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.

32. Chapter 32: Heart of Darkness

Heart of Darkness

In Cavern's Shade: 32nd Chapter

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"I think it had whispered to him

things about himself which he did not know,

things of which he had no conception

till he took counsel with this great solitude –

and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating.

It echoed loudly within him

because he was hollow at the core."

- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

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Author's note: Hey guys, thank you so much for all of your support. I am really sorry you had to wait so long for the chapter and I hope that it proves worth the wait. I'm so excited to share it with all of you! The new cover art for the story is courtesy of Tosquinha over on Tumblr! Check out her awesome artwork! There is also a footnote to this chapter.

Character profile: Galadriel!

For some reason, I have always found Galadriel to be the easiest character for me to write and she was the first character that I started to work on. I did plan a lot of her development but she honestly took on a life of her own after a while.

I've read a lot of fics where Galadriel is this really perfect sort of person who has no flaws and is all knowing and always in the right and I don't have anything against that. I think that is also an interesting angle to work from but it wasn't really what I wanted to go for in this story or in my work in general. I think I may have said this before but I always have found it really strange that Tolkien sometimes gets criticized for being "black and white." I'm not really sure how someone could read Tolkien's works and get this impression.

For me, at least, there is so much gray space in his books and though we do see Sauron as wholly bad, there aren't really any characters who are wholly good, from the sympathy we sometimes feel for the Fëanorians even though they commit 3 genocides, to the way the ring begins to corrupt Frodo, to Boromir's temptation and death, to Galadriel's decision to not take the ring, to Thingol's continual fluctuation between protagonist and antagonist, to Celeborn's initial anger at the fellowship, we see at least a shade of darkness in so many of Tolkien's characters and I think that is what makes them really admirable and memorable characters. That is what enables us to relate to them, what makes them real.

Galadriel especially stood out to me as really a grey character and a very dynamic character, which is probably why I loved her from the first time I read the books. She goes through so much in the Silmarillion and makes so many mistakes and yet in Fellowship she finally makes the right choice even though it is difficult for her. So that is really the Galadriel that I wanted to show, a really dynamic, evolving, complicated character because that is what I believe Tolkien intended her to be and that is what makes her so amazing. Obviously, part of this has to do with how my story is structured too. Since it is so long and there will be sequels I can't write her as fully evolved right at the start or that would be really boring for both you and me.

A big thing I do with her to achieve this effect where she is always learning and growing is that I really play with the idea of subjective perception with her. I do this with all of the characters to an extent, because it is a mystery after all, but definitely the most with her. So a lot of the time she thinks or feels a certain way about something because she doesn't have all of the information that the other characters do. But, once she gains access to that information either because they tell her or she figures it out on her own, she often changes or adapts her perspective. She also, especially if you look at the places where she is remembering something someone said to her, has kind of a selective and sometimes faulty memory. I hardly ever write her memory of something as matching up exactly to what actually happened. This allows me to illustrate her biases and her occasionally selective memory, which I think gives her a lot of depth as a character (I hope).

Ok, another big thing to do with Galadriel is that I didn't intentionally write this story as a feminist narrative but I really think it developed one and I think that is in big part to Galadriel. She always struck me as this very independent person in Tolkien's works the way he talks about how in Aman she would do sports with the men and was the only female leader of the Noldorin rebellion and I really wanted to illustrate that. Then the more I started writing and developing Melian, Lúthien, Paniel, Venessiel, Bainwen, etc. I started thinking about how so many of the issues the characters were facing are issues that we face as women and I thought it was really important to show those issues as truly as I was able.

Especially towards the middle of the story I started thinking that it was impossible to write this story without weaving my own life experiences into it because I think as a writer you have to write what you know and what I know is the experience of being a woman. So it became really important to me to make all the things women experience come to life: the feeling suppressed, finding out who you are, learning what you want, what you don't, what you like, what you don't, learning what other people think of you, how they treat you, how to get what you want, learning to fail and keep going, having limits forced on you and fighting those, reclaiming sex on your own terms for yourself, dealing with people who refuse to acknowledge your personhood, etc. Honestly, reading Tolkien, considering the journey that Galadriel had over thousands of years, she must have experienced all of that and I really wanted to show it.

I think her relationship with Celeborn plays a huge role in this aspect too. I wanted him to be a kind of awakening for her in a lot of ways: physical, sexual, emotional, developmental, etc. When I was thinking about their relationship in the books I was thinking that Celeborn obviously comes off as a strong character and it takes a really strong guy to be with a really strong woman. He even listens to Galadriel's advice, unlike how Thingol refuses to listen to Melian, and changes his mind when he thinks she is right. I could never see Galadriel as happy with anything less than someone who was as strong as her. And I think they inspire each other's strength. Essentially, Celeborn is the catalyst for Galadriel's development. She sees this from the start, even though their initial relationship isn't really healthy, that there is huge potential for them and I think she realizes that quickly when she is first getting to know him, that Celeborn is definitely who and what she wants, but she wasn't in a place as a person where she was able to actualize that yet. She wants to grow and she knows that if she is with him she can grow in the way she wants. Unfortunately, she screwed that up big time.

But Celeborn really felt that too and I think he knew, deep down, that she wasn't ready yet, that she couldn't really give him what he wanted and needed out of the relationship, which was honesty and trust, so things didn't work out but he still really believed in her, which is what I think made the breakup so hard and excruciatingly painful for him more than her, because he knew there was all that potential there and she had just thrown it all away and there was nothing he could do to stop her from ruining it.

So I think it was really important, and this is why I took so long getting them back together, that when they went back into the relationship a second time they both went in with eyes wide open, completely sure of what they were getting into and completely committed to the relationship and to making it work. Celeborn had to learn to trust her again (telling her about the bond he had made with her was that moment where he really loves her again because it took complete and total trust in her for him to be able to tell her that) and she had to make herself worthy of trust to fix things (which she does when she puts her own pride aside for the happiness of others when Saeros throws the wine on her). She never would have been able to do that the first time she was in Doriath. I think that is what really characterizes their second relationship is that trust, openness, honesty, and commitment that wasn't there the first time. (And it is what is going to make their "marriage" frickin hot and amazing)

I also thought it was interesting in Tolkien's books that Sindarin women can inherit but Noldorin women can't and that spoke to a cultural difference in my opinion. So I wanted to show Celeborn, as a Sinda, kind of having a different experience of women than a lot of the male Noldorin characters, although a lot of the male Noldo like Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, and Finarfin (though we won't meet him until Chapter 40…) are also pro feminist I think. I wanted to show Celeborn as someone who was raised by strong women like Melian and raised alongside strong women like Lúthien, who fought alongside female soldiers and was just generally, as a Sinda who lived in Middle-earth, used to elf women doing all the same things that elf men do. I thought that is really the kind of guy that Galadriel would like to be with.

Galadriel also takes a lot after Eärwen, who you will be seeing in chapter 40…

Whew! So Galadriel is awesome and I love her! If you have any more questions about her ask me in a review or shoot me a PM and I will be happy to answer. Enjoy the chapter!

Also, if you guys have some time, could you please give me a bit of input on what you think of Celeborn, not just in this chapter but in the story as a whole? I would really appreciate it. If you don't have time it's ok.

Next week you guys said you wanted Lúthien so I will do Lúthien and Beren in the same note!

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Beren had been barely living when they had laid him upon the makeshift bier beside Huan's cold body, covering them both with white niphredil blossoms whose gentle sweet scent rose up into the air from petals that had been inadvertently crushed by the trembling of the hands that had plucked them. The man's life was ebbing away like the tide and now that they approached Doriath it seemed nearly spent.

That stretcher that bore him was carried by the king himself, and by Beleg and Mablung, and Celeborn of Doriath, and these four who were warriors had seen death often enough, smelt its stench so many times that they knew that even now it trudged forward in its slow and steady pace towards them as Beren's breath grew ragged, slow, like the last faint ray of sunlight flickering to die before the onset of night. It had taken the rest of the day to return on foot and the hunting party was solemn beneath the dusky sky stained with stars and the inky beginning of evening.

In the distance the lamps at the entrance to Menegroth were glowing, beckoning them forward now across the meadow and there at the gates to the city, her face dark with knowing, stood Lúthien alone.

"Put…put me down…please," they heard Beren gasp, his voice a mere whisper, a strange rasping, croaking, wheezing noise accompanying his words as he reached up, his fingers brushing weakly at Celeborn's arm, "I am spent." Celeborn looked down and saw the man's hand fall back to his chest and then Beren swallowed hard, taking a deep breath with some difficulty as they carefully lowered him to the ground, there amongst the soft grasses of Doriath beneath the boughs of Hírilorn. They saw indeed that he could go no further, could endure no longer and he gave them a weak smile, grateful that they had understood and done as he bid.

Lúthien was coming towards them now, torchbearers walking at her side, and Celeborn would have expected to see her weeping in her sorrow, cursing the Valar themselves, for had it been Galadriel upon that bier he would have torn up the very foundations of the earth in his pain and anger. But Lúthien was quiet, said nothing, and the only sound that filled the dawning of night was the hem of her white gown trailing over the niphredil and clover.

She knelt down by her beloved, her delicate hands going to his face, stained with his own blood, and, closing her eyes, she pressed her forehead to his for a moment, kissed his brow, and then drew back just enough so that she could see his eyes as she embraced him. The crimson of his blood covered her now, staining her snow-white gown incarnadine but she did not mind and only smiled at Beren, her eyes filled with love and affection as, with gentle fingers, she pushed his hair back from his face.

