A/N: Before I begin this story, I must note that the nature of this tale made it necessary for me to settle on one of the many conflicting histories of Galadriel and Celeborn. I've done something with their family rarely explored within the fandom, but I decided that six pages of pre-story author's notes explaining myself was insane. If you are interested in canonical justification, please see my essay "A Wandering History," which can be found in the essay section of this site.
Summary: From the second age of Middle Earth to the third, few of the elders of the elves remain to guide the young. Still, relics of an ancient world exist, for good and ill. Divine banes return in a blaze of revolution, betrayal, war, balrog, death, and the cruel indifference of the Valar. Yet there may be tempering strength in a refiner's fire. Featuring Galadriel, Celeborn, and Amroth -- their son.
"[A]t length [Sauron] persuaded them to revolt against Galadriel and Celeborn and to seize power in Eregion . . . Galadriel thereupon left Eregion and passed through Khazad-dûm to Lórinand, taking with her Amroth and Celebrían; but Celeborn . . . remained behind in Eregion, disregarded by Celebrimbor."
--The Unfinished Tales
Chapter 1: Eregion
A hooded elf pushed his way into the crowded pavilion, in from the pouring rain that had forced the crowd behind closed doors. There were too many people for the space, and they filled the room with steam that misted off their wet bodies, billowing in the torchlight before disappearing, adding to the sheen of sweat and fear and passion that glittered upon upraised brows. It condensed on collars and hems, pooled damply on backs and chests, and did nothing to cool the heat of the Eldar inflamed. Men and mortals would not have recognized them, but would have crept away fearing, thinking that some howling force had possessed their gentle souls. They would have been right.
Despite the humid heat, the newcomer did not lower his hood, but murmured soft apologies until he had flattened himself against the back wall. The elf he stopped beside turned his eyes fractionally toward him. "It goes ill," he murmured to his cloaked friend. "Be prepared for anything this night."
At the front of the room, a tall elf paced back and forth, his face flushed with the effort of persuasion. His voice rasped; he had been speaking too long, but had no power to stop. Fervent, proud, gifted -- he did not know that in voice and gesture he much resembled his grandfather, Fëanor the Great, Fëanor the Cursed. It might have given him pause, had he stopped to think on it, but Celebrimbor would not have been swayed from his cause. He raised one hand, calming the uproar.
"Friends!" he called out. "Friends! Friends! Hear me! We must ask them to step aside!"
"Treason!" a heckler called from the crowd.
"No!" Celebrimbor answered, and before he could continue, "Kinslaying!" another called.
"No!" Celebrimbor roared. "No! Not kinslaying! We will convince them, if they will hear us, or we will force them, if we must, but no one shall be hurt! Yet Celeborn and Galadriel must step aside!" He plowed through the murmur that swept the crowd.
"It is our duty to do this; are we not free? Do they not rule by our consent? We have suffered their burdens on our freedom. We have borne with patience their unreasonableness. We have allowed them to be the puppets of a distant king, to dangle us upon the whims of Lindon. They are relics of a time long past, foisting their fear and paranoid upon our bright futures! It is a new age, and we no longer consent! It is our right, our duty to throw off these chains, and to provide a new order for our reborn world! Such has been our patience, but no more!"
Shouts echoed from the walls, of yea, and nay, of grievances, of anger, and few people entirely agreed with one another. For a moment, pandemonium ruled, and some few pockets of younger elves scuffled, dodging gesturing hands and stabbing fingers.
"Friends!" Celebrimbor cried again, and raised his voice, the veins in his neck and face straining in his effort. "Do you need proof? You have seen it, but I will give it to you! They put burdens on our friends, the dwarves, tariffs on trade, infringe passage between our realms. They demand, in these times of peace, that our sons and our daughters learn the ways of war. They breathe lies about Annatar, our dear ally, who has ever sought nothing but knowledge and friendship! They mock our craft! This morning I received this edict from Celeborn: we are not to finish the rings! He has said that he will withhold the wood for our forges and the tools of our craft. We uphold this realm by our sweat and toil, and they DARE to constrain us! It is beyond our tolerance!"
"Yes!" someone cried, and Celebrimbor smiled faintly.
"It is beyond our patience!"
"Yes!" more joined.
"My friends, we do not have to bear this!" he thundered, finding his cadence. "Must we bear this?"
"No!"
"Must we bow?"
"NO!"
"We NEED NOT submit! We NEED NOT surrender! We NEED NOT bow to their tyranny!"
From the back of the room, a powerful voice cried out over the din. "Fools!" The speaker was an ancient elf, his fair face marred by the scars of battle and suffering. He was a Sindar of Doriath, one of few remaining, and one who had walked the world before the sun, one of few in the room.
Many of the faces that turned to him in surprise were terribly young. They were the world of elves rebuilt, the children of the survivors of wrath, the progeny of the few who had refused the call of the Valar. The elves prospered again in Middle Earth, but there were too few elders -- fearful indeed that Gil-galad and Elrond, who lived only after Doriath had died -- were now called aged.
"There are none yet living who fought evil in the depths of time as they have fought!" the ancient one continued. Ancient, though he himself was much younger than the rulers of the realm. "Celeborn is the last of the generals before the moon, the very fist of Elu Thingol. He stood against orc and dragon and flame, and yet stands! And Galadriel is the student of Melian; where she decrees the way is shut, none can pass but by her will! We shall wish they were our friends when the darkness descends again."
Celebrimbor began to answer, but Annatar, who had thus far been sitting placidly behind Celebrimbor, leapt to his feet, his eyes blazing in the amber violence of the first sunrise. "Have you so little faith?" he cried, his fair, godly face drawn in righteous grief. He looked about him, and there were tears on his cheeks. "What need have you for war-lords and kings? The Valar, aye, the very Valar themselves condescended to this world and cleansed it! Did not they destroy evil? Did not they come? And why? For the love of Iluvatar's children, ungrateful though you are! Have you so little faith?"
He fell silent, and no one dared to stir, to murmur, so great was Annatar's sorrow. He sat suddenly and passed his hands before his eyes. "You have heard Celeborn speak against the Valar," he whispered into the silence, not looking up from behind his hand. "You have heard his disdain. 'Where were the Valar when the Sindar were dying?' he has asked, and 'little good they did us, sinking our world to the sea,' he has said. And Galadriel! Galadriel! The Valar have long wept for her. Heresy falls from both their lips." He looked up and caught many eyes; it seemed he opened himself to the roots of his soul.
"You have heard them speak against me," he continued, more quietly still, and all in the room were caught in his whispered breaths. "The very servant of our gods. I have allowed it; I am not greater than the Valar, and it is my joy to suffer injustices in their name. But I can stand by no longer."
He stood again, shakily, as one who rises from his deathbed for some desperate purpose. Celebrimbor reached out to steady him, and murmured in his ear.
"Nay, Celebrimbor, I am fine," he said weakly, and brushed him off with a frail gesture. Then he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, his eyes agonized. "I cannot stand by because of what they take from you. They rob you of the gift of the Valar. The Valar desire you balm your hearts and live in peace; Galadriel and Celeborn tear your hearts open with words of war. The Valar gave you the freedom to choose your destiny; at every turn Galadriel and Celeborn impose their will. The Valar instilled the poetic joy of creation in your hands! Galadriel and Celeborn . . ." Annatar bowed his head mournfully. "What do they know of the beauty of creation? For they have never made anything beautiful; all they touch turns to ash."
From the front row, one elf shook his head, dazed. " . . . children," he said hoarsely, and cleared his throat. Then the elf narrowed his eyes and summoned the strength to overcome the spell of Annatar's performance. "Their children are the fruits of their love. The value and beauty of what they have created together has rarely been matched in all of Arda."
Annatar pinned the elf with a disdainful stare, then shook his head in disbelief. "Mark me well," he said slowly, as one invoking the weight of foresight. "Fair the children might be, but flawed. Their hearts will fail them both before the end. I have declared it, and it will be."
At the back of the room, the cloaked stranger stiffened. "Steady on, lad," his friend said, catching his wrist. "You've heard enough. Come." And they pushed out of the room as Celebrimbor began pacing and calling again. There were no naysayers now to interrupt him.
Once outside, the cloaked elf swept back his hood and lifted his face to the heavens. The rain cascaded across his brow, washing away his sweat, but not his tension.
Amroth he would be called in later days. The Up-climber, the Tree-dweller, King of Lórien of the East, a lover, a dreamer -- but ultimately a shadowy legend preserved with sorrow in elven hymn. As yet, however, he was none of these. Rather, he bore the name given him at his birth: Galadaran, to honor his mother and shape the destiny his parents hoped for him.
He was a young lord, not yet into his first millennium, fair and valiant and fey. In form he took more after his mother, the gold of the Vanyar rather than the silver of the Teleri. But though his eyes reflected her coloring, they did not burn with the same light. In that he was like his father, for, though not lit with divinity, they were both possessed by the intractable, discordant spirit of the land. That howling force was older, far older than a reflection of departed light, and on some days, more difficult to control.
"You were right, Calandil," he said, his voice shaking. "What do we do?"
But before his companion could answer, the din in the pavilion behind them crested, unhinged, and broke free. Elves poured from the cramped room, a roaring wave of anger, swords drawn and glittering in the night. Heading toward the great hall at Ost-in-Edhil, where the lord and lady presided.
"Run, Galadaran!" Calandil cried, before himself dashing into the darkness.
He crashed into the room, soaked from the rain, his chest heaving. "Stay here, Celebrían!" he roared, his hands unsteady as he threw back the lid of his trunk and fumbled for the weapons inside. He ignored the armor; there was no time. A sword, a knife. Bow? No, for any blood drawn this night would be from within an arm's reach of death. He strapped his sword to his side and clenched his fists, unsuccessfully questing for calm. He released a breath and pulled Gal-narthan from its sheath. Light's Beacon it was, firm and strong in his palm, and he breathed a prayer over it that they would not need to spill elven blood this day. Then he prayed again that if need was dire, that it -- that he -- would hold true.
"Galadaran!" his sister cried, fearing now as she sprang to her feet. "What has happened?"
"The inevitable," he answered shortly. "Celebrimbor is leading a revolt."
Her eyes widened as her face paled. Then she straightened her shoulders and reached for her own blade.
"Nay, tithen thêl," her brother said, catching her hand. "Stay here, do you understand? Yes? Tell me that you do."
She grimaced and looked at him, beseeching. He was unmoved, and she nodded. "I understand." He held her gaze a moment longer, his grim countenance reflecting their collective fear. Then he nodded firmly and disappeared into the night.
After a moment of hesitation, Celebrían collected her sword and followed. She was, after all, also the child of Celeborn and Galadriel.
A commotion at the back of the room started Celebrimbor, and he turned as the ornate door splintered inward into the crowd of armed smiths.
"Back traitors!" a voice cried. "Back, in the name of your oaths!" Before Celebrimbor could call out, one of his supporters heaved forward, sword glittering in the light of torch and flame. The cry of blade on blade startled the unruly crowd into silence, and in some eyes he saw indecision, for the sound of warring swords in their peaceful land is not what they wanted. They were not above menace and threats, but they wished no death this night. While few had participated in the kinslaying atrocities of the last age, many remembered the haunted lives of their fathers.
Some stepped back from the intruder for that reason, and others upon seeing a second blade at the door-- Calandil of Doriath. And a third -- the Lady Celebrían.
"I will not do this in front of the children," one of the smiths murmured. But others stepped forward, intent, menacing.
"Hold!" Celebrimbor cried out.
"Nay," said a musical voice beside him. "Let them see this. They should see this."
"Annatar," Celebrimbor chastised, his voice low and surprised. "No!" he said, raising his voice. "Keep the Lady Celebrían out. She is not to see this; she is not to be harmed." He was grateful to see two elves step forward and take her bodily in hand. They escorted her out of the room with as much care as they could, despite her vigorous protests.
But with a growl of anger Galadaran shoved forward through the crowd, and it reluctantly gave way to him until his broke free of it at the base of a dais where his parents stood, Annatar and Celebrimbor before them.
"Celebrimbor," he said, voice ugly with anger, "what in all of Arda are you doing?"
Celebrimbor coolly drew his sword and took a step -- not forward toward the boy who had once worshipped him, but back, toward the dais.
"Drop your sword, Galadaran," he said mildly. But Galadaran grasped it more tightly and moved to step forward. Celebrimbor swiftly brought his blade to bear against the Lord of Eregion, the point even with Celeborn's heart.
"Drop it," he said sharply. "Forgive me, lady," he continued quietly, shifting his attention to the fair being at Celeborn's side, "but I will do it." And he raised his eyes to meet Galadriel's. Betrayal he had expected. Disgust, even fear. But though her hands were clenched and every line of her body vibrated in rage, in her eyes held only resigned weariness, as if he had done at last what she always had expected him to do. It unsettled him, and his sword-hand trembled for a moment, unsure. But beside him Annatar nodded in almost imperceptible approval, and Celebrimbor snapped his eyes to the lord at the end of his sword. "I will do it," he said again, firmly.
