she told him, "for I learned that news after I had already spoken to her."
"Very well," Celeborn said, "then let us go to Thingol now and speak to him of this matter regarding your cousins."
"Cancel the rest of my appointments," he instructed his herald on their way out. "There is an important matter of state to which I must attend." And so they left, going in search of the king, steeling their hearts against whatever unpredictable response he might have or worse, the complete apathy he might show at learning the part that Curufin and Celegorm had played in engineering Felagund's death.
Yet Thingol was curiously absent from his throne room and they found it dark and empty, though he was supposed to have been holding court today. Neither was he in his chambers, nor anywhere else he usually frequented, and all of their inquiries were met only with guilty eyes and vague answers that concealed far more than they revealed. With a feeling of creeping dread they at last made their way out of the caverns to the lawn before Menegroth where the great beech Hírilorn stood and found to their dismay that all about the mighty tree there was a great commotion. The crowd was so thick that, even for her height, Galadriel could hardly see what was going on.
"What is happening?" She and Celeborn queried as they slowly began to push their way through the crowd, but it seemed that no one dared answer and they received only furtive, half-fearful glances. Drawing closer at last they saw Thingol standing before the great beech, directing a slew of builders who were hurrying about and there, in the branches of the tree, they could see that the king had had constructed a little wooden house. Though they could not yet discern its purpose, the sight caused their hearts to grow cold with dread and what hope they might have had evaporated as quickly as mist at dawn. Then, from within that house came the gasping, weakened, pitiful sobs of Lúthien.
"He has imprisoned her!" Galadriel gasped in shock and she began to fight her way forward now, all care for propriety gone as she pushed the people aside.
"He has gone completely mad," she heard Celeborn whisper. But Thingol had seen them coming and already the guards had approached at the king's command, pushing them back into the crowd.
"The king has commanded that you are to be kept away!" She heard one of them arguing with Celeborn, who looked as if he had nearly reached the point of drawing his knife once more.
"Have you forgotten where your loyalty lies?" He was shouting, red-faced at the guard. "Have you no love for this kingdom? She is my cousin! She is as my sister! Let me go to her!"
"The king orders you obey his commands." The guards said but Galadriel fixed her eyes on theirs until they had not the strength anymore to withstand her gaze and in their hearts she saw fear and doubt as certain as night follows day.
"Paniel!" Galadriel called as she entered her chambers. Paniel always made it a point to never come immediately when Galadriel called for her but to always make her wait a few moments and so Galadriel waited beside her wardrobe for the handmaiden. Usually she was patient with Paniel's antics. After all, as Paniel had pointed out herself, she knew what she was getting into when she hired her. But, in these past few weeks since Thingol had imprisoned Lúthien, Galadriel had little patience for anyone and she stood now tapping her foot in agitation, arms crossed over her chest as she awaited her handmaiden.
"You called," Paniel said as she made her habitually tardy appearance, and Galadriel's eyes went wide, for Paniel's head was completely shaved. What annoyance she had felt disappeared immediately and left only curiosity in its wake.
"Yes…I, uh…would you mind undoing the laces?" Galadriel asked and Paniel moved to do as she asked while Galadriel puzzled over why her head was shaved and settled upon the inevitable conclusion that she had done it herself as a display of solidarity although she was completely lost as to the reason that she might have done so for she certainly bore Galadriel no affection and she seemingly view Celeborn with a sort of apathy. However, Galadriel knew that asking Paniel outright was sure to cause her pride to flare up.
"I mind," Paniel said, undoing the laces.
"What?" Galadriel asked having completely forgotten what she had asked her handmaiden only a moment earlier.
"I was reading and you interrupted me," Paniel said. "It really is a bother."
"My apologies," Galadriel said. Sometimes she almost felt as though she waited on Paniel, rather than the other way around. There was probably no other handmaiden who spoke to her mistress so informally or showed such a blatant disregard for the established rules of etiquette.
"Nobody wants your apologies, Galadriel," Paniel replied in a tone so dry that Galadriel could not tell if she was being serious or facetious. But there was almost something comforting in it, as though Paniel was reminding her of what was really important. The handmaiden finished unlacing the dress and Galadriel stepped out of it, moving to her vanity.
