Oak and Willow by Marnie

Chapter One:  Before the Beginning

"Well, my Lord," Daeron unplaited the end of one of his sable braids and plaited it again, nervously, "What think you?"

Celeborn brushed his fingers over the white marble table and brought them away faintly gritty with dust. The strange, angular carvings, which stood out black against the pale expanse, seemed to hold some meaning not only for his friend, but for the naugrim, Fali, who stood beside him. "I think a bird has run across the snow," he said at last, well aware that his ignorance was pleasing them both.

"It says 'King Thingol owns me, Fali shaped me, Daeron of Doriath made me speak.'" Daeron put both of his long hands down on the table, tracing the shapes of the symbols while his untethered braid unwound, making him look charmingly dishevelled, as if he'd been dancing.

"Now you cozen me!" Celeborn laughed, delighted by the mystery, "How can scratches on stone speak?"

"Each of these signs," Fali bent over and traced further runes in the dust, "Stands for a sound." His beard - the vibrant brown of autumn bracken - swept a space clean, and the golden bands which decorated his intricately twisted moustache clicked musically against the stone. "See this one is 'teh', and this is 'ng'."

"Little pebbles of sound," Daeron interrupted eagerly, his quietness losing in the ardour of his craft, "Like the pebbles of the mosaic in the Hall of Two Trees. Each one is simple, but pattern them together and you have a scene. These are - if you like - the mosaic tiles of speech."

"Captured words..." Celeborn followed the carvings with his fingertips, feeling the bends and angles as his mind turned over the thought. "This is your idea?"

Daeron nodded, shy, immensely proud, waiting for approval.

"It is astonishing!" He looked up just in time to catch Daeron's incredulous smile - a flash of joy bright and brief as a salmon leaping in a stream - before the minstrel, released by praise, leapt into explanation.

"You esteem it overmuch, Lord. I call it the Cirth. It is but a toy I made for the Naugrim - you see the letters are designed to be easily carved on stone. Fali here and his brother...?"

"Modi," said the dwarf.

"Were arguing about the name of one of their legendary heroes. And no-one was left alive who knew him, because they only live for a few hundred years... So it seemed to me that if there was some way to...to crystallize memory, then the Naugrim could carve their names into stone, and thereby preserve them unchanged." Daeron's flow of words
faltered. He looked up with fading pleasure. "But as the Quendi live forever, and our recall is flawless, I know not what use it would have for us, but as a curious game."

Celeborn looked down at Daeron's face - a purely Sindar heritage written in the fine bones and the almost breakable delicacy - and wondered if there was any way he could convince him of his genius. If Luthien would but praise him he would open like a white flower, and be radiant for her. But she will not. And he will not accept it from me. The
braid unlooped once more, and, with main effort, he stopped himself from tugging it. The gesture had been a habitual sign of affection between them when they were playing together as children, but was no longer appropriate between adults. "You misprize yourself, my friend. It comes to my mind that the minstrels of the Green-folk and the wanderers in Ossiriand never stop begging you to visit and teach them your
songs. I know it grieves you that you cannot."

Daeron looked down at his hands, knotted in the fabric of his plain green robe, "You know why I can't go."

Because you had rather torture yourself by singing for Luthien. "I know. And, though I understand it not at all, for our friendship's sake I will say nothing more about it. But see, here you have a device with which to go to them, even while you stay."

Relieved to be free of the subject of his obsession, Daeron giggled, "I can hardly send them great blocks of stone, my lord!"

"No, but you could use birch bark, and paint these symbols thereon with a brush."

"I could." Winglike and fine-drawn, the minstrel's black eyebrows swooped into a frown of thought, "Or linen, mayhap...and I would need to devise some way of representing the melody..."

"And I could use it in Court. If we had some record of what was said, we would not have to bring three witnesses to forswear every liar, or remind debtors of what they had 'forgotten' they had agreed to. Witnesses can be suborned. This cannot."

"I see a demand for jewellery, also." Fali broke in, "How much more satisfactory if your Lord can look on a gift you give him and see your name. Or a wife wear her husband's name clasped around her wrist."

Celeborn laughed, thinking he understood why Daeron had picked this particular naugrim to work with. "You are a romantic, Master Dwarf!" Fali's head, when standing, came barely to the Prince's waist, so it was difficult to look him in the eyes. He had to step back to do so. "In fact, you have given me an idea. These things..." Crouching, he
reached out to touch one of the dwarf's beard-clips, only to have Fali rear back from him in agitation and plain fury. At the look in the dwarf's eyes, Celeborn was at first insulted, and then confused.