Her husband tried futilely to raise his hand so that he might touch her one last time but his hand trembled, then faltered, and fell back to his chest for he had not the strength. And so Lúthien reached down, taking his hand in hers and raising it to her face, "I came back to you," he gasped, his eyes hopeful, smiling, an action that seemed to wrench what remaining strength he had from his body. "I wish I could have loved you…for just a little longer…"

"I know, my love," Lúthien said, looking at him lovingly, smiling. "And I will come back to you. Wait for me there, beyond the western sea," she whispered and Beren looked at her for a moment with eyes that glistened with tears of joy and then, in the next instant, in a change that was nearly imperceptible, the light ebbed slowly from his eyes until it was gone and they grew dark, and cold, and motionless, staring ahead, seeing nothing.

Lúthien laid his already cooling hand back upon his chest, her own hands trembling, the tears falling silently from her eyes now like spring rain to land upon his ruined tunic where they pooled in the folds of the bloodied fabric like drops of morning dew. She was overwhelmed by the immensity of her grief. Celeborn felt his throat grow tight and he drew a shuddering breath, for now he understood how she had found the strength to smile at her husband in his final moments: she had wanted the last thing he saw in life to be happiness and kindness, not grief.

Celeborn felt tears quicken in his own eyes as, gently, stained in the blood of her beloved, Lúthien lay down by Beren's side, her dark hair spread out across the clover and white niphredil like a ribbon of midnight, her hands clasping his, her eyes closed, her head pressed against Beren's. Like a flower she looked, like a blossom of white that has been suddenly cut off and lies for a while unwithered on the verdant grass amidst the song of the birds and the babbling of brooks, perfect incandescent beauty there in the sacred and enchanted hollow of springtime.

Then she dimmed, slowly, subtly, like the silver fading of the moon in the coming of dawn and grew still, the salt of her tears and the blood of her beloved grown dry on a body that moved no longer. Celeborn felt fear lance through his heart and he stepped forward, unable to comprehend all of this, to kneel at his cousin's side, reaching for her hand, "Lúthien?" He asked, his voice barely a whisper. Her hand was cold as ice, devoid of life.

"Lu?" He asked, refusing to believe it, his breath catching in his throat. "Cousin?" He squeezed her hand, rubbed it with his own as though that might somehow manage to put life back into her. "Lu? Lúthien?" It seemed so impossible to believe and yet all around them the others seemed to be coming to the same conclusion. It seemed as if his entire body was going numb with the realization.

Wordlessly, Thingol rushed forward, pushing Celeborn aside, gathering his daughter into his arms. He said nothing, but the sounds that escaped him were nothing like Celeborn had ever heard any creature make before and the prince gradually became aware that he was weeping too, that the tears were coursing down his face now like a river so that he could hardly see. It seemed as if they were all locked in some terrible nightmare from which there would be no waking.

He stood on trembling legs, stumbling about like a beast that has been shot and managed to grasp at someone's shoulder saying, "find Melian, find Melian!" But the queen, it seemed, already knew, for she was hurrying towards them now like a thundercloud, grown thin, and gaunt, and black, her eyes sunken in her skull, her face distorted in grief, and she sank down, her body curled around that of her daughter, and wept.

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Spring had passed and summer too in somberness had come and gone, burning itself away quick and hot, and the world had passed into autumn, an unusually chilly one where the musk of decaying leaves hung heavy in the air and the trees, black and devoid of greenery reached up to a gray sky that foreboded a perilous winter.

Within Menegroth all was blackness. Cold. Impenetrable. Unforgiving. Perpetual night had descended upon the city and, though days and weeks had passed, never again had the daytime sky or the light of the sun appeared in the blackness above those limitless caverns. Neither did the moon travel there either. Instead, the ceiling had turned to pure inky black dotted only by the distant stars. Not since before the rising of the sun and moon had it been so and Celeborn found it strange now that this unsettled him as much as it did, for he had lived the vast majority of his life in this darkness, but now he found that his eyes were ill adjusted to it.

The blackness made him feel as if he were drowning, drowning in a nightmare from which he could not wake, from which he could never wake. And all about there seemed to be some mournful gloom brooding motionlessly over the whole city. The stars seemed harsh almost, sharp as spears, cruel arbiters of fate hovering uncaringly above. He had believed these to be souls once upon a time, souls that Ilúvatar had recalled to the heavens. Then the Noldor had come, mocking their primal beliefs. "The stars are the stars!" They had said, "and souls go to Námo's halls." But if the stars were not souls then why did they loom in monolithic judgment?

Huan they had buried with the honor that befitted him. But Luthien and Beren had lain in state for some time on a bier of black velvet, strewn with white niphredil and surrounded by a thousand flickering white candles. Thingol had insisted upon the wake, almost as though while his daughter was still above the ground he believed she might by some miracle return to life and he would not have to consign her to the earth. He had passed nearly every moment there at her side, so strong was his futile hope, so deep his agonizing grief. Melian did not come, though the King asked for her, inquired after her, and yet she was there, in the heavens gone dark; in the absence of the stars her grief was made manifest.

"Celeborn," the king had looked up from his daughter's bier, hands gone skeletal with grief, grasping Luthien's, cold, and stiff, and dead, "will you bring me the Silmaril? I need to see it. When I look at the light I…I don't feel…" Thingol's voice trailed off. Celeborn had bowed his head and did as he was bid. It was pity that had moved him.

The hard-won Silmaril borne of blood and fire and washed in the tribute of spent lives sat in a velvet-lined case of silver. Every step he took towards the treasury seeming as the footfalls of doom and then when the box had been passed over into his hands, he had carried it back to Thingol, this small thing for which all of Arda would tithe in flesh and bone and ruined happiness: marriages destroyed, love torn asunder, children cast out and broken.

To him this stone was inconsequential. What was the beauty of a gem compared to the goodness of Lúthien's heart? What was the glory of a Silmaril compared to the honor of Finrod? What was the light of this stone compared to the valor of Beren?

He had returned to the King.

"Thank you," Thingol had rasped out, leaning heavily on the bier, and Celeborn had opened the box, the light blazing forth into that otherwise black and gloomy hall. The long shadows it cast on the floor were eerie, almost as though the souls of those who had died for the Silmarils were imprisoned therein. Thingol seemed more at ease as he gazed upon the stone, as though it had relieved his pain and then he reached out, running his fingers across it gingerly, almost as though he feared it, then again lovingly with the giddy delight of a child. His eyes grew sad for a moment. "This is all that remains of them," he said, "the two trees…this light…how I wished to see them again…" He took a deep breath and then seemed to come back to himself, looking away. "Thank you," he mumbled, "thank you. You may take it away now."

It had made Celeborn sick to see his cousin laid out on that bier. He could not help but remember Lúthien as she had been when she was alive, so full of life, of energy, of joy. He wanted to remember her as she had been running in the footraces, dancing at the summer festivals, holding him in her lap when he had been an elfling, covering his eyes with her hands, "you hide first! I'll count to 20!" In this world of death and ruination there had been a certain inviolable goodness to her that he doubted he would ever see the like of again. But every time he looked at his cousin's corpse he saw only cold, unforgiving death and he had to look away again before the tears overwhelmed him. Her beauty was legend. Yet in life the beauty of her hröa had barely done justice to the glory of her soul; in death it could not begin to hope to. Her corpse was a gruesome mockery of her life.

When Celeborn was alone in the privacy of his chambers he did not quench the tears, but allowed them to fall freely, his hands to his face weeping like a babe. Most of the time he did not know what he was crying for; there were so many reasons. He found himself wishing all the more for Galadriel, if only because things could certainly not be so dark if she were here. It was so unimaginably hard. The crown had not yet passed to him formally, the King was still the king in name, but the power, the responsibility, the weight of it all sat on his shoulders. He went to court and he judged, he allotted, he appointed as if he were the king and all the while the darkness and sadness hung over him, threatening to smother him while Thingol did nothing more than sit and stare at what had been Lúthien or brood darkly over that accursed jewel.

Everything was so very, very difficult but he was determined that he would not shatter and break. Some days it was easier than others; some days it took all his courage to take a single step, but he continued to walk, to step forward, even if it was slowly that he did so, to do what needed to be done. He would not stop. For the sake of Finrod, of Lúthien, of Melian, of Thingol, of his people he would not be stopped. He tried his very best to remember every time he saw what Thingol had become, or the corpses of Lúthien and Beren, that it was Morgoth who had worked this evil and each time he looked upon the works of the dark lord he became even further resolved to thwart him in all things despite the burden it placed upon himself. He understood now: that this was what it meant to be a king – to be the sepulcher of others' lives and dreams and then to take them and do the impossible – to breathe new life into them, leaving nothing for yourself.

They had buried Lúthien at last in the cold hard ground – she and Beren both; a fate that neither of them deserved. But then, this earth had taught him enough to know that rarely did anyone get what they deserved: whether for good or ill. He had never asked for this. He had never wanted it. None of them had. It had come nevertheless. As they lowered his cousin into the ground he had turned his eyes west towards the blood-red sun where the Valar sat enthroned upon the bones of his people and remembered Beren's words: 'to have such power of forgiveness as Lúthien has is beyond us it seems.' Forgiveness was a luxury that only gods could afford and if ever Celeborn met the gods it was they who would have to beg his forgiveness.