"Peace, Celebrimbor," Celeborn said, and raised his hands, placating, diplomatic. Coldly in control, as if a glittering blade had not already drawn a thin line of blood where it pressed against his chest. "Galadaran, I thank you, but lower your sword."
Galadaran grimaced, his face reflecting the pride of his youth and his heritage. But he was the son of the Wise and bowed to his father, the last who would do so in Eregion. "As you wish," he said, and, after slipping the weapon back into its scabbard with a crisp hiss, folded his hands behind his back, his fair face as still as stone.
Celeborn inhaled deeply, invoking the calm wrought by uncounted hours of meditation. It was his only sign of internal turmoil, but in the quite corners of his mind, Celebrimbor regretted the necessity of what he had inflicted. For the ever-unflappable Celeborn to show even this smallest sign of agitation was significant indeed. The source of his dread only served to deepen Celebrimbor's dismay, for he knew that Celeborn did not fear for himself, but for Galadriel, for Galadaran, for Celebrían.
"There is no need to do this," Celeborn continued quietly, and, though he did not so much as glance at his wife or his son, it was clear that his words were not entirely for his enemies. The anger suddenly went out of Galadriel, and she stepped forward to place her hand on Celebrimbor's.
"We will step aside," she said, her voice low and humiliated as she held his gaze. Celebrimbor lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes, searching for the truth, for this was not a Galadriel he had expected. If not for the rightness of his cause, he would have wept for what he had done. He dropped his eyes first, his face lined with sudden sorrow.
"Thank you," he said, and abruptly lowered the sword. Galadriel closed her eyes and breathed out a silent note of relief -- a prayer of gratitude to Elbereth. There was more love for Celeborn in that soft sigh than the fondest gaze she had ever gifted Celebrimbor, and he felt as if a sword's thrust could not have pierced him deeper.
"Well," Annatar intoned smoothly, "I am so glad we were able to avoid any … unpleasantness."
Celebrimbor glanced at his friend. "Indeed," he said, recovering himself, but not swiftly enough to drown out the echo of insincerity that rolled through Annatar's pronouncement. He shook his head once, dismissing what he had heard as a figment of the tension in the room, for surely Annatar had not wished the Lord and Lady dead.
Annatar delicately threaded his fingers and brought them to his lips. "Well, then …" he began, but Galadriel turned away. The would-be rebels who had backed Celebrimbor parted in guilty respect has she passed through. If any had hoped to catch her eye, he was disappointed, for she walked as if the wide room was empty. Galadaran passed likewise, but Celeborn held each gaze until it dropped.
"Sauron's host were already approaching when Celeborn made a sortie and drove them back; but though he was able to join his force to that of Elrond they could not return to Eregion, for Sauron's host was far greater than theirs . . . [they] would indeed have been overwhelmed had not Sauron host been attacked in the rear; for Durin sent out a force of Dwarves . . . and with them came Elves of Lórinand led by Amroth." - The Unfinished Tales
Chapter 2: Din-horde
"Lord Amdír, may I have a word?"
"Of course, my friend," the King of Lórinand answered and slowed his pace so the younger lord could catch up. He studied the boy as he approached, and noted with a stir of distress how easily his young face settled into heavy lines of care. The weight of his heritage, Amdír thought with a sigh.
He had welcomed the dispossessed family into his realm nearly four centuries before, but out of duty, not love, even if he did remember with fondness Galadaran's young, sweet chatter in the tranquil air of Nenuial. Though he could not help but respect her, Galadriel's presence had given him pause, but long years and old debts compelled him to embrace Celeborn's children despite his concerns. Thus he had been pleasantly surprised at the joy both Galadaran and Celebrían had given him. Though neither were children anymore, they had given him the chance to be a father for the first time in his life.
They had embraced his friendship, for they had been deeply shaken by the revolt at Eregion. Word of it had reached Amdír's ears, but in the skewed, muddied way of scandal and rumor, and for a time the rumors had slayed the entire family. When they arrived, mercifully safe, Celeborn had not been with them. He would not come through Khazad-dûm, Galadriel had said curtly, and for a time Amdír let the matter be, not wishing to become embroiled in the politics of their complex marriage. But long counsels with her had revealed a deeper truth.
Indeed, Celeborn had publicly refused to pass through the dwarven realm. It had, apparently, been a matter of shouting and ire in the streets of Eregion, a performance for all to see. Many of the citizens of Eregion had witnessed it, and gone away to tell others how far the couple had fallen. It had been both truth and ruse, for it had allowed Celeborn to remain, disregarded by the new powers in Eregion, and had made Galadriel's departure seem a harmless fit, a wife angry and spurned. Thus, Galadriel watched and prepared in the East while Celeborn watched and prepared in the West, and neither was watched by anyone else.
Surprise had always been a powerful stratagem. Indeed, it was the only weapon they had; it was fortunate that they had prepared it. When Celebrimbor had arrived two hundred years earlier, bearing the tale of his shame, he had expressed both surprise and gratitude that Lorien was already so well prepared. "Only days since Sauron revealed himself. You are swift, my lord," Celebrimbor had said. Amdír had not had the heart to tell him that the warded borders, that the warriors, that the weapons had been prepared for over two centuries.
"And how goes the talan building, young amrath-thavron?" Amdír asked, shaking himself from memory, hoping that the light of a well-beloved smile would break the clouds from his foster-son's eyes.
"Very well, my lord," Galadaran said, and an impish grin transformed his face. For a moment, it did not matter that his father was long absent and his mother newly -- strangely -- tormented; rather, he radiated the joy of spontaneous song. "Most productive."
"Ah," the lord answered, amusement warming his voice. "Productive. And your . . . diligence in the matter has nothing to do with a certain young elleth, I assume?"
"No!" Galadaran answered, though amiable embarrassment colored his face. "Or . . . not entirely. It is quite interesting work, quite rewarding. And if Nimrodel delights to teach me the art, well . . ." he shrugged bashfully, awed that the Valar had seen fit to bestow so great a favor.
"Interesting work. Rewarding work. Of course; I understand completely," the king said, and commanded his face into a mask of solicitous solemnity. "And have you thought of a name for your lofty abode?"
"I hadn't until now, but you just gave me an idea. What say you of 'Circled Mound of the High Street?'"
"Cerin Amrath," Amdír said, folding the words in his sonorous baritone. "Yes, I like it." Then he looked placidly away to hide a decidedly un-kingly quirk of mischief. "And we shall have to call you 'Lord Mound' ever after. Ai, by Mandos, lad, breathe," he continued with mock alarm as he pounded his companion's back.
"'Lord Mound?'" Galadaran answered hoarsely, sputtering through a laugh that had caught him unaware. "I would never live it down."
"Oh, indeed?" Amdír asked innocently. "I supposed you are right. 'Amrath' then. Or 'Amroth,' to give it a lilt." He paused and shed his jesting demeanor. "It suits you," he continued quietly. "I've seen you walking the branches like a wild spirit born of the starlight, master of the wandering paths between heaven and earth. Your father used to do the same thing in the forests of Doriath, you know."
"I do," Amroth answered, and his voice held a note of longing. "He taught me."
Amdír nodded and grunted a noncommittal assent. It hurt, a little, these reminders that the boy he loved was the son of another. It was usually easy to pretend that it was not so. "Amroth," he said, and smiled faintly at the boy's delighted acceptance of the name. He tried it again. "Amroth, your father taught you to walk in his paths. You do him credit; proud indeed he must be to call you son. But there are other roads, equally beautiful, equally right. Some quite a lot less difficult, some more. Find your own way, my child, and rejoice in it. My heart tells me that you will."
"Yes, my lord. I understand," Amroth answered, though his eyes were troubled and it was clear that he did not.
Amdír smiled, and squeezed the boy's shoulder companionably. Then he dropped his hand pulled himself back -- he was a king, a friend. Not a father. "Forgive me. First I tease you, then I wax philosophical, and entirely override what you intended to say. You asked for a word?"
Galadaran blinked, and for a moment struggled to follow the abrupt change in his mentor's mood. "Ahh, yes. Indeed." He shook his head, and the cloud of care descended again. "'Tis regarding Eregion. We've all felt it today; Mother, Celebrían, and I. Evil is moving and we must act." He lifted his chin. "Forgive me, lord; I should say that I will act, with your leave and assistance or without it."
So the peace was ended and the ever-changing world would change again. Amdír nodded crisply, ancient instincts of blood and war sharpening the edges of his mind and hardening the walls of his heart. The second age and its sons would march to war at last. A farmer-king could weep for the losses of the past; a warrior-lord had no such luxury for the future.
"You shall have both my blessing and my aid," he answered. "Where is Galadriel?"
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Father . . .
Celeborn gasped and jerked awake, overwhelmed by the cresting din of dwarven feet pounding in syncopation to elvish songs of war. Momentarily disoriented, he reached for his weapon as he sat up, even as he realized that he was in the midst of a large contingent of elves. Elrond's army. Eregion's refugees, his memory promptly informed him, ignoring the apparent inconsistency between sight and sound. He groaned and pressed his hand into his aching eyes; there was no inconsistency, merely mirages and dreams undulating balefully in the heat of the day.
They were caught up against the south side of some nameless mountain, lit by the mid-afternoon sun. Around him elves were stretched upon the ground in groaning, writhing rows, blood congealing in the dust beneath the wearied feet of healers, who were careful to avoid the cast-off entrails and spare parts of their patients. Or former patients, Celeborn amended, noting another row that did not move at all, save to add members to its growing tail.
Just beyond were the sounds of a war-camp: the nickering of horses, the grind of whetstone on blade, the cheerless murmur of warriors beyond hope. And in the distance, the stench of an approaching din-horde; Celeborn could feel the earth cringing under the slithering plague of their foul footsteps. He grit his teeth and pushed himself to his feet, cursing the red darkness that abruptly leeched away the world as his heart labored to catch up. He breathed through it and ignored his reeling head; after a moment, his sight returned.
"My lord," a healer said, catching his arm. "This is not wise." Celeborn did not know the elf, but recognized him as a part of Elrond's contingent. The elf was crossed with the spilt blood of unnumbered wounds from the bodies of unnumbered souls; rendered flesh had hardened beneath his fingernails, and gray crescents of exhaustion and grief shadowed his eyes. He wore a sword at his hip -- unusual for a healer, but not for one who expected that he would die in a hopeless defense of his patients' lives. Celeborn mustered a passable smile for the faithful elf.
"Where …" Celeborn cleared his throat, dismayed by the barren rasp of his own voice. "Where is Elrond?" he asked, pitching his voice lower and achieving a marginally better result.
The elf gave him a somewhat glassy-eyed look of longsuffering. "I'm certain Lord Elrond would agree with me," he said, deliberately misunderstanding as he tried to muscle his errant patient into a more acceptable position; preferably horizontal. Celeborn shook off the healer's hand and narrowed his eyes. It was not a look many could withstand.
"I will not allow you to wander through the camp looking for him," the elf said with a sigh. "But if you lie back down, I will send a messenger for him."
For a moment, Celeborn considered pulling his not-insubstantial rank on this young and very junior healer, but another wave of dizziness assailed him, and he nodded in defeat. He was aware of several pairs of hands easing him to the ground, and a murmured request to find Elrond as quickly as possible. Someone pressed a cup to his lips, and he swallowed a mouthful of warm, acrid water before consciousness slid crossways out of his grasp.
Father, hear me. Ai, Elbereth, let him hear me. South and East, soon. Be prepared.
"He tried to stand?" a voice asked, wavering into distant focus.
"He did stand, my lord. He was up before we could stop him," another answered.
The first sighed. "I wish he had not done that. He is bleeding again, and I will need him before the end. I will need them all before the end; we are going to have to have as many of these wounded as possible up and fighting soon enough. The last battle for their lives, I fear." The voice faltered into regretful silence. "Did he say what he needed before he lost consciousness again?" it continued after a moment.
"No, my lord. He merely asked where you were."
"Delirium?" the first sounded defeated.
"He was muttering about dwarves. But when I spoke with him he seemed reasonably coherent. Indeed, there was purpose in his eyes."
"Very well. Celeborn!" Elrond called softly, and touched the wounded elf's brow as he focused the skill of his Maiar blood. It was a touch the likes of which Celeborn had felt before, from a queen long departed in a land long gone. He coughed and blinked, for though a part of his heart distrusted the divinity that had betrayed him in his youth, he had no strength to ignore the call. Elrond smiled wryly down at him, though it did not reach his eyes. "You should be resting, old friend," he said gently. "What is so important?"
The half-elf moved his hands to the lord's wounded side as Celeborn collected his fractured concentration. Elrond sighed as blood drawn by an orc's wild thrust seeped through his fingers. Celeborn's armor should have held, but weeks of battle without time to renew strength -- of both metal and flesh -- had taken their toll. His weary sword a moment too slow, his last defenses a shade too fatigued, and the beslimed orcish blade had first punched through a chink in metal and then found a purchase in flesh. The foul hand that had wielded it had been quickly hewn off, followed almost immediately by its accompanying head, but the damage had been done.