"Forgive me, Fali. I meant no offence. What have I done?"

"No-one touches a dwarf's beard except..."

Now the poor creature was further humiliated by having to explain why he
had given insult to a Prince of Doriath, without revealing in his explanation any secrets about his kind.

Understanding dawned, uncomfortably. "Oh...I see. Do you think of it...as we feel about our hair?" The length and thickness of an elf's hair was a sign of beauty, vitality, strength, and they were reluctant to allow any but parents and lovers to touch it. In the name of Elbereth! Celeborn was embarrassed himself, talking about such things with the Stunted One. Who would have thought they had any such refinement? "I had no idea your customs were similar to our own in this. Please accept my apologies."

Fali nodded, though he still looked sullen. Celeborn took a firm hold of his temper, refusing to exacerbate his lapse in tact with pettiness over the grudging reply. "I meant only to examine the clip," he explained, "I thought to order a pair, with a line from Daeron's poetry inscribed between them, perhaps in jewels. What do you think - silver
and sapphire, or gold and emerald?"

The prospect of a sale lightened the dwarf's face far more successfully than the apology. "Gold is always a more acceptable present than silver."

"It depends on the Lady," said Daeron, wide eyed, "Whether she is dark or fair." He gave a sly, teasing smile, releasing the tension as expertly as he might pluck a lute. "Who is she, Celeborn? You have kept very quiet about this. If I am the first to hear, then I have news to shake the foundations of Menegroth, and I want to proclaim it."

The thought that his marital status was in any way important to Menegroth made him want to laugh, but he could not quite resist teasing his friend. "Well," he said, unable to keep the mirth out of his voice, though he tried, "She has dark hair, and is as fair as a lily in starlight. She lives by the sea and we see each other too rarely, for I am her favourite thing in all Ennor. Oh, apart from honey cakes and certain types of snail."

Daeron laughed, disappointed but amused. He smirked at Fali. "He means his niece, Nimloth."

"I do indeed. Gold it is then, for silver is as common as dew in the streets of the Falas. I only wish we could send your Cirth into the West, Daeron, for folk to marvel at it there as I marvel. For today you have changed the world."

"I do not deserve..."

"For me to go out into the woods and risk my life hunting boar, so you can have bristles for all the brushes you'll need? I dare say you don't, but I will do it anyway, if you promise me one of the first collections of your captured songs."

"I need to work on the notation of music first..." An idea smote Daeron almost as visibly as lightning. He sank onto a stool by the table and began drawing in the dust. Recognizing the signs of inspiration, and fearing to disturb them, Celeborn left silently. As he turned to go through the door, he thought he saw the naugrim's face settle back into resentment, and sighed to himself. They are quick tempered, and slow to forgive. But, since he had apologized, and made a bargain to enrich the creature, there didn't seem anything further he could do. He set the small unpleasantness aside, and went out to find his huntsmen.

Chapter Two:  A New Age

"And yet six months ago you said that path was lined with caltrops, and that both your horse and yourself were lamed." Celeborn glanced sideways at the scribe and received a small nod of affirmation. "How do you account for this extraordinary reversal? Were you lying to the Court then, or are you lying now?"

For the first time in this sorry affair Mordir had the grace to look taken aback. He gathered up the swinging length of his belt and fingered the ornate strap-end, while his eyes darted from the guards to the grim faces of his audience. Celeborn took a sip of water and waited for the heavy silence to do its work. He could not allow himself to smile, but inwardly he could taste satisfaction. This sordid case was almost at an end. The next question would settle it. "So, son of Morduin, tell me..."

"Lord Celeborn!" The great doors of the Hall of Doom trembled on their hinges as Daeron tried to push them full open in speed. Victory slipped out of Celeborn's hands like grasped water, but he was already on his feet, fists clenched on the haft of the axe which had lain across his knees in symbol of authority. "Morgoth's creatures attack?"

"No. No...I did not mean to alarm." Daeron's robe was awry, his eyes wide and uncertain, as one who enters a dark room after a place of many lamps. "Celeborn you must come. There is a wonder...a wonder on the edge of the world. I hardly know how to speak of it. The King bids you come." He turned, still squinting, though the courtroom was well lit, to face the many petitioners who waited for judgement. "You must all come."

Celeborn sighed Alas that the wonder could not have waited five minutes more. "As the King commands," he said. He leaned down to the captain of his warriors. "Bring Mordir also, that this marvel may keep his mind from further creativity in his evidence."

"My lord." The Captain grinned.