"The Silmaril, Celeborn, bring it to me," Thingol had begged as he sat by Lúthien's grave beneath a starless and unforgiving sky. Celeborn had hesitated this time and the light in Thingol's eyes had changed for a moment – approaching a sudden and inflammatory rage – but he had stopped himself, seeming surprised, and then instead finished with, "if you please."

Pity had moved him. He had made the trek to the treasury. "The Silmaril," he said and they had given it to him immediately. There was an irony in it. The Noldor had long lusted after this stone, murdered for it, fought great wars for it, spent their lives utterly for it and never had they even touched it. Celeborn they had demeaned, calling him a forest lord, a dark elf, a lesser prince, but all he had to do to touch a Silmaril was ask. Had he cared but a little more for power or fame or jewels then that thought might have warped his mind. But, he didn't want it, this thing that had killed the people he had loved; he couldn't understand why Thingol did.

"Show it to me?" The king had begged, a question this time, as if he was nearly ashamed that he had to ask. "I just want to see it, just once now."

"Just 30 more pieces of silver, Celeborn! 30 more! The game isn't finished yet. I can still win it!" Venessiel's face rose unbidden to his mind.

"You've already lost 90," he had murmured, hesitant to refuse her, fearful that she would not love him anymore if he didn't give them to her.

"With 30 more pieces I can win! You'll see. I promise! I promise." And he had given them to her.

The memory faded and Thingol's face swam back into view. "Just once, my son…" he repeated and, hesitantly, because he had called him his son once more, Celeborn had opened the box. The perverted light belched out and the King gazed upon the jewel with awe. It seemed to soothe his soul, to make him forget, and all he wanted was the bliss of forgetting. But forgetting was long and bitter; obsession was short and sweet. Thingol wasn't a king; Thingol was a slave.

"They left me," Thingol said quietly as he gazed enraptured upon the jewel. He sounded like a child. "Finwë, Olwë, they left me. I thought we were going to go to live with the Valar, to see the trees together again. I had planned to live beneath their branches, to raise our people and nurture them in the light of those trees. When I came out of the woods…and the Noldor and the Teleri were gone… I knew I had been abandoned, we had all been abandoned…that I had failed my people. When Galadriel spoke of what had happened I knew I would never see them again…save in this there was hope, faint and frail…but hope there was," he reached out, running his fingers across the jewel. "Why did the Valar abandon us? Why did they keep those of Aman safe and leave the Sindar here to die and be enslaved? No…" he halted, his voice so frail, like thin glass, "the Sindar have suffered because of me…because I delayed. Why did they love me, when it was I who betrayed them?" His voice faded and then his eyes flashed with a strange light.

"Don't you want to touch it?" He asked, dangerous now, looking up at Celeborn with suspicious eyes but the prince only shook his head. "Take it," Thingol commanded.

"I don't want to touch it," Celeborn replied firmly. "I don't want it."

"TOUCH IT!" Thingol had roared and Celeborn, startled, did as he was bid, taking the jewel into his hand, nearly dropping the case in his shock. The touch of it made him feel sick, almost as though he could feel on its surface all of the blood that had been spilt over it, as if all of those dead souls were imprisoned within that crystal, crying out to him, begging him to free them. But Thingol seemed to shrink now, growing small, shaking his head, his eyes having gone wide. "I…I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what came over me…I don't know…" Celeborn stuffed the jewel back in the box and made to close the lid.

"Not yet!" Thingol had cried in a suppliant voice. "Not yet, not yet, Celeborn, just a…just a little longer…a little," his breathing had grown ragged and Celeborn had hesitated. Thingol's eyes shifted again, as quickly as a summer storm is born.

"They were right, Fëanor was right," Thingol mused, his eyes, filled with a strange gleam, having gone once more to the Silmaril, "about Galadriel's hair…When she returned from Nargothrond, begging me for leniency…I knew I could take it and she could not stop me…" Celeborn slammed the lid of the box shut, his eyes quick with anger, and turned to take it back to the treasury. Thingol did not protest.

The light of the trees that Galadriel bore in her eyes was a thousand upon a thousand times more beautiful than the light imprisoned in that cursed stone. He wrote to her. Nothing else gave him solace. In the face of darkness his love for her blazed brighter than even the Silmaril.

You told me so long ago that if I saw you as you truly were I would have no regard for you at all, he wrote. But it was because I saw you as you truly were from the very first moment that I loved you, though I did not know it. After the battle of Beleriand the darkness and light warred in my soul. I had thought I was alone until the night I saw you.

She had replied: are things truly so bad as to cause you to wax poetic?

She was being facetious, no doubt, a bit unsettled by his uncharacteristic outpouring of sentiment perhaps, but he had replied with sincerity: there is nothing that I hate more than this Silmaril.

That is why I love you, she wrote.

Thingol sat in his dark hall upon his dark throne. "They left us behind," he said. "They left us and now they think they are better than us…call us Moriquendi…move into our lands…."

"Pay it no mind," Celeborn had said. Thingol's eyes had grown dark, his face twisting into a sneer.

"Pay it no mind?" He had replied, laughing long and hard with malice. The incarnation was complete and Curufin gazed back at Celeborn from Thingol's throne. Or maybe even Curufin's eyes did not belong to him; perhaps they belonged to Fëanor, just as this jewel did, and Fëanor haunted it still: a wraith adorned in the gruesome trappings of death. "Bring me the Silmaril." It was a request no longer; it had become a command.

"No," Celeborn said simply. Pity moved him.

"Bring it!" Thingol screeched, flying up from his throne, his fingers still gripping it, trembling.

"No," Celeborn replied again, quietly, unperturbed.

"Lúthien died for the Silmaril, Celeborn," Thingol had whispered with spite, "do consider that."

"Lúthien did not die for a Silmaril," Celeborn said. "Lúthien died for love." He turned to leave, his heart grown heavy and he struggled to bear it up. But he stopped at the sound of stumbling footsteps and turned to find Thingol staggering towards him with a harrowed look, his eyes black and sunken in his head, his bones showing clearly against his skin.

"Celeborn…Celeborn," he gasped, tripping over his robes and nearly collapsing, his hands reaching out and, unthinking, Celeborn ran forward to catch him, pulling his uncle into a tight embrace as he lowered him to sit upon the floor. With trembling hands, Thingol clutched at the prince's tunic, burying his head in Celeborn's shoulder like a child and sobbing, his tears staining the silk. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he gasped. "I can't do this alone. I can't…"

"I know," Celeborn replied, his own voice unsteady. He wanted more than anything to believe what Thingol said, he wanted more than anything to believe his repentance to be sincere and yet, as surely as Lúthien could not be raised from the dead, neither could his trust in the King.

They were immortal, incapable of contracting illness, and yet Thingol was dying, Thingol was sick, his body and mind wasting away under the power of his grief, within the prison of all that the Silmaril embodied. Time did not heal him and, as days, and weeks, and months passed, the king became even frailer. Something about the jewel seemed to drain one of life. Perhaps, the prince mused, that is because it has taken so many lives. Though he had refused to be involved with the cursed thing any longer, a very worried Venessiel had confided in him that Thingol had taken up the habit of sitting in the treasury for hours or even days at a time simply staring at the stone in silence.

"Uncle!" Celeborn cried as they entered the council chamber, leaping forward to catch the king just as he had been about to fall, throwing Thingol's arm over his shoulder and supporting his weight, maneuvering him into a chair.

Now this letter had come from Maedhros and it had only served to worsen the king's already fragile constitution. "Thank you, Celeborn, thank you," Thingol murmured as if he were out of breath, accepting his nephew's assistance as, his whole body trembling, he allowed the prince to lower him into his chair. It was a strange thing, Celeborn thought, to see an elf brought so very low with grief that he had become almost…old.

It seemed that the vitality of his mind had wasted away along with that of his body and that, Celeborn was certain, was the work of the Silmaril. At times Thingol would lash out in anger, always the fleeting sort of anger, and yet it was not so vindictive as his anger had been when Beren had first come to Menegroth. This was a different sort of anger, childish, almost the sort that Nimloth had displayed when she had not been able to visit with her friends. It was an escape from his grief and so Celeborn found that he could not be entirely angry with him, but sad also, and he did his best to help his uncle, to assist him in whatever way he could.

"Have you eaten?" He asked quietly and the king shook his head. "In how long?" Celeborn queried but the king merely shook his head again. "Just a moment then," the prince said, going to the door.

"Will you please have something brought up from the kitchens, something hearty?" He asked the guard and the man nodded, leaving to do as he had been bid, as Celeborn returned to his uncle's side.

"You will feel better," he told Thingol in a kind voice, "if you eat something." The king only looked away, as if he were lost deep in memory, and Celeborn sat at his side, breaking the seal on Maedhros's letter. If what news he had heard from Galadriel was true then he already had a good idea of what it would contain and, as he skimmed the words and sighed, his heart grew heavy. He hated to put this upon Thingol now.

"The Noldor are planning to go to war against Morgoth, as we have heard," he said, smoothing the parchment and pushing it before Thingol so that the King could read it. He did, distractedly playing with the edges of the paper.

"I will not join Maedhros's union," he said, his voice clipped. "We shall not fight alongside kinslayers, alongside those who captured my Lúthien, imprisoned her, and threatened her with harm."