Celeborn twitched in pain as Elrond began re-dressing the wound. "What is our situation?" he gasped.
Elrond lifted an eyebrow. "Indulge me," Celeborn commanded, and Elrond shrugged fluidly.
"We are caught in a broad valley just north of Eregion," Elrond said quietly. He was mindful of the sudden attention of the healers and some of the less-agonized patients, and had no wish for them to hear this. "A mountain is at our backs. The minions of evil lurk in the shadows at our flanks, and the main army of darkness advances at our front. The battle is paused; the orcs stand in a seething line in the shadow of the mountains, jostling forward by degrees as the shadow lengthens."
"I assume that we are . . ."
" . . . in the last place to be touched by shadow before nightfall?" Elrond continued. "Yes. The twisted creatures can not bear the full force of today's bright sun, and so in the light of the day is where our exhausted armies wait, far outnumbered and unable to escape. Darkness will bring death."
Celeborn nodded grimly, and struggled to sit up.
"Nay, lord, rest now," Elrond said, easily restraining the older elf before moving to rise from his knees.
"Wait," Celeborn whispered, catching his tunic. The lord looked quizzically down upon him.
"Help me stand."
Elrond frowned. "No."
"Mandos take you, Peredhil," Celeborn said tiredly. "I need to see a map."
Elrond rocked back to his knees, his eyes calculating. "Very well, you wily silver fox. You have my attention. Glorfindel!" he called. The twice-born Vanya had been prowling the perimeter around Elrond, and now came to stand beside his lord and friend. A quick glance spoke enough: Unwise? his eyes asked. Necessary, Elrond's returned.
"A map," Glorfindel said. "You want recent troop movements as well?"
"Yes. With as much speed as you can muster."
"What do you see that I do not?" Elrond asked when Glorfindel was gone, but Celeborn did not answer.
He had unfocused as the other two spoke, balanced in the light between waking and dreams, though his body urged him to succumb to the sunshine and follow the heat into healing. Beneath his back, Middle Earth reached upward and sang mournfully, uncommonly upset. Arda Marred! It cried, Arda Marred! and blamed itself again for the elven blood sinking into its heart. Celeborn was abruptly angry at the Valar for leaving the earth with the mistaken impression that it was healed, for cutting away the knot of disharmony while leaving tendrils of discord where they could grow and fester into a seething, black mass of orc, orc who marched under banners of flesh, and --
--sweet Elbereth, that was Celebrimbor stretched across those poles. How many others? Dozens? Hundreds? Oh, Manwë, how long did they live like that before they died? Gilthoniel Fanuilos, let not my father be among them. Oh, Varda, ai, Valar . . .
"Celeborn," Elrond said wearily, "your tendency to drift away is not inspiring confidence in me."
"Tell me, Elrond," Celeborn said, returning to himself, "for you are a master of lore. Can you think of a story more cruel than this: to leave a war half won, to destroy one world and permit the spawn of evil to escape to another, to require children to see the horrors so nearly defeated, and then insist upon our groveling worship for the appearance of their favor? Is this divinity?"
Elrond shook his head in bemusement. "Today of all days is not the time to air your grievances with the Valar. Some sunny, peaceful afternoon when you are not bleeding and I am not losing we will drink tea and discuss faith and blaspheme. But for today, if you have any groveling in you, that is the course I would recommend. Or, if you require more concrete action, get up and look at the map you demanded."
"Has anyone ever told you that there are moments when you sound eerily like Elu Thingol?" Celeborn growled, and pushed himself upright before Elrond could react, a spark of hope and a blaze of rage animating him beyond his strength.
Elrond scrambled to his feet and steadied the reeling lord. "Breathe in, breathe out," he murmured, and helped Celeborn into a clean tunic before handing him his sword. "Glorfindel has set up a map under the healer's pavilion. We've attracted a fair amount of attention. If you're going to do this, you might as well kindle a measure of hope in our people while you're at it. They look for a sign. For the love of everything good and fair, do not stumble."
Celeborn grimaced, then straightened. "I am fine; I can walk," he said, and put action to words.
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The three lords and their various lieutenants leaned over the map while scouts filled in the blanks with their hard-bought knowledge; if one lord leaned more heavily on the table, no one mentioned it.
"We are here," Glorfindel said, tapping the map, "in this valley in the north of Eregion. Oddly nameless, apparently."
"We did not name it because we did not," Celeborn snapped. "I hereby declare it the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Happy?"
Glorfindel ignored him. "There is a deep contingent of orc pressing us from the northwest, a "V" just here. Seven thousand spears, or perhaps ten. The main contingent is coming up from the south, directly through Eregion and up this valley. Forty thousand orc, at least. The situation is better to the east. Better, is, of course, relative. A thinner line, more scattered, roughly hook shaped. The terrain is worse for them, but it is also worse for us. Call it six or seven thousand..
"What of our forces?" Celeborn asked, and crossed his arms across his ribs to mask a spasm of pain.
"I brought five thousand," Elrond said, "but took heavy casualties. Approximately three thousand fight-ready. And my count puts the uninjured refugees at between fifteen hundred and two thousand."
"Calandil?" Celeborn said, turning to his second.
"Four thousand capable of fighting, my lord," he answered. "Total injured pushing four thousand, most badly."
At the last, Calandil was unable to stop himself from glancing pointedly at Celeborn. He had followed his friend, as he ever had, against the din-horde that had pounded on Eregion's borders. The land had not been designed for war and defense -- no mighty walls, no towers, no hidden caves. Thus their meager host had been the only hope of the escaping civilians; a living levee against a bloody tide. It had not been enough, as both had known it would not be, and he had half-carried his wounded leader in the last, desperate push toward Elrond's army as Eregion fell.
"Doriath, Sirion, Eregion," Celeborn had whispered hoarsely, the smoke of the flaming land coating his voice. "Ai, forgive me." Calandil had not had any words of comfort to give. Action alone had marked his devotion: hands to carry, a sword to defend, a wordless retreat to bring the survivors to safety, if only for a little while.
"We stopped counting the dead," he continued.
Celeborn nodded. "Supplies?"
"Poor," Glorfindel said. "We came lightly equipped for speed, and most of the refugees have little more than the clothing on their backs."
"Nothing to be done about it. Is anyone familiar with the terrain north?" Celeborn asked.
Elrond shrugged. "I surveyed it for Gil-galad just after the War of Wrath. Mountains, rivers, deep canyons."
"Places more defensible than this slaughterhouse?"
"Yes. It would be hard going, but there would be places to dig in parts of our forces, places to hold lines while the civilians escape, then withdraw and dig in again. But this is moot, Celeborn. If we had only our forces, perhaps we could punch through north and east, and plan to lose half. But with many thousand civilians and injured besides? Suicide."
"There is one piece on the board you do not see," Celeborn answered, and reached forward to draw an invisible line in the mountains. The silver elf smiled faintly. "My son is coming with the army of Lorien"
Elrond's eyes widened. "You are certain of this?"
"Yes. He has been reaching for my mind all day. I know not if he will arrive in time, nor if his arrival will make a difference, but he is coming. I have seen his army in the deep of Moria, and the cursed dwarves he insists on befriending are at his side. They come, Elrond. He says they will strike the enemy from the south and east, soon."
"If Galadaran and Durin can draw off some of those forces, make us a hole . . . perhaps," Elrond mused, his gaze fixed on hazy possibilities. "You said your son was reaching for your mind; have you been able to reach his?"
"No," Celeborn admitted. "He is the child of the second age, and has never fought a major battle, much less led an army. His tension is wrenching his mind between armored and overstimulated, and I am . . . somewhat wearied. I may have the strength enough to reach him once, but I want to be sure the message is the correct one."
"Where to strike?" Elrond asked.
"When to withdraw," Celeborn answered. "I would not have our rescuers expose themselves a moment longer than necessary."
"Perhaps you are somewhat over-invested in that decision?" Elrond suggested gently.
"You may speak to me on this when you have held your own child in your arms, and not before," Celeborn returned with ire.
"Peace," Elrond said, willing to concede, and turned his attention away. "Glorfindel, we must be prepared to move this entire host at a moment's notice. The soldiers, the refugees, the wounded, everyone."
"What of the dead?"
Elrond grimaced. "Leave them, and any others who die as we flee."
"My lord," Glorfindel said softly, "the bodies will be eaten, or defiled. There is not a single member of our host who does not know at least one of the fallen, and there is not a single one of us who can guarantee that death is not our fate."
"You think I do not know it? But I will not spend lives or time in defense of the dead." Elrond passed his hand before his eyes; it did nothing to banish images that would haunt him until the world ended. "We must look to the living, or there will be no living left. See to the preparations. Swiftly." Glorfindel nodded and glanced at Calandil, who nodded in return. They withdrew, along with the others.
Elrond turned back to Celeborn, who had swept aside the map and now sat heavily on the table. Elrond gave him a twisted smile and joined him. He studied his palms, stained with blood and grime, ribbed and callused. They rasped dryly as he rubbed them together, and were unchanged when he turned them upward again. There was much to say to the lord at his shoulder: I'm sorry I was not in time, sorry I could not do more, sorry I failed to kill Annatar when he stood unprotected before me outside Lindon centuries ago. He said none of it.
"Will this work?" he asked instead.
"Valar willing," Celeborn answered sarcastically.
"I wish you would not do that," Elrond said tiredly.
"It will work," Celeborn could have said, but didn't.
"I must ask, though I know it will make little difference," Elrond started dully, but Celeborn was already shaking his head. "Will you please return to the healers?"
"I will submit to your will when we have extracted ourselves and my son is out of danger, but not before," Celeborn answered, and climbed doggedly to his feet. He offered Elrond his hand. "Come, let us finish this."
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These orcs are young, Galadaran thought as he wrenched his sword from another body and swung it upward, a crimson arc to parry another blow. It was a disturbing thought, and one he did not wish to have. He did not want to have pity for these twisted creatures who leered at his through disfigured faces, but begged for death with eyes that were so nearly elvish. He did not want to wonder if they longed for a distant snatch of song, not while he stopped their hearts. And he dared not wonder if Eru wept for them as children, not when he feared that he might find desecrated pieces of his own father clutched in some clawing, filthy hand.
With a cry he threw his latest assailant back and pivoted, disemboweling another. "Neatly" disemboweling, a sword instructor would have said, and utterly neglected to mention the spray of blood amid putrid, twisting guts, and the gore that covered to the wrists, then elbows, then shoulders.
"Lad!" a voice cried behind him, and he spared a part of his attention for the dwarf king who fought to his side. "The battle is turned against us. We will be o'er run afore the hour is ended. A hopeless battle, and for naught. Your land is taken, your people are dead. We must save vengeance for another day!"
Galadaran lifted his face to the darkening sky. 'Twas twilight, the time most blessed of the elves -- and the time most favored by orc. Not an accident, that the singer of dissention had turned beauty to terror. The night was clear and cold, and Eärendil dawned low in the sky.
He quested outward again into the night, searching. It would have been better if his mother had done this reaching of the mind; it was a skill that he had not fully mastered in his mere score of centuries. He had asked her, before he departed, as she had helped him pull on his armor. "Will you tell father we are coming?" he had asked, and her hands had paused. An infinitesimal hesitation, a mere beat in the conversation. Yet it spoke much. "Mother?"
"I cannot," she answered, reaching again for her son, her fingers buttressing him against the swords and arrows of the horde.
Galadaran's heart had clenched within his breast. "Is he dead, then?" he asked, lightly, almost casually.
"I know not," Galadriel had answered, not meeting her son's eyes.
"How is that possible?"
"Distances are measured by more than miles, my child," she said, enigmatic as ever. He had dropped his gaze to her hands, and impulsively caught them in his own. Beneath his fingers he felt two bands, one visible, one not. One, the gift of his father, the other, the doom of Celebrimbor anguished.
"I understand," he said wearily, and knew well the mighty clash of wills that must have transpired when she placed the second upon her hand, a terrible blow enough to fracture his parents. "Aye, I understand. But I shall never understand either one of you." Galadriel had turned her hands in his then, holding them within her own. She kissed them, his broad, strong hands that once had scare been able to wrap themselves around her finger.
"I know," she said. He watched her face for a moment. Most others would only have seen her tranquility, but he knew her better. Pride and anguish, strength and fear, Middle Earth, and now, the Sea -- all was written clearly in the soul he loved so well. How could he not feel it? She was his mother.
"If father yet lives, I shall find him," he promised, and kissed her hands in turn.
"Eru go with you," she may have whispered, or perhaps not, but he heard it all the same.
Now, briefly harbored from the storm of battle that raged around him, he dropped his head and shook it in frustrated rage and denial, for it seemed the dwarf was right. Of his father and the hosts of Eregion, he had neither felt nor seen the faintest stir. Tortured bodies and leaping flame were all that remained.