Celeborn slipped the axe into his belt. Too often any strange sign in the woods of Ennor later proved to be of the Enemy's devising, and was straitly followed by bloodshed. He would not go unprepared, not even if Daeron's face was as dazzled as if Luthien had smiled on him.

Folk were pouring out of Menegroth as if it was on fire. Corridors were a dappled river of lamplight, satin and flowing shadows. Shade should have deepened as they came to the pillared vastness of the First Hall. Here few lamps were lit, lest light should spill forth into the starlit woods, betraying the secret realm's existence to evil things. Lamp and candle should dim, twilight fall, darkness embrace the traveller like cool silk, so that emerging into the woods of Doriath was like plunging from clamour into silence. Over all the dark trees and shivering fountains only the stars should shine, remote and holy.

"What is this?" The crowd had parted for Celeborn and, with his longer strides, he had drawn ahead of his following. At the base of the front stair he paused to allow them to catch up. Here, where it should have been dark as the inside of a helmet, there was a strange, grey glimmer which lit the walls and poured like cloud down into the citadel.

"It has grown!" Very fair Daeron's face seemed in the new light - all narrow strokes of steel and pearl. Surely, Celeborn thought, the Enemy could make no beauty. This could not be an attack after all. Surely it could not.

"Come," he said, allowing himself excitement, "Show me."

Following the minstrel, Celeborn found Melian and Thingol on the crown of the tallest hill. A great press of folk were about them. They sat in slight chairs, clearly brought in haste, and were canopied only by the cloaks of their nobles set upon an arch of spears. Their faces shone with the light of Valinor - majesty become visible - and jewels made pinpricks of brilliance in their hair and garb, yet as Celeborn walked towards them he saw that they were no longer the most radiant things in Ennor; they were overshadowed by the sky. The light about him was the colour of pared lead, and a shadow streamed out before him, moving as he did. He knew not whether to feel foreboding or joy. All things seemed strange, and still the light grew.

Tall and terrible and glorious was King Elu Thingol, greatest of the elven-kings of Middle-earth, and the regard Celeborn had for him was that of son and subject both; awe, mingled with love. When he looked close he could see no diminishment by comparison with the light; only, as with Daeron, a new form of beauty. He went down on one knee. "Your command, my lord?"

"Rise, nephew, and see it."

Obeying, at last he turned eagerly to see the wonder, looked out over forest which fell away in swells of indigo and dark. There, in the West, the sky had become as polished slate, and a line of molten silver smouldered at the edge of the world. As he watched it moved, spilling over trees, shimmering in the mists over Esgalduin. A curve was uplifted over the horizon, as of some vessel which burned like a thousand candles, serene and pale.

There were no words to describe the beauty and newness of this thing. It made his ribs ache, as if his heart desired to leap from his chest with joy. Astonishment and awe stopped his breath, and he could not speak above a whisper. "What is this miracle?"

He turned to Melian. If any would know, she would, for she was a Maia of the Blessed Realm, strong and wise. But she shook her head, her eyes glimmering, a shadow of unknown colour sliding across her smile. "I know not, my fair one." She said with answering joy, "But look, it has the colour of your hair."

The comparison was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard, freeing him to laugh out some of the painful delight. "Ah, now I see! The Powers have sent it merely to quench my vanity. I am sorely outshone."

At the levity, Thingol gave a snort of disbelief. His face was troubled. "I have no doubt the Powers sent it indeed, but why? Never have they cared for us, forsaken on the long march. Why should they begin now? That they turn their gaze to Ennor at all, I deem portends ill."

For a while all gazed in silence, and the silver light broadened, until the vessel was lifted wholly above the trees and revealed. Round as a plate, or perhaps as a ball, smooth and wondrous and unmarked as a pearl. "A Maia guides it," Melian said at last, her clear eyes fixed on the heavens, "Though he is unbodied and cannot be seen. I know him - Tilion of the Silver Bow, who hunts with Orome." Her smile became wistful, "At least I may now gaze at one of my people from afar."

"Then it is a blessing, is it not?" Celeborn asked, hating the look of homesickness which fled briefly across her face, "A sign of hope. A sign that we have not been forgotten."

"But it is blotting out the stars!" Luthien the King's daughter cried from where she sat a little apart, surrounded by her maidens. Knowing well how she loved to dance in starlight, it was easy to understand her regret. "Are we never to see their glory again?"

"Aye," Saeros the archer called, "Must the Valar intervene only to take from us what we love?"