"Thank you," Celeborn said, nodding to the guard who had just entered bearing with her a tray laden with food and drink. He took the tray from the woman, setting it before Thingol, "here," he said, "eat," and the king complied, though he seemed to have little real interest in the food. His gaze shifted to his nephew and Celeborn waited patiently for the King to speak.

"Do you want to fight?" Thingol asked quietly, and there was no judgment in his gaze but Celeborn considered his thoughts very carefully before speaking, mostly because he was unsure of them himself, but also because he knew that he could not trust the King. He wanted very much to ride to war, simply because sitting in these caves was achieving no victory, and yet there was some foreboding in his mind, bolstered by Galadriel's vague written warnings, that to do so would be most unwise.

"It seems," he said, "that this may be the last chance of victory against Morgoth, for the Noldor dwindle with each battle that they fight and soon their numbers may not be sufficient to muster an army. I wonder what shall become of us if Morgoth is not defeated. It seems that all Beleriand may soon fall under his control. Shall his influence spread unabated?"

"Why do the Valar not come?" Thingol murmured, picking at the bread before him. It seemed almost a foolish thing to voice given what an obvious question it was, and yet the answer was not so obvious. "Do they only love those of Aman?" His voice betrayed some restlessness. "Are our lives so worthless to them?" He shook his head, casting his eyes down.

"I do not know," Celeborn said with a sigh. It was a question to which he wished he knew the answer, only he did not know what good knowing it would do him. They fell silent and, after a while, Thingol spoke again.

"If you wish to go," he said, "or if there are any others who wish to fight then I will not stop them, even though I shall not send any armies, so long as they do not fight alongside the sons of Fëanor, slayers of our kin." The king's eyes burned with anger.

"I will not go," Celeborn said after careful consideration. If he had been a prince then he might have, but now…now Thingol needed him, the people needed him. A crown prince could not risk his life in war if he had no heir. "I shall focus on fortifying our borders instead, with your leave. If there was a chance of victory then perhaps I would go, and yet it seems to me that Maedhros is planting a seed in untilled ground. Morgoth's spies have been restless of late. He has some plan afoot, I am sure of it."

"Is it only because it seems unwise that you will not go? What of your anger with the Fëanorians?" Thingol said, his voice suddenly full of venom and his eyes full of spite, having disregarded the logic of his nephew's reply and read insult where none had been intended. "Will you not speak of that? Or has your lust for your Noldorin bride overridden your loyalties?"

"You know that I have no love for the Fëanorians, just as you know that Galadriel is more Telerin than she is Noldo!" Celeborn rounded on his uncle. It was the Silmaril that was speaking, he knew, but that did not give him any less cause for his wrath. "You ought to surrender that stone to Maedhros as he demanded, as I have urged you to do, as Melian has urged you to do!" Celeborn fumed, his fists clenched in fury. "Your poor choices will be the death of us."

"Surrender the jewel that Beren and Lúthien paid for in blood, paid for with their very lives?" Thingol spat, as if this was the most foolish and offensive thing he had ever heard. "Surrender that hard-bought gem to a son of Fëanor who slew my brother's sons, who demanded the Silmaril from me in a letter filled with haughty words in misspelled Sindarin that bears witness to the fact that they have flouted my decrees, whose brothers vowed openly to slay me?"

"They vowed to slay you only because you refused to give them the jewel!" Celeborn retorted. Thingol's fragility of a few minutes earlier was gone now, leaving Celeborn wondering if it had all been a ruse to regain his trust. The king slithered back in his seat like a serpent, his eyes cold and hard, watching Celeborn with distrust.

"Are you their apologist now?" Thingol laughed unpleasantly, raising a silver brow as if this were all some joke. "Perhaps you are in league with them, you and Melian both. What good is a disobedient prince? What good is a queen who refuses the king's bed?"

"Do not make such insane accusations," Celeborn retorted. He could have chosen his words a bit better but he hardly believed it mattered. There was no reasoning with, no placating a mind gone mad or a heart gone dark.

"Who are you to tell me what I should and should not do?" Thingol asked with a sneer. "I am the King of Doriath am I not? And what are you? You came to me as a foundling. I could turn you out just as easily."

"Will you not think of what you are doing?" Celeborn cried. "Only a few months ago you told me that the girdle might fall and that I, our people, your entire kingdom would be at the mercy of the Fëanorians! Now you refuse them the Silmaril and taunt them with arrogant and prideful words. You have as good as signed the death warrant of each of your citizens!"

Thingol leaned forward across the table, leveling his eyes with Celeborn's, an unpleasant look in their depths: pain and anger warring with each other, and something nastier. "The wolf – Carcharoth – spoke to me before he died," Thingol whispered. "And do you know what he told me?" Celeborn shook his head in the negative though he was quite sure that he did not want to know the answer at all. "That wolf was fed by Morgoth's own hand with elf flesh, and not just any elf, but the flesh of your father and your grandfather, on the flesh of the Sindarin princes of Doriath." Celeborn felt his stomach lurch at the grotesque nature of what Thingol had revealed to him. The king leaned back, almost as though he was pleased with himself.

"My grandfather was your beloved brother, my father your nephew, both as dear to you as if they were your own sons," Celeborn said, his voice trembling, his breath growing shallow, "how dare you do them dishonor by breaking the news of their deaths to me in such a fashion?"

"You need to learn," Thingol began, his voice low and dangerous, "you need to be cognizant of the fact that you have nothing except for me. Do not bite the hand that feeds you, Celeborn."

The prince said nothing more, for he knew that in his anger whatever he said would be unwise, and instead he stood, nearly toppling his chair, striding from the room, his singular desire to be as far away from the King as he could.

---

The summer had waned and, at long last, Galadriel had found the courage to go to Finrod's room but, now that she had arrived, she stood outside the tall cedar doors, the golden key held tentatively between her hesitant fingers. At last she had fit it into the lock, her hand gentle on the door as she pushed it open and, as she shut the door quietly behind her, she could not help but smile a bittersweet smile.

It had not been touched since he had left, that much was plain to see, and the whole room bespoke her brother, simple and yet filled with complexities. The rustling of the silk of her gown as she slowly made her way around the room was the only sound that filled the silence.

Her fingertips wandered over a host of memories: a little oliphant carved of ivory that he had received from an eastern merchant, a gem he had brought from Tirion of smoky brown glass veined with a blue so brilliant it resembled the flash of lightening: not particularly valuable, but intriguing. Here, there were all varieties of flowers pressed in the pages of books: books of language, of philosophy, of culture and customs, of far off places that seemed mere fairytales. There, there were maps that had nearly been worn out from the path that Finrod's fingers had traced across them, an inkwell left unstoppered, a pair of shoes cast off and forgotten. There was a little doll that Lúthien had given him so long ago, a dwarven-made hair clasp, a leather belt with hand-tooled designs: the Laiquendi had given it to him shortly after their arrival in Middle-earth. It was all here, his dreams, his soul: a menagerie of curiosities. Galadriel drew a shuddering breath and sank down upon the bed he had left unmade.

Had her parents done the same thing after she and her brothers had left? Had they wandered the halls of their newly-empty house? Had they numbly sat upon the beds gone cold? Had each abandoned and forgotten belonging suddenly gained the importance of some sacred relic? The tears fell silently to land in her lap and she reached up to wipe them away. Still, they fell.

It was so hard to believe him dead without a body, so hard to think that she would never see any of her brothers again, that she was alone now. No, not alone. She had Celeborn, and Orodreth, and Finduilas. The thought did not staunch the pain that poured forth. One by one the curse was claiming its victims: Ambarussa, Fëanor, Fingolfin, Angrod, Aegnor, Finrod, Lúthien, Beren, Thingol, Melian; Fingon must know that his crown was as good as a death sentence; Turgon must know that it would take his head as well.

And her…why was she the last of Finarfin's children? Why had she been thus far spared? Was it, as Melian had said, because her bond with Celeborn had perhaps mitigated the potency of the curse? Was his sharing in her burden what was keeping her alive? The child…she clutched at her abdomen. Was that what Melian had meant? Would her curse work upon her children? But if Celeborn's innocence could dilute her fate, could it no preserve their children as well? He had done no wrong. Were he to touch a Silmaril his hand would be unscathed.

The only wrong he has done is in loving me. The thought had risen unbidden to her mind and it rattled her to her core as once more she recalled the vision she had seen of his death. I have stained him… And now…now the Silmaril was in Menegroth and she felt as though she was watching the scenes of some macabre play fall into place. The mad panic of fear she felt at knowing that the cursed jewel was anywhere near Celeborn tore at her heart. Throw it away, destroy it, flee, she wanted to shout to him but she knew that he had already had these thoughts, that it was impossible for him to act on them or else he would have done so.

He should not have to suffer on her account. She briefly contemplated fleeing away over the mountains. But no, he had already taken the burden upon himself when he had mingled his blood with hers. He had done it willingly, knowingly. He, she was sure, did not doubt now as she did; he was certain.

She needed his certainty now, longed for him, and found herself wishing, contrary to her thoughts of a moment earlier, that they were truly bonded so that she might be able to feel him in her mind, to hear his thoughts and rely upon the strength of his heart beating in concert with his own. And so she must be certain too; she owed it to him.