"Forgive me, child," the grizzled dwarf said gently, forgetting, in the way of mortals, that the fair youth beside him was many centuries his senior. "But dying for the dead avails no one."
Galadaran raised his eyes to answer and startled, for the storm of war broke over them again. Beside him, Durin roared, his axe flashing in the starlight, and Galadaran leapt forward to impale another orc. He breathed in and his heart beat, and before it could beat again his father was suddenly, miraculously there.
This was the presence that had watched over him as he slept, that and comforted him in fear, that had guided his hand, that had filled his head with strategy, and warmed his heart with song and raced him through the trees and laughed and taught and loved.
In one blinding moment, his father flooded his mind with the full force of his personality. It was overpowering, painful in its abruptness, and barbed with a raw edge of weariness. Then Galadaran felt Celeborn's horse shifted roughly beneath him and Celeborn's focus splintered in the accompanying burst of agony. But strangely, Celeborn could still feel the earth beneath his son's feet, the sword in his hand as he fought beside the dwarf. His son had stayed with him -- inexpertly, roughly, but with a tenacious endurance that his father could not muster for himself.
You are hurt, father.
I am fine.
"Push them!" Galadaran roared to his valiant little troop. "Only a few moments more!"
"We're nearly through," Elrond said, pulling his horse up beside Celeborn. "A minute more, that is all we need." The horse turned a circle and Elrond kicked her forward again into the fray.
"Calandil!" Celeborn shouted across the field in alarm, standing in his stirrups. "Watch your left!" Calandil's force regrouped and turned against the enemy attempting to flank them.
"Lord Amroth!" an elf called, and Galadaran disengaged for a moment, turning toward the elf that had called his name.
"Our scouts have spotted Elrond's army," the elf continued. "North. Just north, and desperately pressed. They may be able to escape through a pass into the mountains if we can hold the attention of these orcs."
"Well done," Amroth said. "They are escaping, those that live."
Amroth? Celeborn asked.
It is what they have been calling me, Galadaran answered, glancing north.
"We must withdraw!" Durin shouted." Amroth, we must withdraw! We're nearly surrounded!"
"Courage! A few moments more!" Amroth answered.
Go.
You're not through the pass.
"Stop daydreaming!" Durin roared, shaking an orc off of his axe. "That one nearly had ye!" Amroth winced, but not on his own account.
We are through! Go!
"We are through, my lord!" Calandil said, his horse heaving. "Just you, and I, Glorfindel, and Elrond remain. And the dead."
"And the dying," Celeborn answered.
"For them, it will be over soon enough. Let us pray that the Valar do not already count us among them. Ride!"
It is enough, my son. A hole we needed, and a hole you have made. We escape north. Withdraw, Galadaran, with the thanks of many -- and with my love. Deliver it to your mother and sister when you see them again.
Father!Galadaran cried out after him, but he was gone, and the world constricted to only one bloody field of carnage. The echo of lethargy that had filled his limbs lifted, for the exhaustion had been his father's. He was not yet certain what news he would tell his mother, for he understood now something that he had not before.
It was far simpler to face the world thus alone. And lonely
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Translations:
amrath-thavron - high street builder; literally "upstreet builder"
Chapter 3: Return
"[T]he sea-longing grew so strong in her that (though she deemed it her duty to remain in Middle-earth while Sauron was still unconquered) [Galadriel] determined to leave Lórinand and to dwell near the sea . . . and passing again through Moria with Celebrían she came to Imladris, seeking Celeborn."
~The Unfinished Tales
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Amroth savagely turned to Durin, and for a moment the dwarf was taken aback. It was a strange, unbalanced moment in the midst of the swirling battle, and though he could not credit the thought, as he looked into the elf's face he felt that he had broken through a stone floor and was falling into an abyss where he had expected sure footing. A cavernous absence, perhaps, a presence withdrawn.
The elves were exceedingly strange.
"It is enough, Lord Dwarf," Amroth said, and he was again who he had always been. "We have done all that we can."
Durin shook off his bewilderment. "To Moria?" he asked.
"Yes, for you. I will lead my army to Caradhas, and perhaps our parting will divide our foe. My thanks, my lord," he said, and gripped the dwarf's forearm.
"My honor," Durin returned, and with a firm nod jogged into the night, calling his people to him in the language of rock.
Amroth caught his horse and shouted the retreat, which was taken up by the horns. Three notes followed by a trill down, the cadence of today's defeat, followed by one long blast to the height of the player's range, an unresolved chord of vengeance thrust up to the hallowed stars. Before he could heed his own command Amroth stumbled over a mass of bodies in the darkness. Something groaned, but even a cry of pain could not disguise an elven voice. Moving quickly, he shoved aside two dismembered orcs and knelt beside the fallen elf. Amroth was startled, for it was not one of his warriors; the elf was not dressed in the garb of Lórinand, but in ancient armor that bore the device of Elu Thingol. He gently turned him, and, despite the blood, recognized the face: Limnen, an ancient elf, a survivor of Doriath, a friend of his father. He had incurred Sauron's wrath during Celebrimbor's rebellion, Amroth remembered; he must not be left to the desecrating hands of the orcs.
There was no time to be gentle. Amroth fluidly hoisted the injured elf to his shoulder then draped him across the back of his horse. Limnen groaned again and fell silent, but Amroth did not have the luxury of compassion or concern for him as the army fled across the burning land. Thick, oily flames consumed homes, halls, and flesh, casting an eerie glow on tumbled stones and smoke-wrapped holly. Durin's folk scrambled up the road to Khazad-dum, desperate to win the dash to the safety of their stone mountain, while Amroth led his people toward the pass. The division confused the din-horde for several minutes, as Amroth had hoped, and it put many unpursued strides behind the army of light.
It was a mistake from which the orcs would never recover, though they would try for many days. Amroth smiled to hear their howls of rage when they reached the closed gates of Khazad-dum, which would open easily to friends, but no others. His people led their pursuers on a grim chase, praying that the wild flight would give a measure of relief to the battered, unseen army they had come to save.
The horde screamed when at last the trees of Lórinand came into view, for they knew that their prey was lost if the elves gained the woods. "Fly!" Amroth cried, for he could feel the breath of the orc streaming upon his neck. "Run for your very lives!" One stride, another, and another, and the deep wood closed around them with an embrace of sudden silence, broken only by gasps as his compatriots heaved for air. The trees at the borders stilled after a moment, angry and malignant, and a fragrant Lórinand breeze passed amid their branches to dispel the scent of death. Amroth looked across at the wondering faces of his lieutenants and laughed shakily, pressing his hands to his face.
"A chase for the ages, Galadaran," a raw voice gasped. "It was magnificent." Startled, Amroth moved quickly to Limnen's side. He was still draped across the horse where Amroth had placed him days before, for there had been no time for rest as the army fled, no time to see to the wounded or the needs of the flesh. Amroth had assumed that a quiet tomb was all that he could give this faithful elf.
"You are alive," he said, wonderingly.
"So it seems," the other returned weakly, and coughed.
Amroth soothed him, then glanced up at his men. "We are home," he said softly, lifting his hands in a gesture of release. The nearest soldiers nodded and the tension that had briefly held the army immobile lifted with one collective shrug of relief.
Galadriel waited for them at the edge of the city, as Amroth had expected. She stood regal, unflappable, and smiled benevolently at the returning heroes. For each, she had a touch, a kind word, and for the wounded a soothing hand on a fevered brow. In her eyes, they saw an affirmation, a blessing, a gift: a reflection of their true selves. At last, when all others had passed by and they stood alone, she looked upon him. He returned her gaze and lifted his chin, expecting judgment, perhaps, but willing to confront whatever truth she saw in him.
He knew the truth well: he was not like his parents. They had taught him of leadership by service and of duty beyond self, and he had done all that they had ever asked of him, yet his calling was not in their ways. He was born east of Ered Luin, and lived best with ancient rhythms and easy freedom of the elves who had always been here, for theirs were the choices of the heart, and always would be.
"My son," Galadriel said.
"My mother," he answered. He removed his helm, and rolled his shoulders, and raked his hand through his hair.
"You are well?" she asked, though it was not entirely a question.
"I am unhurt," he answered, and turned fully toward her, his face impassive. "Eregion is utterly destroyed. Celebrimbor is dead; I saw his body, or what remained of it. He had been tortured to his death. You may be betrayed," he said, and glanced at her hands.
"I think not," she answered. "I would know."
"As you say," he answered, and was not convinced. Then with a sigh he continued his report to her.
"It seems that Gil-galad sent aid to Eregion at last, though in the end it was not enough, and Elrond was trapped with what remained of our people. Father was with them. From what scant reports I had, including brief contact with him, I believe that we were barely in time to save them, but that our coming drew off the horde just long enough for them to escape into the wilds of the north. Whether they escaped indeed I do not know; they were far from us, across a seething mob, and I never saw them."
"Yet you were able to reach Celeborn?" she asked, relieved, and caught his arm as they began walking toward the heart of the city. "Well done."
Amroth grimaced. "I did not reach him as much as he reached me. Once. Just once, near the end of the battle, when he instructed me to disengage." He lifted his eyes and looked at his mother's face, fearing that she would divine the implications.
She was gazing north, her countenance grim and troubled. "To disengage …" she said slowly. "How did he seem?" she asked, her voice keen.
"Weary. Worried. And he bid me give you his love."
"Did he?" she asked. Then she stopped her son and turned him toward her. He sighed and shook his head; he could not withstand her. He never could.
"He was not well," Amroth admitted, his voice low. "I fear that he was hurt." Galadriel exhaled softly and stepped away.
Amroth glanced sideways, absently studying the pattern of bark on the tree beside him. "Did you see that I brought Limnen with me?" he said, awkwardly interrupting the silence. "He may know more, if he lives to say it."
Galadriel turned toward her son again, and though her eyes were anguished, she smiled. "Have I remember to say to you that you did well? Have I remember to say that you are a light in my life and a delight of my soul? That my heart rejoices to see you standing before me again, fierce and safe?"
He returned her wan smile, and bowed.
"Go now and rest, my son," she said kindly, and turned aside. But as Galadriel withdrew, another took his hand.
"Welcome home, beloved," she murmured, and kissed him.
"I did not do enough for them, Nimrodel," he said angrily, speaking to her in the ancient language of her people. "My country is fallen, my father may be dead, and my mother weeps. What more could I have done?"
"Nothing," she said reasonably. "You have done all that can be done, for sorrow is the way of this world. But come," she said, pulling on his hand so he could not watch his mother's retreating back. "You must rest."
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"Lady," Limnen said, riding up to Galadriel. "All is prepared; we await you."
Limnen moved easily now, no sign of injury upon him, for he had spent many unmoving weeks under the healing hands of the lady herself. She had been a gentle and welcome companion during those long days, and they had reminisced much about the wonders and sorrows of another age. Ultimately, though, their conversation had turned to Eregion.
"Even before we knew that Annatar was Sauron, Celeborn's power had grown again," Limnen told her one afternoon. "In the first years after the revolution, he lived nearly as an exile in his own land. We of the old guard watched out for him, and he was usually successful in evading the Mírdain. But while Celebrimbor could lead a revolt, I believe he found it more difficult to lead a country. I do not think he imagined the mundane details of food and trade, dispute and judgment, council and administration. He grew restless, especially as such duties took him away from his forges, and in time Celeborn quietly returned to his old ways."
"That must have irked him," Galadriel said.
"He was so obsessed by the rings at that point that I do not think Celebrimbor noticed," Limnen answered.
Galadriel smiled. "I would think so. But you mistook me; I was speaking of Celeborn."
Limnen laughed. "You are perceptive, lady. He would rather have left Celebrimbor twisting in the wind, and better still if the 'annoyances' of governing slowed the forging of rings. But Celeborn would not permit the people suffer in neglect, not while he had strength to prevent it."
"What of Annatar?" Galadriel queried.
"Annatar fumed, and hated Celeborn all the more. But he had misjudged. He could not demand Celeborn's expulsion, for then he would have faced a revolt of his own. He could not demand that Celebrimbor take a firmer hand, for that would have slowed the progress on the rings. And he would not take charge of Eregion himself, for he sought power by force, not by service. It is fortunate, lady, that your husband remained behind, for when Sauron revealed himself, he found that Eregion was not as soft as he needed it to be."
Limnen faltered then, his expression pensive. "Near the end, four of us walked the borders of holly: Celeborn, Calandil, Celebrimbor, and I, ere we three of Doriath turned to slow the din horde and Celebrimbor to oversee the evacuation. It was sunset. One of the most beautiful I had seen, for the sun was red and orange from dust in the sky -- dust thrown up by the army coming to destroy us. We said little; what indeed could be said? But before we parted, Celeborn turned toward Celebrimbor. 'Do not betray us,' he said, and his voice was as angry and as grieved as I had heard since Elu was slain. Celebrimbor bowed low, and caught his arm, and pulled him aside. I did not hear what words they exchanged."