"You were employed at Himlad were you not?" Galadriel began her line of inquiry as she sat at her vanity in her shift, removing her jewelry and makeup. Paniel was folding the complicated Noldorin garments that her mistress had worn to court today and she looked up, startled at the question.
"What does it matter?" She asked sourly, her eyes glinting with suspicion, but there was something else there in her gaze, something Galadriel could not quite read. She pressed on.
"I had heard that Celeborn brought you back from there when he and Lúthien carried Thingol's decree banning Quenya to Curufin," Galadriel said, carefully watching Paniel in the mirror. She saw her flinch at the sound of her cousin's name. "I had heard that it was he who knocked out your teeth." Paniel drew her lips into a tight line.
"Aye," Paniel said at last after a pregnant pause, but Galadriel could tell that she still had her guard up. She turned back to the mirror, taking out her other earring and placed it in her jewelry box.
"It wasn't the worst thing he ever did to me." She heard Paniel say from behind her and turned around. Her handmaiden's eyes were hard with anger but it was the slow, simmering kind, not the burning conflagration of Celeborn's fury.
"What did he do?" Galadriel asked but Paniel made no reply, concentrating instead on folding the clothes. Galadriel tried a different strategy. It felt like playing some morbid game of chess.
"You told me once that you know how to fight," Galadriel said. "Was that merely for intimidation's sake or…"
"I wouldn't say anything that wasn't true," Paniel interrupted her, straightening, her eyes flashing with latent anger. "My father was an expert with knives and he raised me in the wilderness. I could skin a buck before most children could read."
"And where is your father now?" Galadriel asked.
"Dead," Paniel said.
"Was it orcs…" Galadriel began to ask.
"No," Paniel interrupted her curtly.
"Curufin then?" Galadriel questioned.
"It wasn't him either," Paniel said and Galadriel noted some strange darkness in her eyes.
"I am sorry for the loss of you father," she said at last.
"Don't be," Paniel replied and the conversation fell silent for a while.
"What would you do if you ever saw Curufin again?" Galadriel asked.
"I would slit his fucking throat," Paniel said without hesitation, looking up to meet Galadriel's eyes. They stared at each other in silent détente.
"Why did you refuse the order he gave you in Quenya even though you knew he would hurt you for it?" Galadriel asked and Paniel's eyes narrowed.
"Because it was what needed to be done," she said.
"Then if, in days to come, unpleasant things must be done," Galadriel said, her eyes hard, "what would you do?" And now it was Paniel who looked at Galadriel somewhat warily, as though she had underestimated her. The silence stretched between them and Paniel gave no answer. Galadriel turned back to her vanity, shutting her jewelry box, assuming that Paniel did not wish to answer. The handmaiden moved to the wardrobe, putting her mistress's clothes away, and then she came to stand behind Galadriel and Galadriel stood, turning to her, meeting her gaze.
"I would do what needs to be done," Paniel said, not a glimmer of doubt in her eyes. "And you?"
"I would do what needs to be done," Galadriel affirmed with conviction. And indeed she would, even as she had done in Alqualondë. But now, looking into Paniel's eyes, she saw something she had not expected, something she had never noticed before. But no, that wasn't true, she had seen it before only she had not wanted to realize it, had not wanted to acknowledge it for that would have meant coming to terms with her own past. Only now that she had come to terms with her role in the kinslaying, she saw it freely and unobscured: Paniel had killed before, and not only deer as she had said.
"You are not what you appear to be," Galadriel said, oddly satisfied, profoundly intrigued.
"Most people are not what they appear to be," Paniel replied. But before they could continue their conversation, their attention was drawn by some great commotion outside in the city and the sound of a slamming door and quick footsteps that heralded the entrance of Celeborn. He bent over, out of breath, and gasped, "Lúthien has escaped!"
Footnotes! Hey guys, don't forget to let me know in reviews or PMs which character you would like me to talk about in the upcoming author's notes in order of preference. We only have 9 chapters left so I want to make sure we get to everybody that you want to hear about! I think Finrod is next week. Let me know who you want for the week after next.