"This is a gift, not a theft," Celeborn began. Over the past few centuries the Enemy had seemed ever present, and it was not hard to see how that threat worked fear and distrust in the Doriathrim. But it should not be permitted to take hold. He had begun to say more, but the sweetness of a harp struck across his words, and he fell silent, trustingly, when Daeron began to sing.

Justly was Daeron honoured in Doriath. All voices fell silent and all faces turned to him, as the song took to the sky like a white-winged hawk. It too - in the newborn light - was almost more beautiful than flesh would support, with a pure strength the minstrel's day by day personality belied. He told of the waters of Awakening, where the Quendi had come into being - and how strange and new everything was in the world; how every day had been filled with another wonder, another discovery. He told of the Long March, when they had followed the Valar Orome in hope of a new land. Grief overwhelmed, soft as falling snow, as he sang the Teleri's loss of their king, disappeared in the dark woods of Nan Elmoth. How kin had left them, abandoned them to go into the West, yet they, ever faithful, remained - waiting, waiting.

Ice and snow melted, and fountains of joy burst forth as he sang of Elu Thingol's return to his loyal people. How greatly the King had changed - grown yet more powerful, yet more fair, with an angelic power beside him as his Queen. And as Daeron sang the final verses, extolling the pride and brightness of the Kingdom of Doriath, other singers took up the melody with him, accepting, understanding the message of his tale.

We have survived great upheavals, Celeborn joined his voice to the counterpoint, With our honour intact. And not all changes are for the worse.

The song, like the history of which it spoke, was long, and Tilion had guided his vessel across the dome of the heavens ere it ended. He lowered now towards the eastern rim of the world. "And perhaps the stars will flower now in the west, until he comes again," said Luthien, as she sent her maidens to fetch fair white bread and wine for all.

But Melian said, "I think it is not ended. I feel, even here, an awakening, as if some other power is made ready. This is a holy day. Let us celebrate it, and wait for the sign that is to come."

So Thingol gave orders that none should work, but all await the foresight of the Queen. And the Doriathrim spent their time beneath the stars in dancing, singing and the telling of tales, and when Tilion arose they would watch his strangely wayward progress across the sky with increasing love, as comfort drew the sting from fear.

But on the seventh day the heavens were reshaped once more.

"Look!" One of the dwarves shouted as Tilion dove into the utter east, "The horizon is stained with gold."

Celeborn laid down the lute he was playing and turned to see. Revels ended abruptly across every hillside, and lovers drew together for mutual strength. Thingol, who had been winning a race, sat down quickly, to reassure his people that whatever changed, he was still there. Melian lay her hand on his arm, and Luthien came and sat by her father's feet. Daeron's singing was silenced.

Oh! The Valar had been gentle, Celeborn thought, to send Tilion first. Without his forewarning, this would have been terrifying. Climbing up the sky now, blotting out stars, was a great sheet of exultant colour. It had begun palest gold, but strengthened swiftly into white flame. Clouds were lit with citrine and topaz, or boiled, red-stained as steam lit by fire. And the sky!

"The very sky alters!" Saeros cried, his voice full of panic and disapproval.

"Blue as periwinkle," Celeborn said in reply, emphasizing his own joy a little, that folk could see there was nothing to fear, "And the clouds like snow. Look at the trees!"

Light strengthened, came crashing ocean-like over Beleriand. All the hidden mysteries, all the glades full of darkness and shadowed waters were shown forth like jewels in candlelight: oaks clad in emerald; beryl of new beech; willow in peridot, strung on waters that flamed like mithril. Beauty which almost hurt.

It burned still brighter, and now heat caressed his upturned face, prickling his skin. Yet astonishingly all of this was held in a vessel no larger than Tilion's. He tried to discern if it had markings of any kind, but the light was too fierce to gaze on, and when he turned to the Queen he saw through eyes in which its image marked her like soot. "Is this also one of your friends, Lady?"

"Her name is Arien, but I knew her little." Melian leaned back in her seat and exchanged a glance of mutual foreboding with her husband. "You are right, beloved. They would not have moved like this unless great changes were afoot. And whatever now passes, we cannot continue to live as we once did."

Her hair, which had been shadow, was now revealed to be glossier than ebony, and embroidered flowers of a hundred shades glowed on her raiment. Thingol's hair was as silver as the great lakes below, gleaming in the golden light. All the world shone as colourful and warm as a lamplit room. "But then, why should all things go on always the same?" Celeborn said, "And I like this."

Thingol laughed, the jewels of his circlet scintillant in the brightness, "Ever the optimist, nephew?"