"I suspect I know," Galadriel interjected quietly.
"Against all hope we rode out against the horde," Limnen continued. "We purchased time with our blood, though when we heard Elrond's horns from the horizon, we prayed that some of us would live."
Limnen paused for many long beats. "It was near the end of the battle, and we were pushing toward Elrond," he said at last, carefully choosing his words. "Celeborn's attention was spread thin -- to the refugees still streaming from our land, to Celebrimbor's body made a foul banner, to our forces, to Elrond's, to the horde, and he had not reserved enough of it to himself. Calandil and I knew it was so, but we could not move quickly enough when a troop of orc berserkers broke through our line. Some hours earlier Celeborn had caught a heavy blow to his chest and had been forced to loosen the fastenings on his armor. It is dangerous, but without doing so he could not breathe … ai, forgive me, lady …" Limnen said, and broke off, his voice grieved.
"The berserker's swing was wild, and desperate, and accursedly well placed," he continued when he had mastered himself. "Calandil killed the orc and caught Celeborn before he could fall and do further injury, but I fear it was serious," he admitted quietly. "Beyond this I do not know, for my next memory was waking on your son's horse. I do not know how I fell, much less whether my lord yet lives."
Galadriel had stilled as Limnen spoke, unmoving save her clenching hands. "Galadaran was able to reach him a day or so later, albeit briefly," she answered at length, and her voice was strange -- as if breaking waves lurked beyond the calm, deep inflection of her tone. "The army did reach Elrond, and then perhaps turned north. Beyond this, I also know nothing more."
"I pray that it is so, lady. The host held more than my dear friends; my sons fought with our army. I will seek them with you, when the time comes to learn their fates at last." Galadriel had nodded, and they did not speak of it again.
Both bore the years with outward patience, tucked in Amdír's oasis, but inwardly they chaffed. News was scarce indeed, and fourth-hand when it did arrive. They heard of a great siege to the north. "Of what land and what lord?" Galadriel had pressed, and the messenger shook his head. "They say that it is Elrond and the remnant of his army, pressed into the cliffs near the Bruinen," he said, "but perhaps not." Another rider brought a plea from Gil-galad from the edge of defeat, but Lórinand itself was overextended and unable to answer his cry for help. And then, tales came to them of moral men from across the sea, not like the dark, scrabbling men of these shores, but like unto elves. "Elros' people?" asked Galadriel, but there were no answers, and she had determined that at the first opportunity she would seek them for herself.
"Lady?" Limnen said again, breaking her reverie. As Galadriel, he was dressed for travel, but also subtly for defense. Sauron had been driven back to Mordor and most of his hosts destroyed, but wandering pockets of evil remained.
"I shall join you in a moment," she answered, and turned toward Amdír and her son, who waited to see her off. "Will you not reconsider, Amroth?" Galadriel asked, pausing with her hand on her horse before she alighted upon its willing back.
He shook his head, though he looked regretful. "Nay. My responsibilities keep me here. There are yet many orc on our borders; though they cannot enter in here, I would rather destroy them than permit them to slip away and wreck their terror on more helpless populations. But will you not reconsider? I worry that it is too early to pass through these battle-weary lands."
"I must go, my son," she said. "The same restlessness that compelled the journeys of my youth stirs me again." She paused, and a flicker of wry resignation in her eyes. "My heart is never long settled."
Amroth chuckled.
"And …" she continued, then fell silent.
"And?" her son prompted.
"I must know."
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
The wind that now skirted across Eregion was quick and dry, as if it dared not tarry in the barren land. To the south, the three great mountains bowed, weeping; Caradhras, Celebdil, and Fanuidhol remained fair and proud, but innocent no more, and their anger could not be assuaged. The stones of the road and of the cities, which had been so carefully wrought from the hearts of the mountains, lay tumbled and ruined. Even moss had not dared disturb their grief, and they sang softly of the elves: Gone, gone, they are gone! The land would try to forget, try to purge the elven blood. Great evil had marked it forever, and yet . . .
And yet, there was the faintest stir of hope in the air, a premonition of a tune unsung, a breath not yet taken. As if, when the bones of elf and orc were rotted to nothing and swept away by time, the birds might sing again. A country cannot wholly forget the elves that once dwelt there, and the gift of the elves to Eregion was this: though nevermore the home of speaking beings, when the echo of the footsteps of armies faded into silence, the land would foster new life where death had been. In time, perhaps, only the memory of life would remain, for, save the grey-green trunks of the holly-trees, there were no trees, no grass. Such is the mercy of time to things not yet, and if anything new grew again, it would not remember.
But such mercy is not given to things that are, and as Celebrían stood amid the ruin of the land where she had been born, she wept. Her mother stood beside her and said nothing, though her eyes were deep as she consecrated the ruin beside Valinor Darkened and Doriath Destroyed.
"I am sorry, my child," Galadriel said at last, as if the coarse wind had pulled the words from her. "We truly ended the first age in hope. Somehow, we told ourselves, we would rebuild a world where our sorrows would not be the repeated grief of our children. Our hope was vain, our strength as dust. Forgive us our folly." Her lips tightened as she gazed across the blasted land. "But do not forgive this."
"I fear this, mother," Celebrían said, her voice low, "but for many reasons. And not the least is this: Father would not have allowed it. He would not have turned his back and left the land to such desecration unless all hope was spent. What if he stayed beyond hope?"
Galadriel looked away.
"You do not know," Celebrían continued quietly. "You have neither words of peace nor of confirmation. Ever before you have traced his paths. Ever before have your thoughts been his, and his yours. What now is different?"
"Ruin," she said, looking again over the land. "And folly, perhaps."
"And what of the sea, my mother?" Celebrían asked, her voice breaking. "The sea that pulls you on? For I know it calls you to hither shores.
Galadriel gasped and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, and forced them to the crumbling land she had once protected. "The sea will wait until the will that wrought this evil is conquered," she answered at last. Then she turned to her daughter with a smile hard-bought. "And there are other reasons to remain," she said, touching her daughter's cheek.
"Love?" Celebrían asked, and lifted her face as the hot wind caressed it. "Yet if he is not in this world, will you follow him in love's name?"
Galadriel did not answer.
"I have seen Amroth's love for Nimrodel," Celebrían continued quietly. "He desires nothing more than to stand beside her for all time. Yet I remember how you parted with Father, in ire, on these streets, aye, these very streets, now crumbled. Have you ever loved as my brother loves?"
Galadriel sighed. "Love is many things. It is possession, it is passion. It is also forgiveness, and compromise. And sacrifice. Always sacrifice. It is not in parting, or in staying, but in knowing which is required, and allowing it to be."
"That is not entirely an answer."
"Perhaps not. But you will understand, my daughter, in time."
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Galadriel gazed with approval across the valley that the refugees had crafted into a home. The river tumbled mightily over a series of cliffs with an omnipresent roar, between dwellings and halls that seemed woven into the trees and were alternately visible or unseen at the will of the wind that stirred the leaves. Their party came to a halt outside a great hall, still in the midst of construction. Several elves crossed quickly through the courtyard, their expressions filled with wonder.
"Lady Galadriel!" the first elf exclaimed in surprise as he extended his hand to help her dismount. She smiled fondly down at him before taking his hand.
"Elrond," she said. "I thought that the beauty of this place seemed to be your handiwork."
"Not mine alone, lady," he answered. "Imladris is the hope of many souls and the work of many hands."
"Imladris …" she rolled the word appreciatively and squeezed his hands. "Elrond, my daughter Celebrían," she said, gesturing. Elrond smiled up at her and helped her to dismount. "Celebrían, this is Elrond Peredhil, of many houses and many lands."
Celebrían alighted beside him and answered with a smile of her own. He blinked. "Lady," he said, "I had thought that this valley was beautiful. But I see now that it is poor indeed beside your radiance."
Celebrían dropped her gaze, but it could not hide her deepening smile. When she lifted her eyes again he saw a twinkle of merriment in their depths. "You will have to show me more of your fair land, my lord, and we shall see if my grace can sustain your opinion," she teased.
"Gladly," he said, and laughed.
Galadriel looked upon them and shook her head, a ghost of a smile playing around her lips. "This is Limnen, the leader of our guard …" Galadriel began.
" … of Doriath, and Eregion," Elrond continued, clasping his arm. "I have heard your name, but did not expect to see you on this side of the sea. I shall send for your sons at once."
"They live?" he asked, his voice shaking.
Elrond nodded. "What of the rest of your host?"
"All seek someone," Galadriel said quietly, her expression somber. "My daughter and I come seeking Celeborn, if he can be found. My son said that he last perceived him in your company fleeing north from Eregion's ruin. We have found the north, and we have found you…" she trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant.
Elrond frowned and nodded. "Unfortunately, you have come too late." He glanced up, and seeing a flicker of despair in her eyes, he hastened to continue. "He rode out four days ago with Glorfindel and Calandil. They are searching for elves scattered throughout the wilderness and for coteries of orc that may have escaped our vengeance. They will return, but I know not when."
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Celeborn walked into his quarters, still a rough and undecorated suite of rooms in an as-yet unfinished corner of Imladris. He had taken nothing from Eregion but what he carried into the last battle; all of his personal possessions, save those that Galadriel had whisked away to Lothlorien, had been destroyed, and he had had but little time and no inclination to replace them. He tossed a bag into the corner before he had fully entered the room and was pulling his sodden tunic up over his head as he crossed the threshold. The foray into the wilderness had been quite productive, but for the last several days he had hunted orc in the slimy pits where they lurked. Cleansing the land was unquestionably dirty work, and he was looking forward to availing himself of some of Imladris' crashing water.
A gentle hand on his back nearly sent him leaping out of his skin, but even before he could whirl about, he knew the touch.
"Galadriel," he whispered reverently.
She looked at him, her expression one of supreme joy cut with tremulous uncertainty. She nearly wept at the sound of her name falling from his lips just as it had when he had first uttered it. "I'm sorry," she said softly, speaking, perhaps, of startling him.
He gaped at her. She was dressed in supreme simplicity, a light white gown clinging gently to the curves of her body. The wind from an open balcony stirred her unbound hair, and she lit the humble room with the soft divinity of her soul. He looked down at the filthy tunic that he held in his hands, and his mind stumbled dully over the puzzle of what he was to do with it. Throw it upon the floor? Twist it into knots? Pull it back on? Or, he thought savagely to himself, he could continue standing here with his mouth open, half-naked and maladroit.
Smiling faintly, she stepped forward and took the shirt from his nerveless fingers. She folded it neatly and set it aside.
"That," he said, and cleared his throat to banish his sudden hoarseness. "That is completely filthy."
"I care not," she whispered, and stepped near him again. She raised her hand and traced the lines of his bare torso without touching him. He nearly gasped at the tingle that ghosted across his skin in the wake of that gesture. Her face was drawn in concern, and she hesitated over new scars, which held untold tales of pain and weariness. And nearly, she perceived, very nearly his death. It was not something they would speak of; it was never something they spoke of. But she knew, nevertheless.
He sighed and dropped into a chair beside his work-table, then tilted his hand in a wordless request that she join him. She sat, and the furniture stood between them. She glanced idly across the table top, which held parchment filled with his crisp handwriting. Rough maps, the design and dimension of buildings, lists of names, all eminently practical. And like the room, and like the man who sat across from her with his head in his hands, joyless.
"You did not anticipate this meeting," she said. It was a guess; she could not feel him. She had not been able to feel him since the moment that Celebrimbor had placed a ring in her palm, not so bright as a Silmaril, but still a great work, for he alone had kindled the light within. At least, she thought that was the moment of sundering; Nenya had so captivated her that she had not noticed Celeborn's absence from her mind and soul for many weeks.
"No," he answered, lifting his head. "I did not." As ever, he did not dull the truth, especially when it cut deeply. "When did you arrive?" he asked, civilly, changing the subject.
"A fortnight hence. Celebrían came as well," she answered.
He glanced at her sharply. "What of Galadaran?" he asked, his voice tinged with sudden concern.
"He is fine," she soothed. "He had duties in Lórinand that constrained him for this journey, but bid me to give you his love.
"How was the journey?"
"Pleasant enough."
Celeborn nodded, and was struck by the absurdity of the moment. Between their last parting and this day lay battle and siege, the fall of a realm and the rise of another, Celebrimbor's ring and the tension between them that followed. Interspersed among such epic events lay the beats of the days: rising, resting, working, fighting, worrying -- all lived without one another. Yet their first conversation after four centuries held little more than hollow pleasantries. The children. The trip. The laundry. Celeborn chuckled, though it was without humor, and ran his hand over his face. They had been apart before, but never before had the parting commenced in fear and deteriorated into silence.
He was done being silent. "I would like to see it, please," he said. His voice was mild, as tranquil as the surface of a hidden pool, and as difficult to read in judging the depths beneath.
