"My nephew, Celeborn?" Elu Thingol puts his harp down and stretches luxuriously, "A good lad. Not really my nephew, of course, but 'great-nephew' is such a performance to say. *And* it makes me feel old. My brother Elmo's grandson out of Galadhon." He looks away, and a faint expression of hurt and implacable anger comes over his fair face. "Dead now, all of them, and the boy left alone. What do you want to know about him?"
"Well, sir, what he's like? I write about him, and I'd hate to think I was doing it wrong."
Thingol looks non-plussed. He has steel-silver hair and slate coloured eyes, and his beauty is like that of St.Michael the Archangel; a martial and terrifying beauty. I hadn't expected him to show emotions such as bemusement, and an awkward pause ensues.
At last it is broken by the entry of an elf-child; a boy who runs in confidently and skids to a stop facing me with a look of mingled curiosity and resentment. I realize he doesn't want me there. He probably had something he wanted to discuss with his uncle, and I am intruding.
"Well, here's the lad himself," says Thingol, "See what you think."
'The lad himself' looks to be about ten or eleven, and every inch a prince. Clad in a tunic of soft indigo velvet, stitched with mithril stars about hem, collar and cuffs. His hair, drawn back into a long ponytail, is the same colour as the embroidery - platinum, or newly minted silver; without the hint of grey that turns the King's into steel. His eyes are startling - A deep green, like holly, or perhaps like the leaves of Telperion from which he takes his name - they are narrowed on my face with disconcerting intensity. He is thinking about me, and not saying anything.
Tall for his age, and too pretty for his own good, the boy has the springy grace I associate with leaping deer, and I could see him growing into stag-like majesty, shedding the prettiness for the shining masculine beauty of his uncle. He wears a circlet of silver, and a white gem is on his forehead like a star, but the trappings of royalty sit lightly on him, as though he does not give them a second thought. I imagine he would be exactly the same in grey wool and leather - self possessed, silent.
Just as I am thinking this he gives himself a little shake, as though remembering his manners, and says "I am Celeborn Galadhonion, kinsman of Thingol. Welcome to Doriath. Is there aught I can do to serve you?"
The delivery is unconvincing - a meaningless formality - but in the next moment the pretence is gone and he is sharp with curiosity. "Did someone cut off the top of your ears? They're a funny shape."
The first ever mention of my human-ness I have encountered among a people too polite to mention it, it takes me aback. I'd almost forgotten myself.
Thingol is trying not to laugh at the look on my face. He reaches out and tousles the boy's hair. "Wretch," he says, fondly, "Cease insulting my guests and go somewhere you're wanted, I pray you."
Celeborn frowns and there's a moment of quiet stubborness on the young face; he's not going to go until he's said whatever he came to say. But Thingol rises, putting his arm about the boy's shoulders and guiding him to the door. "I will come to you later, when I have finished." And he allows himself to be persuaded, though he looks back, still intregued, as he leaves.
"What more do you need to know?" says Thingol, returning to his seat. He takes up his harp again and lays his hand flat on the strings, gentling it. "He is as you have seen - he thinks much, he speaks little, he has but a passing aquaintance with civility."
I had not liked him as much as I thought I would. Disconcerted, I said "Is he ...popular?"
"Yes and no," said the King, elvishly. "He is popular with those who value honesty. Tenacious in loyalty and love, with an unexpected practical wisdom. The children take their quarrels to him to be settled, or they go to him for protection. But he is not... *likeable*, not charismatic. Not like Oropher, who has a positive tribe of followers, all jostling to be his new best friend."
He plucks a chord, which fills the air with sparkling metallic notes. "Unambitious," he says thoughtfully, "Content with a couple of good friends who would die for him, he does not seek popularity or fame... And I value him greatly, as do all those who truly know him, though there are few of them."
Thingol bends his head to the harp. I know when I am dismissed and turn to go. But then the King glances up again, his gaze full of amusement.
"I think if you have come this far, you must be one of them." And I realize I've been sussed.