She understood now his words of so long ago. She had wanted to be a queen and now, in effect, she was acting as the queen of Nargothrond, but being a queen meant stuffing your fear down inside when all you wanted to do was weep, it meant acting as though everything was normal even though your brother and your dearest friend had just died, it meant that there was no room for mistakes, it meant being so very, very alone, confiding your thoughts and feelings in no one.

She wished Celeborn were here with her, but Doriath needed him: Thingol was a broken man; Melian was dead as stone. Just as her mother's kin had been slain in Alqualondë, as her brothers had been slain here in Middle-earth, she felt fate now bearing down upon Doriath, upon the last family that remained to her, and upon Orodreth and Finduilas as well. She wished that Finrod were here to give her courage, to give her advice, to ignite her heart and mind with visions of lands far away where they might be free at last, and safe. It was so hard to imagine that he would never return to her. It might have been easier if there had been a body to see and know that he was really and truly dead.

She briefly contemplated taking something to remember him by, the Oliphant, or the doll, for that was a reminder of Lúthien as well, but it did not seem quite right to consign the memories of people who had lived, and breathed, and danced, and sang to the cold, lifeless, motionless, emptiness of things. For their memories lived in her heart, which was alive, and pulsing, and beating in her body, a sanctum in which their lives would be forever hallowed, forever lived in her.

She lay down upon her brother's bed, slipping beneath the blankets, her silent tears falling into his pillow. It still smelt of him. She closed her eyes. In time it would not. The day dimmed to evening, then night, then rose to morning and, she rose with the sun, taking one last look at her brother's room before she stepped outside and closed the door, locking it before she took the key and slid it beneath the door back into the room, saying her silent goodbye.

Time seemed to pass slowly in Nargothrond, or maybe it was the loneliness that made the days seem so long. Her mind was strangely devoid of visions lately and whether that portended good or ill she did not know but it seemed that there was always some strange and nondescript foreboding tugging at the back of her mind. It had settled upon her like frost even as snow began to fall slowly, blanketing the woodlands of Beleriand.

This winter was unusually cold, so cold that even within the ordinarily temperate caves of Nargothrond there was a draft and, as Galadriel and Orodreth perused the plea that Maedhros had issued, Galadriel found herself wishing that she had brought a shawl with her. She looked down at the tiny goose pimples that had erupted on her arms and sighed before returning her attention to her nephew.

"And what will you do?" She asked Orodreth, looking up at him, but her nephew met her gaze with a sheepish look and she knew, with a sinking feeling, that once more he had come to no conclusion of his own and was merely waiting for her to make the decision. It must have been difficult for Curufin and Celegorm to oust Finrod but, she was sure that once her brother had left, it had been all too easy for them to wrest power from Orodreth. Her nephew had a kind heart: too kind.

"Well, ah…we could either send an army or not…" Orodreth began by stating the obvious. Galadriel tried not to let her frustration show, that would only encourage him to appease her further when what she really wanted was for him to make a decision on his own, without fishing about trying to feel out what she wanted him to do. She waited for him to continue but he did not and fell silent instead.

"That is true," she said at last, realizing that her nephew would be speaking no further without her goading him. "What reasons have you for sending an army?" Orodreth latched onto her question with relief, assuming that she was leading him in the direction she wanted and he was only too happy to follow.

"This may very well be the last stand that we can take against Morgoth," he said. "The Fëanorians and whatever men and dwarves they gather to their cause certainly cannot defeat Morgoth without the assistance of Nargothrond and, more importantly, Doriath." Orodreth was not slow, as the Fëanorians often jested. He knew well enough what was going on. He simply had no desire to have anything to do with it.

"And can they defeat Morgoth, even with assistance from Nargothrond and Doriath?" Galadriel asked and Orodreth paused, confused, for he had assumed that she was leading him towards one answer and now she seemed to be leading him towards the opposite one.

"No?" Orodreth said, a question, seeking confirmation in his Aunt's eyes.

"Can you explain your reasoning?" Galadriel asked and, tentatively, as if he feared he had answered incorrectly, Orodreth began to do so.

"The elven armies, all of them, even Doriath, were at their strongest just after we arrived in Middle-Earth," he said, "and even then we could not win."

"And?" Galadriel prodded him.

"And Doriath will not fight," Orodreth continued, "especially not after Lúthien was held captive here by Celegorm and Curufin."

Something you could have, should have prevented! Galadriel wanted to snap at him. Instead, she remained silent.

"That is correct," she said and Orodreth breathed a sigh of relief.

"You cannot write to the prince, ask him to aid Maedhros's cause?" Orodreth asked. "I thought you said that he wanted to oust Morgoth." Galadriel shook her head.

"We have spoken of the matter in letters and Doriath will not fight," she said. And she was not upset with Celeborn about it either, though by his letters she knew that he had feared she would not support his concurrence with Thingol's decision to send no army. She understood why he had supported the king and she knew that sometimes it took a good deal more courage to abstain from war than to march to it. Lúthien's death had changed everything.

He had written to her of all that had passed. Of course she had known that now he was next in line to the throne and she had seen from her visions that Thingol and Melian were nearing their end, but seeing that Celeborn had earnestly put it all on paper had somehow made it so much more real. All her life she had wanted to be a queen but the words he had written had filled her with sadness and it was with a heavy heart that she now considered the possibility of ascending to the throne.

I know that you would not have it this way, and neither would I, but if Thingol perishes and Melian flees it would be better if you returned and wed me immediately. If you are the Queen of Doriath it may be that we can buy time against the Fëanorians, enough time to shepherd the people to safety across the mountains before we surrender the Silmaril to them.

It was written there between the lines. He knew that surrendering the Silmaril would not spare them, that her cousins would seek their vengeance against the Sindar for having withheld the jewel and thus he would seek to send the people to safety first. She did not know if she was strong enough to keep them safe on the journey and that was why she had not answered this second marriage proposal as quickly as she had the first. Then again, she knew, as he had written himself, that he did not want things to be this way, but it had nearly made her feel as though she was to be a queen for utility's sake alone, though of course she knew it was from love that Celeborn would wed her. But rulers, she reminded herself, do not have the luxury of having things as they like. They must do what they can when they can and she was resolved to marry Celeborn however she could, whenever she could.

So she had written back: Yes, of course I shall. But the city must be prepared for a mass evacuation, Celeborn, if the need arises, for I am certainly not as strong as Melian and I do not know how long I shall be able to hold of Morgoth's minions or my cousins and perhaps I will not be able to hold them off at all.

The thought of evacuating all of Doriath was daunting to say the least but Galadriel did not doubt that, if anyone was capable of it, it was certainly Celeborn and his reply to her letter had confirmed her thoughts. I have already begun the preparations. Though, of course, they remain secret. It would not do to send the people into a panic. And if Maedhros's plan goes ill then this city will be ready, once more, to take in those in need of refuge.

So that's what he was doing, she mused, and that must be in part why he had had a change of heart regarding going to war. It was, in all probability, the wiser decision at this point and besides, with Lúthien gone, the life of the crown prince could hardly be risked in battle. Galathil she loved dearly, Oropher…well Oropher had his good points she supposed, but the thought of either of them on the throne of Doriath was unsettling, just as the thought of Orodreth on Nargothrond's throne was unsettling. She glanced towards her nephew, who was smiling benignly at the document before him, and sighed.

"Tea, Auntie?" A lovely voice like the chime of a bell came from Galadriel's left, and she and Orodreth looked up to find that Finduilas, who was wearing a soft, rose-colored gown, was standing there by the table holding a silver tray laden with a porcelain teapot, cups, and a bowl of biscuits.

"Thank you, Finduilas. That is very thoughtful of you," Galadriel said with a smile. The girl smiled and set the tray down, pouring the tea.

"I like this one with the flower pattern a lot," Finduilas said softly with a little blush, gesturing to the teapot.

"It is very fine," Galadriel told her with great fondness.

"Am I interrupting, Father?" The girl asked, looking up suddenly at Orodreth, the idea having just now occurred to her.

"Not at all, my dear," Orodreth said with a smile.

"That is well," Finduilas said with a little laugh as she handed Galadriel and her father cups of tea. She was older than Nimloth but their ages were not so very disparate; their personalities, however, were like night and day. Nimloth would have been more likely to hurl teacups at them while shouting about how they just couldn't appreciate her poetry. Galadriel smiled. So many people had remarked upon the physical similarities between Galadriel and her niece. Sweet, docile, golden-haired Finduilas looked like she could have been her daughter. Fierce, frustrating, silver-haired Nimloth acted like she could have been her daughter. Galadriel smiled again, shaking her head with amusement at her thoughts. Each of the girls, it seemed, had made their own space in her heart.

"Why don't you sit with us?" Galadriel beckoned her niece.

"Oh! Are you certain? I wouldn't want to be a bother," Finduilas said but Galadriel shook her head.

"I assure you that you are not," she replied and Finduilas acquiesced, taking a seat primly and properly and pouring her own tea.

"Your father tells me that you are betrothed?" Galadriel asked and Finduilas blushed as pink as a summer rose, nodding.

"Yes," she said, "his name is Gwindor."

"I hope he makes you happy," Galadriel said and her niece nodded.

"Oh yes," she said, "very happy indeed."

"Then I am very happy for you," Galadriel said with a smile.

"Thank you Auntie," Finduilas replied, her eyes filled with joy. She seemed on the verge of words again for a moment before, at last, she spoke, "and…you are engaged as well I have heard?" She glanced down at the ring on Galadriel's finger.