She tensed. She had expected another round of inane delay before he got to the point. It had been too long, indeed, if she thought he would observe social niceties while there was an argument brewing. Though it seemed the hardest thing he had ever asked of her, she slowly pulled the ring off of her finger and set it on the table between them. He watched her actions, unmoving save his eyes, and did not stir to touch it.
"What am I, next to this?" he asked quietly
She nearly answered in despair and anger, prepared to counterstrike a blow of rejection. And then she paused. He was truly asking. His question was neither rhetorical nor defensive, though if she answered in kind, he had his answer. But for a moment, whether through the ring or the memory of their marriage, she knew his heart. It was unchanged, but he feared that hers was not, and would not force upon her something she did not desire -- including his love.
She plucked up her ring and slid it upon her finger before she stood. "You are beloved," she answered. He released a breath that she did not know he had been holding and came to stand beside her. She reached out, and her hand trembled, and she touched him, her fingertips barely grazing his face. He looked into her eyes, then, his own melancholy, and saw her torment: the sea.
"Ai, Galadriel," he whispered, and he kissed her, sweetly, gently, and wept through laughter. She did the same, pulled back, and reached to trace his brow. She gasped; a sob amid a smile, and his tears wet her fingertips. She closed her eyes, her expression fractured, and kissed him in return, moving her hands to his chest. His hands hovered near her waist; he did not touch her, as if he feared to touch a dream, but she could feel them, like sunshine on the breeze. With a surge of fierce joy she stepped nearer still, into his hands. He inhaled sharply and pulled her to him, tracing her lithe form from hip to breast.
"Where do we begin?" he murmured.
"Beyond all hope, we stand together again. Beyond miracles, we have all survived this horror. We begin anew," she whispered. Then more softly still, she invoked the words she had spoken to him so many centuries before: "A Elbereth Gilthoniel, O Manwë Súlimo, bless this union." They were words of promise and binding; she had first said them as she spoke them now -- without audience or ceremony, but with both love and resolution.
He was amused. She did not care; she could feel that he was amused, and it was enough. "Eru Ilúvatar, let us walk together," he said, now, as then, willing to do her will. Then his amusement evaporated, and he added, low and pained, "as long as we are able."
She bowed her head. "Your terms?" she asked.
"Nay," he answered. "Yours." He studied her for a long moment, then stepped away. She hesitated, doubtful and hurt. "I am going to find a quiet spot to wash the orc blood and mud from myself," he continued softly, extending his hand. "Come with me, and we will also see what can be done to wash away the troubles between you and I."
Chapter 4
"Those who used the Nine Rings became mighty in their day, kings, sorcerers, and warriors of old. They obtained glory and great wealth, yet it turned to their undoing. They had, as it seemed, unending life, yet life became unendurable to them . . . And one by one, sooner or later, according to their native strength and to the good or evil of their wills in the beginning, they fell under the thraldom of the ring that they bore and under the domination of the One, "
The Silmarillion
Chapter 4: The Nine
The man tilted one manicured, bejeweled hand. "Sit, please," he said, indicating the silk-covered chair opposite his own. "I think no lord of Númenor has been graced by so fair a guest."
"Most kind," the other answered, and did not dispute the point. He sat, his golden robes flowing around him, and the garish opulence of the room withered in the penumbra of his might. The man was awed by it, and not a little afraid. With a sniff to cover his unease, the lord snapped his fingers, and a cowering, thin worm of a boy leapt forward, all knees and feet and awkwardness. Wine splashed on his master's robes as he poured the drink with shaking hands, and he flinched away from a backhanded cuff, the edges of a diamond ring bloodying his face. Trembling, he bowed into the shadows.
The man casually caught his goblet and brought it to his lips. "There are rumors about you," he said over the rim after a brief sip.
The other chuckled richly and caught his host in a mock-glower. "Of course there are. And they are all true."
They laughed together. "And what," the man said, swirling his wine, "what may this humble man do for you, Lord Annatar?"
Annatar lifted an eyebrow and smiled faintly. "I have no patience for humble men. Great men, yes, fated men ... but humble? A timid virtue for those who have not strength. I would not have come to a humble man."
The man inclined his head, pleased. In his youth, the man had been a minor noble in the house of the king, a cousin whose royal blood boiled at the injustice of his lesser birth. The king had sent him into exile long ago, under the pretense of granting his kinsman a royal fiefdom in Middle Earth. But he had gone willingly, eager to rule. Better still that it was in a land of elves, whom he revered and hated. He had loathed their pure faces, the fine visitors of Tol Eressëa, who were as eternally youthful and joyful is his days as the days of his father, and his father's fathers. Dominion here was sweet revenge.
Once, he himself had been elven-fair, but now was sliding into the abyss of age and opulence. His sight was dimmed, his eyes struggling ever more from within the pouches where they had sunk. His jowl quivered, its form lost in the relentless pull of years. Though his hands were still strong, grasping, his fingers were covered in rings rather than the calluses of sword and bow. 'Twas when he looked into the glass that he most despised the foolish ways of his ancestor, the coward who had given away the gift of immortality for the curse of time.
When he had first come to Middle Earth in the days of his youth, the man had sought Elrond Peredhil, hoping to find the qualities that Elros Tar-Minyatur had so obviously lacked. The half-elf had been difficult to find, but the man had succeeded at last, and had been awed by his first glimpse of the breathing legend, a living reincarnation of the portrait in the hall of the kings that he had so often brooded over. Equally angry and worshipful, he had sought Elrond's counsel, but was quickly disappointed. He had made nothing of his gift. Contemplative and mild, Elrond had spoken of peace and service, and had deftly turned aside the man's questions of immortality and power. Their audience rapidly deteriorated, and the man had turned away, disgusted. But at the end of the conversation, as Elrond had stood and dismissed the man with some meaningless twaddle, his eyes had flashed, deep and angry, and the man knew he seen what he had come to find. Later, he had railed at the injustice of it, the waste, but held dear the knowledge that those of the line of Eärendil could burn with the might of their birthright, had they the wit to embrace it.
Now across from him was one, at last, with such fire. Annatar smiled briefly, dangerously, and laced his fingers in front of his face. He studied the other for a moment, his eyes thoughtful and calculating. The man lifted his chin and returned the gaze. "No. There is not humility in you," Annatar said at last, and with a casual shrug placed a small, cunningly carved box upon the table between them. "A token, then, from a neighbor and admirer, if you have the strength to take it."
The man sat upright in his chair and licked his lips. "What is it?" he asked, and carefully set down his glass so that it did not fall from his trembling fingers, which betrayed him more often in these years.
Annatar leaned back in his chair and stroked the rim of his goblet, commanding silver cries from the fine crystal. "Power," he said, and leaned suddenly forward to slide the box forward, his long finger adorned only by a simple band. The man felt the word twine sinuously through his mind. "Dominion," the voice continued, lustful, rapturous. "Control. Immortality. Open it."
The man shifted in his chair, seared with the desire of it. He rolled the box's latch between his fingers and it opened to him. From within spilled a single ring, and it glittered, even in the subtle light of the room, its gem catching and outshining all the trappings of wealth and power that surrounded it. He saw his own reflection in the band, drawn thin and tall in the eternal round.
"What price do you demand for so great a gift?" the man whispered, closing his hand around it, and gasped raggedly as it touched his skin.
Sauron smiled. "I seek your assistance on a small matter."
"Say on," the man said recklessly, and threw back his wine with his free hand.
"I shall be lord of this world," Sauron said.
The man choked. "That is ... most blunt."
Sauron waved in dismissive irritation. "You do not have the time for charmed words, aged one, and I do not have the patience."
"Forgive me, lord," the man said, and he knew he smelled of sweat and fear. "I am merely trying to understand. The world ... all the world?"
Sauron stood with a snort. "I see I have misjudged you. Farewell. Die quickly," he said, and moved to take the ring.
"Nay," the man beseeched, and clutched the ring to his breast. "Valinor as well?"
Sauron sat again with a dangerous smile. "That is better. Yes, Valinor as well."
"Mmm," the man said, feigning deep thought. "What of the Valar?"
Sauron threw back his head and laughed loud and long. "You still fear them?" he asked when he had mastered himself. "The pretenders who shroud themselves in mystery and hide in the mountaintops? They, who demand undeserved worship from their less-favored children? They have no care for you; you should have none for them."
The man nodded slowly. "And Ilúvatar?"
The golden lord rolled his eyes in pitiable disdain. "An old myth, a dead idol. Do you have any more callow questions?" Their careful flirtation had disappeared in the face of Sauron's irritation, and the man frowned, insulted. He would have stood in a rage and cast the shoddy bauble at the feet of this contemptuous scoundrel ... but it would not hurt to forbear ...
Sauron walked out of the audience, the clear air brushing away the fumes of incense and opium that the fat fool used to ease his aches. A slave to the needs of his additions, this one would break quickly, unraveling from his body while retaining all the agonies of its cravings. Exquisite. He lifted his face and sneered at the stars while Eärendil passed angrily overhead, powerless, chained by the indifference of his keepers. It was all intensely amusing.
"Boy," he said, gesturing to the shadow lurking at the corner of the building, sullen. Frightened. Enthralled. "Do you hate him?" he asked, reaching out with a casual finger to etch a line in the thick blood upon the fair youth's cheek before tenderly brushing a lock of unruly dark hair from his eyes.
The boy lifted his smoldering glare, dark with the roiling passion and turmoil of youth.
"Good," the dark lord continued languidly, holding the gaze. "Yes, lovely," he said softly, tracing the boy's jaw before pressing a small band into his palm. "Now, come with me."
The boy followed.
"I did not expect to find you standing on the shore," Calandil said, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with his old friend.
"The day reminds me of another I once saw," Celeborn answered after a moment, reluctant, his gaze long. "As drab, as cold. One of my earliest memories; I could not have had more than a double handful of years. I remember standing on the shore, ankle deep in the ocean, and it was a day like this, with the mist, and the oppressive gray, and my grandfather was holding my hand. Tightly, desperately, as if he feared the sea might sweep me away. I looked up at him, I remember. He seemed as tall as a tree. Do you know, Calandil, I don't know how tall he was? I do not know if I would look him in the eye, or tower above him, or if I would still need to look up to see his face. He was gone before ..."
Celeborn shook his head.
"I looked up at him, and he was utterly silent, but there were tears streaming down his face." Celeborn lifted his hand and absently rubbed his jaw. "They were coursing off of his chin, off of his cheeks, and falling into the sea."
"The final sundering of the Teleri?" Calandil asked quietly.
"It must have been," Celeborn answered, and turned to face his friend. "And the sea always renews the grief."
"It is good, then, that we will not be staying in Edhellond," Calandil answered. "The southern peninsula has enough of the sea to calm Galadriel's heart, and enough of the forest to calm yours."
"You have never asked me 'why Belfalas?'" Celeborn said suddenly. "You have never asked me why I would move my family, my people to this damp edge of oblivion."
"I do not need to ask," Calandil said. "Particularly because I know that the answer is not entirely clear even to you. Galadriel wills it, and you trust, and that is enough for me, as ever it has been. Now come, ancient one," Calandil teased gently. "There will be time enough to contemplate the sea. We ride for Imladris."
It was good to be back in the generous woods of Rivendell, Celeborn thought later, even if the return was temporary. His first introduction to these fierce, merry trees had been in an hour of great need as they harbored his ragged people, the exhausted and grieved refugees of Eregion.
He recalled, through distant, red-tinged memory, that they had straightened his back and strengthened his wavering soul, even as his body had strained on the foggy edge of collapse. Through the long siege those young, pure trees had been their staunchest allies, and they had quickly learned to fight evil with the malicious mischief of their Elders. The trees had suffered in those days, as had they all, but had exchanged innocence for wisdom and healed into a sly, hale weald.
He would miss them. He had spent these last weeks on the shore, preparing to relocate his household, though after a few dark days surrounded by the brooding omnipresence of the surf, had been ready to ride back to Imladris and inform Galadriel that if she wished to live near the sea, she could so without him. Fortunately, he had found a worthy compromise: a spur of land jutting into the Bay of Belfalas just down from the elf-haven of Edhellond, and thus very nearly surrounded by the sea that Galadriel so longed to hear, but also inhabited by an ancient forest that immediately soothed Celeborn's riled soul. The forest by the sea was not as buoyantly loquacious as the trees in the mountains at Imladris, but it reminded him poignantly of the earnest, mist-wrapped groves of his childhood.
While smaller and lesser known than Círdan's havens at Mithlond to the north, the havens of Edhellond was far older. Elves had first come to the bay in the now-distant First Age -- sailors fleeing the destruction of Falas so long ago. As the First Age crumbled into the Second, a remnant of the people of Doriath had immigrated to the southern haven to escape the Noldor influence, and for the last two millennia, the population had been bolstered by adventurous Silvan seeking the sea.
Celeborn had been gladly welcomed by the elves of Edhellond, many his distant kin or acquaintances of old, and their joy when he told them he hoped to move his family nearby had been embarrassingly overwhelming. Several had been prepared to declare Celeborn and Galadriel the de facto Lord and Lady of Belfalas then and there. He had demurred, but some would not be dissuaded. Even those of Doriath who had distrusted Galadriel long ago were willing to overlook the unfortunate nature of her Noldor heritage. Besides, they were quick to point out, she was half Teleri, was she not? and so kin. Any treachery in her blood could be overlooked in light of her valiance in Middle Earth. It had been amusing to hear them accept her now as they had not before -- and sad, for he had hoped the old prejudices had drowned with their lost land.
With the preliminary matters arranged, Celeborn now rode back to Imladris, where he had dwelt since Eregion's fall, and where Galadriel and Celebrían had joined him for these many centuries. It was time to move on, time for Elrond to lead without feeling that he owed them the courtesy of consultation on all matters of state. That Galadriel wished to dwell near the sea did not surprise him; that she wished to move to sparsely populated Belfalas instead of Mithlond had. But she had been adamant, and he was willing to be swayed.
"My Lord," a voice intruded on his musing. "There is a contingent of men about to intersect our path. Do you wish us to remain unseen?"
Celeborn frowned, dismissing his brief annoyance in favor of more pressing concerns. "What type of men?"
"Númenoreans by their look and speech."
The lord laughed softly. "If you were near enough to hear their speech, you were near enough to hear what they said. Tell me."
The scout smirked. "They seek Imladris. But they seem to be ... lost."
"Permit them to see you and several others of the patrol. The rest of us will remain unseen, but strategically present." Celeborn leveled a severe gaze at the other. "I wish to know more. Be unthreatening, Calandil."
"As you say," he answered, though his voice was light with mischief, then gestured to three elves to join him and turned purposefully toward the company of men, lifting his voice in a bawdy song that lilted playfully in the ancient Doriathian dialect in which it had first been sung. Celeborn was no longer certain, but he was fairly confident that he had himself written it to entertain his weary troop on some dreary march before the time of the sun.
Celeborn shook his head in longsuffering and faded into the trees.
It did not take long for the wandering mortals to stumble into the clearing, for their sojourn in the wilderness had been frustrating search for the elves rumored to live in the mountains. They fell in around Calandil, their expressions nearly reverent, though a hint of envy and fear lurked in their eyes. The song ended and Calandil turned placidly toward the men, his smile the only acknowledgement he gave them.
At last, one of the men cleared his throat. "Hail and well met, Master Elf," he said, his Sindarian shifting softly on Andunic tonalities.
"Hail and well met, Galador, man of Numenor, captain of the guard" Calandil answered promptly.
"How did you ...?" the man started, for Galador he was, but Calandil lifted his hands, a beatific and mysterious legend from nearly-forgotten tales.
"You are in the woods of Imladris," he answered, "where many things are known."
"Imladris ..." the man breathed. "We are near it, then?"
"Near enough."
"We have sought it long, and were nearly despaired of finding it. Will you guide us there?" Galador replied.
"Yea. Or nay. Why do you seek it?"
"Do you not see our purpose?" the man asked, regaining his bearings. "I thought that this was wood of Imladris, in which many things are known."
Calandil revised his opinion of the man. He was no simpleton, no brute who had forgotten that he was a child of the One, but a proud youngling aware of his own worth. Calandil met the arrogant gaze with the full measure of age and wisdom in his own. "Perhaps I do know, and question to hear if truth falls from your lips," he answered levelly.
Galador could not long withstand him, and chastened, dropped his eyes and his pride. The man studied the palms of his hands, then lifted his head, his face weary. "We are told that great wisdom dwells in Imladris. Great age, and eyes that have seen most of the years of this world. We seek counsel, master elf, though it is hard thing to ask."
"'Tis true, what you have been told," Calandil said. "In fair Imladris there is great wisdom, and great patience, for the Wise suffer vain seekers and fools with kindness. I am less wise, less patient, less kind than they. I am not convinced of the urgency of your cause nor of the need to bring you on straight paths when you may learn more in seeking wisdom by longer roads."
The man smiled bitterly. "Would that we men had such time. And even the time we have been given in the circles of this world is wrenched from us, for in recent months our settlements and cities have been beset by an evil we have not seen and a terror we can scarily fight. Like unto men," he said, his voice low and horrified. "Yet a twisted mimicry of our own natures."
Calandil did not permit the man to see his sudden concern. "Surely you do not bring us tales of orc?" he said, light and mocking.
"No!" the man replied vehemently. "Orc are dangerous and frightening, with power from their arms and numbers. And pitiable. But these of which I speak of are no orcs! Their strength is strange and familiar, their terror complete."
"Enough, Calandil," a voice spoke from the trees, and the men startled as a hidden troop of elves stepped into the clearing, utterly surrounding their small band. Galador fingered the hilt of his sword, his palms damp with sudden fear. "Peace," the voice spoke again, and a figured stepped forward, seeming to materialize from the empty space before the man's very eyes. He gave a dismissive gesture and most of his compatriots bowed and disappeared again. "I am Celeborn," he said mildly, and waved for them to sit. The elf reclined gracefully at the base of the tree, enthroned by the grove.
The man struggled to calm his wild heart and knew he could do nothing about his agape expression. He breathed deeply. "Your name is known to us, Lord. You are one we hoped to find."
"You have found me," the other rumbled, and Galador looked up sharply. Surely that was not humor in his voice? The elf's face was placid and his eyes unreadable, but there was a faint deepening in his expression as he spoke on. "Your words concern me. We will guide you to Imladris, for there are others there who may be able to counsel you better. But first tell me of your enemy, that we may all begin to think on the question you have brought."
The man shook off his wonder and puzzlement. "It began some months ago," he said crisply, for here was one, he knew, with whom he would never find equality, but from whom he could hope to earn respect. "A feeling that our cities were being watched, our people hunted. There were terrible cries in the night, and strange tales of an encompassing fear. I am uncertain when we first saw our enemy, but the description is certain. They are tall, with the form of men, shrouded in black. Their faces we do not see. They are as ... " he grasped at the air, struggling mightily to explain the black fear. "They are not so much living beings as they are as shadows given form, horror birthed into substance. Our darkest nightmares standing before us in waking terror." The man shrugged helplessly, aware that his words seemed overwrought hyperbole. Yet 'twas truth.
Celeborn frowned and brought steepled fingers to his lips. "Strange..." he whispered, then focused his gaze on the man. "You have seen them," he said. It was not a question.
The man bowed his head in shame. "Is my fear writ so clearly?" he murmured.
"I know what it is to fear," Celeborn said quietly, his voice pitched for the captain's ears alone. "I know what it is to agonize for your people, to mourn the graves of children. The burden is what is written in your eyes." He raised his voice. "They are accompanied by a cloud of horror, you say? And so they are not merely wild and strange creatures. Not dwarves, not waking trees, not small folk, not beast of the forest?"
"No, lord," the man said, regaining his composure in the familiar cadence of a scout's report. "Many a marvel dwells in this remarkable land. Some are dangerous, I know, but not actively malevolent. Our enemy is such."
"Orcs, trolls, goblins, wargs?" Celeborn asked, anticipating the answer.
Galador shook his head.
"Not a dragon?"
"I ..." the man hesitated. "I have not seen a dragon. I did not know they existed beyond tales to frighten children. But no. These have the form of men."
Celeborn grimaced. "A balrog, perhaps?"
"A what?"
"A servant of Morgoth from the deep years. Shadow and flame," Celeborn replied.
"Shadow certainly. Flame, no ... unless you are being metaphorical?"
"No, I speak it quite literally. You would know it, if that is what you saw." Celeborn shared a bemused look with his lieutenant and settled his chin into his hand, his eyes distant. "What numbers do you face?" he asked slowly. "One? Two? A legion?"
"Nine, lord."
The elf lord, who had previously been a study in meditative repose, surged suddenly to his feet. Startled, Galador threw himself backward, flopping gracelessly as his palms hit the ground behind him.
"Nine?" Celeborn asked, and the men paled at the sound of dread echoing in an immortal voice. He looked down on Galador, the very weight of his ancient gaze pinning the man to the earth. "Are you certain?"
"Reasonably so," he croaked, his voice catching in his dry throat. "The timing of the attacks and reports of eyewitnesses all indicate nine. And never more than nine have been seen at once, though a full gathering seems rare. Lord, do you know our enemy?"
Celeborn sat down again, a weary weight evident in the lines of his shoulders. "Perhaps, though it would be best to consult with Galadriel and Elrond in Imladris. But if my guess is correct, this is a new evil, one that we have never fought nor faced, though our errors may have had a part in their making. You bring me fearful tidings, man of Númenor, which confirm a dread long held and the prospect of agony in later days I do not wish to face. And a warning, though I am certain we shall not heed it." Celeborn sighed, and for one mad moment, Galador did not envy him his immortality. Far better, perhaps, to fight to the end of one's strength and then fly beyond the world, than forever trudge its churning circles
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continuing …
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A/Ns:
Dedication: This chapter is for Sphinx, who insisted.
On Eregion and War: There is a wide field spread out from the town of, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, the site of one of the bloodiest battles of the American Civil War. It is also one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. After 141 years, the birds sing and the grass is green, for that is what birds and grass do. But there is still a hush in that place, a hallowed reverence that comes from the land itself. It is older than us all, and it remembers.
"The Three were not made by Sauron, nor did he ever touch them . . . But all that has been wrought by those who wield the Three will turn to their undoing, and their minds and hearts will become revealed to Sauron, if he regains the One. It would be better if the Three had never been. That is his purpose."
- The Lord of the Rings, Fellowship of the Ring
Chapter 5: The Three
The page, a young elf, tapped on the frame of the door to Celebrían’s chambers. "Lady," he said, "have you seen Master Elrond?" Given the amount of time they spend in company together, he rather suspected she had.
"I am here," Elrond said, rising from a chair across the room.
The page bowed. "Master, Celeborn has returned. He bids you attend him ..." the page paused judiciously. "As soon as is possible." Elrond nodded, and with another quick bow the other dashed away.
Celebrían laughed. "Methinks the boy did not deliver the message quite as my father gave it," she said.
"No," Elrond said slowly, his voice amused. "Far more likely that the command was 'Get Elrond. Now.'" Then a heaviness descended in his face. "Yet I have never known him to speak without reason, and I doubt that he simply seeks to prevent me from further distracting your packing."
Celebrían smiled ruefully at the clothing and half-wrapped parcels spread around her chambers, untouched since Elrond had entered some hours before. He was rather distracting, in the most pleasant way. "Go on then," she said, shooing him out with a smile. "Before my father comes looking for you."
Elrond hesitated at the door as she turned back to her packing. He thought again of asking her not to leave for Belfalas, but to stay here, with him. How pleasant it would be to hear her laughter in the halls, and to wake every morning to her face ... he shook himself, appalled at his own presumption, and levered himself out into the corridor. He rounded a corner and, seeing Galadriel ahead of him, hastened to fall into step beside her.
"Do you know what this is about?" he asked, not bothering with pleasantries or preamble. He had learned long ago that such things were not necessary. Though Galadriel and Celeborn could summon grave formality to strengthen quailing hearts, such things were not the true expression of their power. Inheritance and necessity had pressed the position upon them, yet both were the youngest children of youngest children -- noble, yes, but more accustomed to walking among the people as emissaries while their elders grappled with the politics. Though those elders were dead or gone this long age hence, neither had quite forgotten what they had been born to be.
"What this is about? New battles, and old ones," Galadriel answered him cryptically. Elrond grimaced in dissatisfaction. Such answers were also a remnant of lineage, he was sure. One became accustomed to speaking in riddles when one knew more than one was permitted to say. And one became accustomed to patience when dealing with them. Elrond did not quite sigh, and composed himself for whatever would come. He gloried for a moment on the sunshine that flitted across his face as it darted between the trees and in the merry arpeggio of a bird singing counterpoint to the Bruinen's steady bass.
A moment later, they stepped from the airy corridors into a courtyard filled by men. Númenoreans, without question. They were composed, but quite clearly awestruck, and a little frightened. One was in quiet conversation with Celeborn as Galadriel and Elrond stepped to his side.
"This man has news," Celeborn said after murmuring introductions, "that you should hear privately."
"My study?" Elrond asked, and both Celeborn and Galadriel nodded. "I will see to the lodging of these men, and join you there.
Elrond caught a steward's arm, his mind distant even as he spoke the necessary instructions. Númenoreans had come to Imladris before, of course. Several had had the look of Elros graven in their faces. Several had been quite disappointing. Many had come seeking advice or adventures. But these men had a glaze that Elrond had seen too many times before -- the look of refugees, and of dread. It did not bode well.
When Elrond came to his study, he breathed deeply, stepped over the threshold, and closed the door firmly behind him.
"They are men," Elrond said at the end of the tale, his voice resigned.