"Indeed," Galadriel said. "A long awaited betrothal and a long awaited wedding."

"Oh I am sorry if I have offended!" Finduilas cried, her blue eyes wide as her hands flew to her mouth as though she wished to stuff the words back in.

"No, not at all!" Galadriel assured her with a laugh. "It has rather become a running joke after all amongst both Sindar and Noldor. At last, something both of our peoples can agree on." Orodreth and Finduilas both laughed at that.

"It is good, I think," Orodreth said happily. "For my own wife, as you know, is a Sinda, though she served in the court at Gondolin, and I would see more such intermarriages. Indeed," he said, his voice becoming suddenly more solemn, "I dream of the day we will all live in harmony and equality: Noldor, Sindar, Laiquendi, Avari, Humans, Dwarves."

"An admirable goal," Galadriel said, sipping her tea, and though she did indeed find the idea appealing, she doubted its practicality, at least at this moment. More than that, however, Orodreth's idealism worried her. It hobbled him, kept him wrapped up in perfectionistic notions, some would say naïve notions, and prevented him from taking action, from making decisions, from getting things done. He had been all too willing to turn over power to her upon her arrival and she had not even coerced him as Curufin and Celegorm had, in fact she hadn't even asked; he had simply given her his kingdom.

She worried whom he would give it to when she was gone, for she saw now that there was little hope that he would change his ways. Despite Thingol's new-found madness, she found herself all the more appreciative of him as he had been once upon a time. She had not fully realized, so long ago, all of the competing pressures that a king faced, all of the difficult decisions that fell to him, how challenging it was to control your kingdom rather than letting it control you. For all the trouble Thingol's counselors occasionally gave him, there had never been a doubt in her mind that it was he who ruled them rather than the other way around. Orodreth, however, was ruled by the whims and fancies and bullying and badgering of others.

"Well, I certainly hope, Finduilas," Galadriel said, draining her cup of tea, "that we shall both be present at each other's weddings."

"Oh of course!" Finduilas said, her eyes sparkling with joy. "That would just be simply lovely."

"Well then, Orodreth," Galadriel said, turning to her nephew, "do you think we are finished for today?"

"Oh, I don't know," Orodreth said with a smile. "Do you think so?"

"I am asking you, as the king," Galadriel murmured, growing a bit frustrated with him again. He was too considerate a person for the position he held.

"Oh, well…" he paused, looking to her as if he were trying to read the answer to her question in her eyes. "Well…uh…yes, well, if that is what you think. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"Orodreth," Galadriel said, trying to remain patient with him though, in the months she had been here he had not improved at all on this front, "you are the King. My inconvenience should not be your concern."

He smiled sheepishly. "Well yes," he said, "yes then, let us all get some rest. It is late, after all."

"Of course," Galadriel said, rising and bowing, favoring Finduilas with a smile before they all quit the room and adjourned to their beds.

She was, actually, quite exhausted and so, with a sigh, she began to pull out her hairpins as she made her way to her room, planning on falling straight to sleep. She had taken up residence in her old rooms once more and taken to sleeping during the night again, as the Noldor did. Perhaps it was that change in schedule that had made her feel so exhausted these past few months, but she rather suspected a different cause. She had not realized how much she had come to depend upon Celeborn for support and strength and she was now having to painstakingly revert to living life alone. It had left her wondering how she had ever done things alone in the first place, how anyone managed to.

Her thoughts were thus occupied when she opened the door to her chambers and slipped inside, so occupied that she did not notice the elf sitting in a chair by the door until he leapt to his feet. "Artanis!" Celebrimbor cried, but Galadriel shrieked in surprise and leapt backward into the door.

She came to her senses rather quickly though, a result, perhaps, of having lived amongst the suspicious Sindar for so very long, and cried, "you startled me!" He had, and she had not appreciated it. What was more, she had not been particularly keen on running into Celebrimbor, least of all in her chambers.

"You have been avoiding me!" Celebrimbor cried, his eyes flashing in hurt and anger as he crossed his arms tightly over her chest. She couldn't fault him for that; it was true.

"And why shouldn't I?" Galadriel cried, her anger getting the best of her, but then again, anger seemed a rational reaction in this case. "After all your talk of how different you are from your father I arrive and find that you have been here with him in Nargothrond, supporting his treason against my brother and against my nephew!"

"It was not so!" Celebrimbor cried, striding forward and taking her hands in his but Galadriel tore one of her hands free and slapped him across the face.

"That is for Finrod," she said in a trembling voice, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "If you supported him then you ought to have gone with him and died at his side." Celebrimbor was quiet for a moment as though he could not quite believe what she had done and then he spoke again.

"I stayed here," he said, "because I am the one thread of sanity that can hold my father in place. I stayed to ensure that there was someone left to oppose Curufin and Celegorm. They would have put Orodreth to the sword if I hadn't been here to stop them; ask him yourself."

"Then why are you still here?" Galadriel asked, turning away, crossing her arms over her chest and striding to the ceiling high glass doors that opened out onto Nargothrond's gardens. Celebrimbor approached slowly and she heard him come to a stop behind her.

"You know why," he said gently. "You left without saying goodbye," he said, his tone neither kind nor accusatory.

"What else should I have done? You would have sought to detain me," she murmured, looking out onto the canopy of the trees below.

"I will not lie to you, perhaps I would have," Celebrimbor said, "but it was only because my feelings for you…" His voice trailed off and Galadriel turned around to face him, her eyes fierce.

"Celebrimbor," she said sternly, "I am betrothed to Celeborn of Doriath, as good as married. Whatever happened between you and I was a mistake. Do not place any hope in it."

"Betrothed is not the same as married!" Celebrimbor cried in desperation.

"I am sorry if I gave you hope where there was none," Galadriel told him, crossing her arms over her chest. "It was not my intention. I will marry Celeborn, I want to marry Celeborn, and that is final."

"Him…" Celebrimbor sounded like a tortured man and he paced back and forth for a moment before returning to stand before her. "Can you tell me in all honesty that there was never a moment where you believed you could love me?" His eyes were quick, frantic, boring into her own as if he hoped to find doubt there, but she had no doubt.

"What good would it do you to know?" Galadriel asked him. "Why torture yourself? Celebrimbor, you are handsome, kind, accomplished…any woman would be fortunate to wed you."

"I don't want any woman! I want you!" He exclaimed with such conviction that it startled her. "Tell me, Artanis! I need to know!"

"There were moments, yes, where I believed I could have loved you," she said with a sigh, still firmly believing that it would be better for him not to know. "You can offer me things I want but Celeborn offers me what I need. I may have, for a few brief moments, believed I could love you, but I have always known that I do love Celeborn."

Celebrimbor strode away and back again, his face contorted in agony, tears streaming down his face now and he reached up to wipe them away, embarrassed. "Why do you…" he was torn, both grief-stricken and furious, "why do you throw your life away in Doriath, throw your virtue away on that…"

"My virtue?" Galadriel rounded on him, fuming, her patience worn out and her face burning with anger. Celebrimbor seemed to have realized his mistake and, regretting it, he made to apologize.

"Artanis I…" he stammered, his hands held out in a gesture of peace but she was having none of it.

"My name is Galadriel," she seethed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

"Your real name…" he fumbled, looking heartbroken, "not the one he gave you."

"Galadriel is my real name," she ground out from between clenched teeth. "And who are you to care or comment upon what I do with my virtue or who I give it to? It is none of your business, and none of anyone else's business. It isn't even Celeborn's business. It is my business what I will and will not do and with whom! My value, my worth, who I am has nothing to do with my virtue!" Celebrimbor had flinched at Celeborn's name and he retaliated now out of hurt.

"And what kind of life will you have with Celeborn of the trees!" He spat the name like venom. "He is…he is…a savage, a forest lord, backwards, ignorant…" None of it was true and he knew it. He would never be able to forget the moment he had met Celeborn, just as she could not forget the moment she had met him. He had been like a blade: deadly yet refined, like a gorge in winter, savage, and desolate, and beautiful. He had wielded words like weapons with the sparse efficiency of one who knew his own power and did not fear to use it. One could not meet Celeborn and forget him. But the pain in Celebrimbor's heart would not allow him to speak the truth and so he used his words to hurt her, to make her feel as he felt.

"My father will come for the Silmaril one day!" He cried. "He will find a way. The oath will not sleep! Celeborn will stay in his caves as doom comes upon him and he will drag you down into that abyss at his side! What can he offer you save death and ruin? He will not leave Doriath! If you marry him then your curse will be his destruction! They will slaughter him on the throne and they will plait their braids with locks of his silver hair just as they took the silver scalps of the Teleri! They will make you watch as they gut him and hack his body to bits! And if his child is in your belly then may Ilúvatar himself help you, for they will slaughter you too! Do not deny that you have seen it! I know you have! Choose a better life! Let us go over the mountains, found our own kingdom, escape the grasp of Morgoth and his dark doings…"

"I have chosen," Galadriel said, her voice low and dangerous, having had enough, her entire body trembling, tears yet unshed in her eyes, "and I have chosen him. I will always choose him. I have never. I do not. I never will choose you. Now you will remove yourself from this kingdom and you will never return under penalty of imprisonment."

"Galadriel, I…" Celebrimbor stammered, tears flowing freely from his eyes as he tried to take back his words.

"Do you not know that my brother and my dearest friend have just died? And now you put this on me! Get out," she hissed, her eyes flashing, "and never show your face to me again nor speak a single word to me or I shall cut out your tongue! Go back to Nargothrond. Go!" She screamed and he did, fleeing.

It was not sadness that came over her now but fury and Galadriel took up a vase, hurling it against the wall where it broke, trembling in rage. She half wanted to pursue Celebrimbor, to derogate him further but instead she screamed, letting everything she felt, everything she feared flow out of her, hurling glass trinkets against the wall until the anger was spent and she collapsed upon her bed.

---

It was spring again and with the spring came an abundance of white honeysuckle bursting to life on the slender limbs of bushes like silver sparks of fireworks in the night sky. Leaves unfurled themselves on trees with all of the beauty and coquettish grace of young debutants and the soft grass seemed to be a particularly vibrant shade of green this year. Great, flamboyantly pink magnolias bloomed outside the gates of Menegroth, their irresistibly rich floral fragrance rising into the air, and the apricot trees had already begun to yield their little golden fruits.

All of the world seemed to have opened like an oyster and within that oyster, unlooked for, was a pearl, for Lúthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian had returned, her firm and gentle footsteps carrying her over that verdant green grass and beneath the canopy of fresh leaves and new flowers. And, at her side walked Beren, alive, and well, and breathing, just as he had years before when she had first brought him to her father's gates.

They passed over the clover and by the guards who stood in amazement unsure of whether this was some apparition signifying the end was nigh or some ghost come to haunt them. Unhindered they passed within the city and all who saw them were glad and fearful, for never before had Námo been moved to mercy.

Lúthien's arrival was like the rising of the sun for as she entered into Thingol's dark and shadowy hall the darkness was banished, fleeing before her as night flees before the rising sun, and just as she had freed the slaves that Sauron had imprisoned, so did she free Menegroth from the chains of shadow and death, casting them off as she went, her entire body glowing with a light so brilliant that even the Silmaril could not have hoped to rival it and Varda herself would have stood in awe for Lúthien seemed to blaze with the ether of a thousand stars, an entire galaxy borne in her eyes, gray as the twilight.

At the touch of her hand the spring waters flowed once more in silver fountains that had lain dry, the flowers and plants that had wilted stood to attention with renewed life, the golden orb of the sun once more began her trek across the enchanted ceiling, and as she came before her father's throne, Thingol raised his eyes, the Silmaril he had cradled in his hands falling to the floor forgotten, and beheld his daughter as the coming of the sun.

Without hesitation, without any grudge, or hostility, or resentment, she drew her father up from his throne and into her arms where his bitter winter melted like snow in sunlight, giving way to a new spring, and Thingol wept with joy, kindness and repentance filling his heart once more.

But Melian looked upon her daughter and saw not the glory of spring, nor the coming of new life or the hope of renewal, but only the mortality that was woven into the very fabric of Lúthien's body, like a thread of cotton in a measure of silk, like water in wine, or coal among diamond dust. Lúthien drew back then from her father's embrace, approaching her mother with a tender smile, one hand upon the gentle swell of her stomach where new life was now growing and, with the other hand she reached out to grasp Melians, saying, "Mother."

But Melian drew her hand back trembling, as though she could not bear to touch her child, turning her eyes from her daughter's. For she had looked into Lúthien's eyes and known in that moment of all that had passed, reading there the judgment of Námo: that a parting beyond the end of the world had come between them. She paused for an instant, as if in indecision, but then suddenly turned and fled the hall, the darkness following her. And Lúthien stood still, her hand outstretched for a moment longer in hope before at last that hope failed, and she let it fall to her side.

---

"Thank you for meeting with me," Celeborn heard Lúthien's voice behind him and turned from the strange species of moss he had been examining on the wall to face his cousin, a warm smile on his face.

"I owe you rather a lot you know," Lúthien said, lowering herself slowly onto a wooden bench and Celeborn rushed forward to help her. "Oh! There now, we've done it!" She said with a little laugh and a gleam in her eye as she sat and leaned back against the bench, sighing and placing a hand over her pregnant belly.

"I'm not keeping score," Celeborn said with a grin and Lúthien pinched his cheek.

"Of course you're not," she said, "because you are a gentleman."

"How is the baby?" Celeborn asked, eyeing her stomach with a mixture of awe and curiosity. His cousin groaned.

"Energetic," she said, rolling her eyes and patting her stomach. "You can touch if you'd like." And Celeborn did, reaching out to place a gentle hand over her belly, his smiled growing broader as he felt the baby's foot pressing up against his hand, remembering how violently Nimloth had kicked when she was still in Inwen's belly.

"I would expect nothing less from your child," he said and Lúthien grinned, winking at him.

"How is Galadriel?" She asked him.

"Still in Nargothrond," he said, "ruling the place, though from the sound of it she would rather not. She went there to put Orodreth back on the throne but he seems reluctant to take it and eager to pass if off to anyone who shows the slightest interest."

"Oh dear," Lúthien said. "I am very sorry to hear that. It must be terribly trying for her. You know how frustrated she gets about things."

"Yes, I know," Celeborn said with a laugh.

"Well I hope the two of you shall be married soon enough," his cousin said. "Then you can have a child too and, oh, don't do things the way that Galathil did them!" She rolled her eyes.

"I won't. I swear it!" Celeborn protested. "We will be married when she returns from Nargothrond."

"That is good," Lúthien said, but she paused next, growing concerned and sitting in contemplation for a while before speaking again. In all seriousness," she said, turning her eyes to him once more, "I am very sorry about everything that has happened between you and my father. I expect people don't thank you often enough, Celeborn, but it is due to you that this kingdom continues to function. You've done far more than anyone would have expected of you. I know what pressure you must be under, what struggles you must be facing. I know how he gets…like that…and I know the Silmaril has only exacerbated it."

Celeborn nodded, clasping his hands before him. "I must admit," he confided in her, "I thought of leaving once or twice, of just going out into the wilderness, over the mountains, making a life there with Galadriel, but when I thought about all of the people who depend upon me, and how you were gone, and your father was hardly fit to rule, then I could not find it in my heart to leave them. The thought of them brought me some strength, I think, knowing that they trusted in me, and it made me think what grief your father must feel, knowing they trust him no longer."

"That is so," Lúthien said, "and I cannot even begin to tell you how grateful I am that you stayed. But as for me…" she paused, considering her words carefully. "I hope you won't think me heartless when you hear me say that I never wanted to be a princess, certainly never a queen."

"I could never think such a thing of you," Celeborn told her, smiling, and Lúthien patted his hand.

"To tell you the truth, Celeborn, I would have been happier had I been born a farmer's daughter. I would have played in the forest all day, tilled the earth, tended the animals. That…" she suddenly looked as though her mind was very far away for a moment, "that would have really made me happy. I never realized how very unhappy being a princess was making."

She paused before continuing. "Beren wanted me to come back to Menegroth after our quest for the Silmaril, saying it wasn't right for an elven princess to wander in the wild. But never was I happier than those months after the quest was finished, before we returned to Menegroth to hunt Carcharoth, when Beren and I were living simply in the wild, off the fruits of our labor, providing for ourselves. I never realized how very much I hated all of this royalty and political business until I left it and went wandering in the wild. Had I met Beren I never would have known, perhaps, what I truly love. I might have spent eternity being someone I hated and fulfilling a role I despised."

She reached out, taking her cousin's hand again, meeting his eyes. "I know you want to ask me to stay, Celeborn, but I cannot. My mind is made up and I must leave. After everything that has happened this place brings me no joy, only sorrow. And, besides what I want is peace, and quiet, and a simple life full of uncomplicated things. I am mortal now after all. My life will be short and I want to spend what time I have left in living on my terms."

"Of course," Celeborn said, feeling a strange mixture of emotions: sadness that she would leave and happiness that she could now live as she wished, "if that is your choice then I will respect it and I will be glad for the happiness that you have found."

"You are simply the best," Lúthien told him, "do you know that?" Celeborn chuckled and his cousin smiled.

"I don't know, however," he said, teasing her, "if I shall be able to forgive you for shoving me into line as Thingol's heir. I don't want to be a king at all." But Lúthien only laughed gently and shook her raven head.

"Yes you do," she whispered, clasping his hands and smiling. "Galadriel knows it; ask her. You do want it, to rule, only you just don't know it yet."

Celeborn merely rolled his eyes and shook his head but Lúthien laughed long and hard before leaning her head against his shoulder. Celeborn grinned and tousled her dark hair.

"Do take care of them, my mother and father, as best you can, will you?" She asked him, turning her head and looking up at him. "I know they can be difficult and I know it is a wretched thing to ask of you but they seem to have proven that they cannot be counted upon to take care of themselves and, despite everything that has happened, I do love them, really and truly."

"Of course Lu," he said. "You don't have to ask. Of course I shall." He felt her nod against his shoulder and a tight knot rose in his throat as he began to sense that the conversation was drawing to a close. He wondered whether he would ever see his cousin again.

"Well," she said, almost in response to his thoughts, "I suppose I ought to be leaving now, Beren must have saddled the horses. Will you help me up, cousin?" He stood, offering his arm, which she leaned upon, pulling herself up from the bench. Lúthien was half a Maia and could have stood under her own power well enough, pregnant though she was, but he knew it was because he had wanted to help her that she had let him. "Do be kind enough to give my love to Galadriel, cousin," she said.