Galador lifted his head. "How can they be men?" he asked, begging the three great and terrible elves who sat with him to say otherwise. "I have known evil men. Foul men, twisted men, murderers and ravagers. And even they, the darkest of men, do not have the power and terror of these creatures. What could do this to a man?"
"There is a land, now ashes," Celeborn answered after some moments of heavy silence, his voice low and pained. He gestured at Galadriel. "A land where we were once stewards, in which dwelt a great craftsman of the elves. He was never my friend, but this I know: he knew the power of longing, of dreams, for he had seen them consume all his kin. Though he was as obsessed and stubborn as they, he hoped to refocus this great power for good, to re-channel the skill of his family to create gifts for the world. "
Galadriel smoothly continued the recitation: "Among these gifts were nine rings for the world of men. Yet his faith was deceived, and the rings came under the dominion of evil. We had hoped that they were lost, but it seems not so. The power of purpose is become the power of ambition, the power of hope is become the power of greed. Your enemy is your own worst natures, made slave to Sauron."
Galador lifted his face and trembled. "How could you have permitted this!" he cried as he sprang to his feet, his rage and fear carrying him far beyond any line of propriety.
"Sit down," Celeborn said coldly, thumping the table with an empathetic gesture. The man sat. Celeborn glanced at his companions and leaned forward. "We did not create the rings. We did not condone them. We do not bear ..." he smiled grimly and continued with careful specificity "the Nine. We have paid for them with our blood an hundred fold, and we will fight this evil long after your children's children are dead."
Galadriel lightly placed her hand on her husband's. "We all speak in grief and fear," she said to Galador, though she did not remove her hand. "We all mourn the marring of our world and the end of our peace."
Galador bowed his head. "How do we fight them, Lady?" he asked.
"I do not know," she answered. "But this I will say. The tools of these ring-wraiths are hatred and malice, fear of death, and lust for dominion. Replaced such things with love, with bravery, with humility, and perhaps they will lose their power over you."
"Easier it would be to raise stars in the sky, Lady," the man said in despair.
"That has been done," Elrond said with a faint smile. "You do not stand alone; we will not forsake you nor Middle Earth until this evil and its master is undone."
Galador bowed his head. "I pray that your faithfulness is enough."
Elrond sighed. "Alas, it is not. But go now and rest. We will speak of this later, if you wish it."
The man stood and bowed before withdrawing.
New battles, Elrond thought to himself before he glanced at Celeborn. "It seems we have a new enemy," he said, consciously attempting to muscle the conversation away from the roiling subtext that had underscored the Númenorean's report. "Unfortunate, as we have not yet learned what to do with the enemies we already had."
"I am less concerned about mannish ring-wraiths than I am other matters," Celeborn said heavily. Elrond dropped his head. And old battles. Naturally. It ever seemed their way to re-fight what had merely been paused, not won, even with one another.
"Will you now heed me?" Celeborn continued. "Or will you permit the possibility of a greater horror remain in the world? Will you guard the chains of your own slavery? Will you not destroy them?" He looked at the closed faces before him and pushed angrily away from the table.
"He feels strongly about this," Elrond commented ironically as the door swung shut again, with considerably more force than was needful.
"Indeed," Galadriel said with a sigh. "He blames himself much that the rings were ever made, and for Eregion's fate. And he dreads what may yet be required." She smiled sadly and followed him out.
Now alone in the room, Elrond indulged the groan that had been swelling since he had been rousted from Celebrían's fair presence. How much more pleasant, he thought, to have stayed with her, than to do this again. He well remembered the conversation -- ha! fray -- that had taken place in this very room, over this very subject, centuries earlier.
The king and his allies had come to Imladris at last, crushing Sauron's army between his forces and the vengeful residents of the hidden vale. There had scarcely been time to murmur words of relief and thanks before Gil-galad had gathered them into a private meeting. Gil-galad had swept aside Elrond's usual bookish clutter and placed Narya and Vilya on the table, Elrond remembered, two incongruous bands that, it seemed, should have shattered the table for the weight they gathered around them.
More hesitantly, Galadriel placed Nenya beside them. Elrond had been surprised ... nay, not surprised. Although he had not known that Galadriel guarded one of the rings he had suspected it was so. It certainly explained some of Celeborn's more irritating behavior since the founding of Imladris. Eregion's injured lord had survived the exodus, barely, and it had been many weeks before he had been coherent enough to answer Elrond's questions. Though the tale was a hard one, Celeborn had told it, but when pressed about the rings or Galadriel, he begged off on grounds of weariness. Later, when he was well, he had merely stalked off.
"And so," Gil-galad had said, spreading his hands wide on the table, "what do we do?"
"A moment," Celeborn growled from where he sat at the opposite end, his arms folded across his chest. "This is premature. I still believe we should involve Amdír and Oropher in this. It touches them as well as us."
"My heart tells me the fewer people that know of this, the better. I would have excluded you, old friend, if you had not already known," the king said apologetically. "Now ... "
"Amdír may know all ready," Celeborn interrupted. "My kinsman is no fool, and Nenya dwelt in his realm for many years. And if Oropher finds out he was excluded ..."
"Nevertheless ..." Gil-galad said, his voice cooling.
" ... moreover," Celeborn continued, "it is unwise to disregard their voices."
"I suspect you speak for them," Gil-galad returned, truly annoyed. "Indeed, you have spoken enough for three already. The matter is closed, and we will proceed."
Celeborn leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "They are your allies, Ereinion," he said in a voice over-smooth. "As am I."
"I see three options," Elrond said, leaping into the conversation before Celeborn could launch a coup. The sovereignty of the kindreds was not the issue today. Fortunately Elrond knew there was a substantive issue that could distract the ancient Sinda from this well-worn tangent; unfortunately, it would be a greater battle. "Keep the rings, send them over the sea, or destroy them." Elrond braced himself and spoke on. "I must admit, I am inclined toward the first."
Across the table, Celeborn shook his head in frustration. "No. No. They should be destroyed."
"Why?" Elrond asked, ignoring the look of combined gratitude and annoyance that Gil-galad shot him.
"Because they have been marked by evil."
"It was my understanding that Sauron had no part in their making," Gil-galad countered, and pushed off the table. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced, as if measured steps would reveal the path ahead.
"He did not touch them, true," Celeborn said, twisting in his chair as the king came behind him. "But he was entwined in their conception. In knows they exist, and he would have them. This is the very reason he destroyed Eregion, the reason for this war."
"There is a very important point here," Elrond said. "Sauron desires the rings. Does he know where they are?"
Celeborn sighed. The damned Peredhel was Maia-like in his ability to direct the conversation, but it was too late to go back. Luthien had always been able to do this to him, and Melian. "The Nine are almost certainly in Sauron's hands. They were in Ost-in-Edhel when the city fell. As for the Seven and Three ... Celebrimbor was tortured to his death. He may have well have revealed their secrets ere he died."
"He did not reveal the Three," Galadriel replied, adamant.
"We heard his screams, Galadriel!" Celeborn replied, rounding on her in grief and anger. "Even across the battlefield, I could hear the kind of agony I would not wish on my dearest enemy, and could see them post his ... unneeded ... parts on pikes as Sauron searched for his prize. It was beyond horror. How could I witness that, and not wonder if he had betrayed you, if only for the promise that his death would come sooner?"
"He did not betray us," Galadriel answered.
"You cannot be certain of that," Celeborn said.
"Yes, I can be, for many reasons. And one is this: what happened after Celebrimbor's cries ceased?"
Celeborn frowned at her, then shook his head in curt denial. "I do not know. I fell wounded shortly after."
"Exactly," Galadriel said quietly, catching his hand urgently in her own. "You have not spoken of it to me, but from others I have learned that a troop of orc came directly for you. Through the lines of your soldiers, through the weary refugees, they came for you. Why, Celeborn? Why, after Celebrimbor's death, would Sauron seek for you, whom he so often disregarded? If Celebrimbor died with the secret of the Three, who else on the battlefield was likely to know where they were hidden?"
Celeborn glanced away, his face somewhat gray, but Galadriel reached up and turned his face toward hers. "Would you have betrayed them? Me?" Celeborn looked into her eyes, not caring that the others were watching, and shook his head minutely.
"Never."
"Celebrimbor loved me also," Galadriel continued softly. "And the Three were his greatest work and greatest love. He did not betray them; he took the secret to his death." For his ears only, she whispered, "Thank Elbereth for Calandil, that you did not have to do likewise."
Celeborn cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, shaken.
Elrond was not above pressing the advantage. "Further, we do not even know if the rings can be destroyed, nor how to do so."
"We have not tried," Celeborn cried, swiftly collecting his composure. "Let us try. A fire burns here; shall I cast them in?" and he moved to sweep the Three into his palm.
With a cry that Elrond would have described as rage, had he not known better, Gil-galad and Galadriel surged forward; beside him, Galadriel caught Celeborn's hand in a white-knuckled grip and Gil-galad seized his shoulder from behind, his fingers clamped on a pressure point.
Across the table, Elrond's heart clenched in his breast, and he felt as if it were he who had been immobilized. He watched the muscles in the other's neck stand out as he tested the resolve of the ring-bearers, and the flash of pain in his face as they made their answer. He looked pointedly across at Elrond, then relaxed back into the chair, tipping his free hand in surrender.
He was immediately released, and his erstwhile captors looking mildly ill. Celeborn discretely rolled his shoulder and Gil-galad came to sit down again. Elrond dared a look at his king's face, which was dark and concerned as he contemplated the rings.
"There are..." Gil-galad cleared a rasp in his throat. "There are too many unanswered questions," he said slowly. "We do not even know what power Sauron would have over the rings. Does the One Ring give him strength only when the rings are used? What happens when they are dormant? Can he control the ring-bearers, can he see their hearts and works, or could a strong bearer withstand him? Why does he want the rings? This is a question we cannot answer, and until we can, it is folly to throw them away."
Celeborn stared at him, dumbfounded. "Yes, Ereinion. Clearly, they have no power over their keepers, and Sauron desires them because he thinks they would be a pleasant counterpoint to the décor at Barad Dûr."
"Enough, Telpë," Círdan said mildly, speaking for the first time from where he stood against a bookcase. He was the eldest of the old in Middle Earth, and alone of all the Eldar, the weight of time radiated from his eyes into an aging face.
"Surely, Círdan, you cannot believe that we should keep them," Celeborn said, lowering his head into his hands. "So long as the rings survive, we put our people and ourselves at risk of great agony. And for what? We cannot wield them so long as Sauron holds the one ring, for fear of the consequences. Indeed, even if we could use them openly, they were not made to be weapons. This interminable fight shall be hard enough without fearing the unknown in our midst."
"I believe they have a purpose yet," the Shipwright answered. "For good or ill I cannot say."
"I would rather not learn," Celeborn said softly. "What of sending them over the sea?"
"And pass our problems onto others?" Círdan said with an ironic lilt. "How very Vala-like of you, kinsman."
"There is a symmetry in it," Celeborn growled. "If they had finished this in the first place, we would not be here."
Gil-galad stood with an overwrought sigh. "Elbereth save us from old battles." The humor was sour, but the best he could muster. "I shall keep Narya. Galadriel, Nenya is obviously yours; 'twas made for you. But Vilya ..."
"Do not dare," Celeborn said dully, not looking up.
Gil-galad lifted an ironic eyebrow as he appraised him. "Clearly not," he said, and turned to Elrond.
In the silence of his study these many years later, Elrond fingered the Ring of Air, which hung unseen around his neck. 'What power could the One ring have over the others?' they had wondered. Now they knew. Ring-wraiths, Galadriel had called them, the horror of their people. To fight the strange and deadly was terrible enough; to fight the familiar was magnitudes worse.
Of course, if the Three fell to the Dark Lord, that would not concern Elrond in the least.
"Galadriel and Celeborn together with Celebrían departed from Imladris and went to the little-inhabited lands between the mouth of the Gwathló and Ethir Anduin. There they dwelt in Belfalas, at the place that was afterwards called Dol Amroth; there Amroth their son at times visited them."
~ The Unfinished Tales
Chapter 6: Belfalas Interlude
The waves soothed her. The cool air drawn off the vast sea was rich with their rolling bass and the syncopated cry of the gulls. Eons of evening mists were moored deeply in the beach, which, churned by the unending surf, spoke more with the voice of water than of land. She had always loved the sea, and even the horror at Alqualondë had not banished the blissful memories of a distant youth in her grandfather's home, of giddy races over the sand and hunting for shells in the tide pools. They had found hundreds of them, Artanis and her brothers, gleaming with perfect whiteness under the brilliant light of the trees.
When they had first come to Belfalas, Celeborn had humored her and walked the beach at her side, a small smile on his face as she told him of joyful moments in that far-off land. Galadriel walked the beaches every day, but after those first days, she often walked them alone. Her husband did not feel the peace in standing at the edge of something unconquerable and, knowing it was so, accepting its magnificence. He would no doubt be distressed by the metaphor, but he himself was not unlike the sea. Temperamental,