"Even if you do not return," Celeborn told her, squeezing her hands, "please send your child to visit so that I may meet him or her."

"Him," Lúthien said with a wink.

"You know?" He asked her and she nodded before she turned, making her way across the courtyard. She had almost left before he spoke again.

"Lu," he said, and she turned back for a moment, looking at him expectantly, curiously, her eyes bright and happy. "I really am going to miss you, truly," he said, his voice cracking, tears filling his eyes.

"Oh Celeborn," she said, rushing forward to embrace him tightly, "I will miss you too, so very much."

---

"War comes to Beleriand once more," Thingol murmured, his fingers to his chin, his eyes quick and curious, "and once more the refugees flee to the safety of Doriath."

But what strange refugees these were that Beleg, accompanied by Nellas, led forward now through Thingol's hall, a child, a young boy barely as tall as Celeborn's waist, and with him two old men. Celeborn had seen old dwarves before, back in the days when they had lived in Menegroth, but never before had he seen an elderly man. There was something unsettling about it, watching them creep forward on legs stiff with age, their skin pulled tight across frail bones. They seemed so near to death and seeing them made him all the more aware of the fate that Beren and Lúthien now faced. It was enough to chill him to his bones. He could not even begin to imagine what it must be like, feeling your own body crumble about you.

"His Majesty Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, King of the Sindar, High King of Beleriand!" Galathil cried as the visitors approached the king's throne.

"Your Majesty," the younger prince said then, addressing the King, "Túrin son of Húrin and of Morwen, of the House of Hador with Gethron and Grithnir, loyal servants of the same."

At their introduction they made to bow but Thingol rose, holding out his hand and said, "that is not necessary, I assure you."

"Thank you Your Majesty," one of the old men, with long, gray, greasy hair, said. He was clothed in threadbare pants and a shirt, wearing a worn and dirty leather jerkin and carrying weapons so dull they seemed hardly fit for service. His voice was shallow and he made a curious wheezing noise when he spoke, pausing as if to collect his breath before he continued. Celeborn frowned, wondering why his voice sounded so frail, and that was when the old man began to cough violently.

"Some water if you please," the other man, who was holding the child's hand, said to one of the wardens who accompanied them. Water was brought and, after the visitors had drunk, the first man began to speak again.

"Your Majesty," he said, "I am Grithnir, a servant of the House of Hador, and I have been sent to you by Morwen of the House of Bëor, wife of Húrin Thalion, whose son this is. On her behalf I beg that you take her son, young Túrin, into your custody lest he fall victim to the plague that killed his sister, or be enslaved by the Easterlings who have overrun Hithlum at Morgoth's bidding. Please sire," he entreated Thingol, "the war rages fiercely in the North. I beg of you, have mercy on this child!" Having so said, he made to prostrate himself before Thingol in desperation but the march wardens once more pulled him to his feet, assuring him that this was not necessary, and Thingol rose, holding out his hand in a gesture of friendship, bidding Grithnir rise.

"I beg you not bow before me, Grithnir," Thingol addressed him, "for the brave deeds of Húrin, father of Túrin are known to us here in Doriath and ever shall this kingdom be a friend to those who bear kinship with Beren Erchamion, who I esteem most greatly and who is my son by way of marriage to my beloved daughter Lúthien. But I beg you tell me, if you have the strength, the name of your companion here and of your journey as well as the events that have occurred in the north."

"Certainly, Your Majesty," Grithnir replied, wheezing again, "only…if it is not too much trouble could some chairs be brought? For we have journeyed a long way and Gethron," he gestured to the other old man, "and I have not the youth of young Túrin here."

"Of course, my apologies," Thingol said as the men frantically tried to assure him that there was nothing he need apologize for. Meanwhile, the boy clutched at his guardian's soiled jerkin, standing half behind him and gazing out at them all not with curiosity, which would have been usual for a child, but with something akin to suspicion, and Celeborn thought it strange to see such a thing in one so young. The chairs were brought and they all sat.

"If it please Your Majesty," the other man, Gethron, began, "my companion Grithnir has been suffering from some illness since we began our journey and it has become somewhat difficult for him to speak. So I will tell you the tale, if that is acceptable."

"Of course," Thingol said, gesturing that the man should continue and Gethron did as he was bid.

"I do not believe there are any words I can say that would adequately express to you the horrors that are taking place in the North," Gethron said, his voice filled with sadness and his eyes with worry. "The fighting was fierce and even those of us too young or too old to participate in battle suffered the effects of it, for the land was so ravaged by marching armies and the horrors of war that all of our crops were burned and the land was made unsuitable for farming so that many of the people starved. And then…I suppose it is not a problem that elves must face, but armies often carry with them pestilence and sickness so that many of our people died of plague. Then a plague came to us on the wind from Angbad as well so that nearly everyone fell ill. My lord Túrin's young sister, Urwen, though we called her Lalaith for her laughter, died though she was but a young child of three years." The man's eyes welled with tears and he reached up to wipe them away.

"We thought we would lose Túrin as well," he said, "for he fell grieviously ill, but fate, it seemed has spared him. And yet our horrors did not end there, for the Easterlings flooded into Hithlum and took many of our people as slaves, stealing what food we had left, raping the women, and putting our children in shackles. For a while my Lady, Morwen, has been able to hold them off by spreading rumors that she is a witch, but she thought that it would not be long until her ruse was discovered and Túrin taken captive. So she devised this plan to send him to safety with the elves, which is why we have come, but our journey was perilous and we became ensnared with confusion when we reached the girdle, wandering in circles and eating what precious little food we had left until we were discovered by Beleg and his friend, Nellas."

"I am very sorry," Thingol said with great sympathy, "for your plight and you may rest assured that I will welcome Túrin, even as though he were my own son, for I know most keenly the fear that Morwen must have felt at the prospect of losing a child and, for the love of Lúthien and Beren, I would gladly aid you humans in whatever way I might. Therefore, I proclaim that from this day forward Menegroth is to be Túrin's home until such time as he may wish to wander elsewhere, and he will be treated here as though he were my own son and given guidance by my most trusted kin and subjects so that he may grow to be wise and strong. What say you, Túrin?" Thingol addressed the child with a smile. "Is this acceptable to you?"

But the boy said nothing, only sitting in his chair, kicking at the floor and refusing to raise his eyes, a sour look upon his face. "Young master!" Grithnir chided him. "The King of Doriath has addressed you. Can you not do him the honor of an answer?"

The boy looked up at Thingol with the same suspicion he had shown earlier and at last, reluctantly, goaded by his servants, he stood, sighing, raising his eyes to Thingol with reluctance and saying, "my thanks, Your Majesty." It was all he said. Then he returned to his seat, kicking at the ground once more and staring at his feet.

Grithnir stumbled to his feet, worried, bowing his head low, his hands clasped together, saying, "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, my Lord is but eight years of age, a mere child, and he does not understand how he ought to comport himself nor does he fully understand the predicament that he is in!"

But Thingol only waved his hand, urging the man to forget the child's insolence and said, "I assure you it is no matter and no offense has been taken. I too am a father and I know the many joys, and the many troubles that a child can bring. Children will be children after all." He smiled once more at Túrin and, as he did so, Melian bent to whisper in the King's ear.

Thingol turned then, his gaze settling upon Nellas, who stood at Beleg's side and he said, "Nellas, the Queen has seen fit to inform me that you have some desire to raise a child."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Nellas said, stepping forward and taking a knee before Thingol's throne. "Yet, long have I feared that I will have no children of my own."

"Then, if it is agreeable to you," Thingol said, "I would like for you to take Túrin into your care, to raise him as if you were his mother and to teach him all that you know of the land, of our language, and of history and lore. For there is, I believe, none more qualified for this task than you. And Beleg," he said, turning to the warden who stood at Nellas's side, "I would ask that you teach Túrin all that you know of the art of warfare and raise him up with the knowledge of a soldier so that he shall always be able to defend himself and those he holds dear."

Both Nellas and Beleg gave their assent and the King turned once more to Grithnir and Gethron. "I beg you rest here," he said, "and eat and drink as much as you like until such time as you are able to return to your mistress. I will send my messengers with you to see if she may be persuaded to seek safety in Doriath and we shall see what can be done to assist your people, for in Doriath the House of Bëor and the House of Hador are accounted elf-friends and Doriath will honor that alliance."

---

Thingol...you freaking psychopath...

Footnote: Hey guys, hope you enjoyed the chapter! I am really starting to wrap up this story now since there are only 7 chapters left. Chapter 39 will be the last and there will be a short epilogue (Chapter 40). I thought the epilogue might be a good opportunity for some questions so I will be doing a massive author's note answering any meta questions you all may have. Basically that means questions that pertain to the story as a whole.

For example: Why did you not do anything with Gondolin? Why did you choose this particular version of Gil-Galad's parentage? You can also ask questions that pertain to my writing process in general. For example: How do you keep track of all the events? Or you can ask personal questions. For example: What is your personal opinion of what Tolkien wrote about…? Or, who is your least favorite character, most favorite character, what books do you like, etc? Please mark these questions as [chapter 40]. Please send these questions in a PM as this will make it easier for me to keep track of them.

Also, if you have some time, please let me know what you think of Celeborn so far. Thanks! You guys are the best!