"There seems little point in asking them to take it back." He shrugged, "So perhaps we should embrace it."

Melian laughed then too, and tugged his sleeve playfully. "Wise words from one so young."

"And perhaps it means," Thingol's eyes gleamed speculatively, "That they are finally ready to come forth and do battle with Morgoth. That I am more than ready for."

"My lord?" The guard Captain approached Celeborn respectfully, "Mordir would speak with you."

"By your leave?" Celeborn bowed and left the sovereigns talking together. The Captain lead him to a hollow in which the prisoner stood, surrounded by his accusers. The son of Morduin looked pale but determined, Arien's light unflattering to his thin nervousness. "What is it?"

"Lord," Mordir began, tentatively, "Is this the beginning of a new age?"

"So it seems." Celeborn took off his cloak and spread it on a rock. Then, sitting, he took the axe from his belt and placed it once more across his knees. The court was reconvened.

"I don't want this on me any more, Lord. Evil can't prosper under this light, I see that." Mordir wrung his hands, stooped away slightly from the press of Arien's heat. "I confess. I did falsely accuse my neighbours. I wished to see them suffer. I wished to deprive them of their lands and honour, which I envied...but if this is not a sign I do not know what is." He drew himself up, as if he finally remembered what dignity was. "So I will make reparation, and be punished, and begin this new age clean."

Mordir was of the Green Folk, but lately settled in the safety of the hidden city. Many Doriathrim thought them uncouth, but this was not the first time they had impressed Celeborn greatly. And he is not just being cunning, knowing he was closer than ever to having his guilt proved. Sincere repentance was evident even in his fea, which was strengthened by honesty.

"Very well, son of Morduin. The tally of reparation is with the scribes. You will satisfy it completely. And you will further pay the King twelve sesters of honey, for the nuisance you have been to his Court."

Mordir bowed, and sighing, straightened up to face his doom, steady eyed.

"But because, in the sight of the works of the Valar, you have turned away from your lies, I will not lay any punishment on you. Pay your dues and go free."

Celeborn knew the decision would not be popular. It did not trouble him. So often the correct decisions were not. And mercy was called for on a day so holy. He looked up at the vessel of Arien once more, risen high and shining over them all. Whatever this new age brings, he thought, it is a comfort to have begun it well.

Chapter Three:  Good News?

"A great force of orcs and werewolves passed into Ossiriland two seven-days ago, and our people are overmatched. For love of Denethor your friend, who died in your service in the Battle of Amon Ereb, the Green-folk beg you will remember us and send aid." The green-elf messenger stood in his rustic clothes amid the wonder of Menegroth's carven halls. His raiment was rude and his weapons very basic, and yet there was great dignity about him, and though he trembled for fear for his people he was not abased.

Thingol looked up, "I know many were injured in the attempt to re-open the road to the Sea. What forces do we have to spare?"

Celeborn, who stood by his elbow, leaned down to reply. "Mablung has returned, lord. He is hale, and many of his warriors with him. We can assemble a company."

A company, Thingol thought, sighing. It already seemed so long since the days when he had last seen peace, and a great regret rose up in him for those times - before the sun, before the great Enemy, Morgoth, came to dwell at Angband, as his neighbour. The promise of Tilion and Arien had been an empty one, and the doubts of Melian had proved wise. "In what time?"

Celeborn spoke with one of his captains. "By the first hour after noon."

Thingol nodded, bestowing a faint, weary smile on the Green-folk messenger. "All those we have to spare will be made ready to accompany you. Refresh yourself and take rest until then. My hope goes with you."

He raised a hand, dismissing this, the last of the petitioners. The emeralds, clasped in the bracelet around his wrist, gave a burst of light under the lamps, and he saw leaves; leaves and moss, and the roots of trees, going down into the bones of the earth. His land, his folk, his to protect with every last breath in him.

"They should remove to Doriath," said Melian, taking his hand in her own more delicate one, "Where I could keep them safe."

"Ah, Lady," Thingol said, raising the linked hands to his lips, "You of all people should know that the Quendi value freedom over safety. I will not ask the Green-kindred to abandon their lands. Not while I have strength to defend them."

"But our strength declines daily," Celeborn broke in. Since the formal audience was over he left his place at the king's left hand to sit on the steps of the dais. "Unless we can somehow learn to breed like orcs, we will soon be overwhelmed by sheer numbers."

"You have a foul mouth, nephew." Grief at the knowledge that the words were true did not prevent Thingol from a bitter smile at the way it had been put, "And clear sight." A weight like that of Thangorodrim seemed to settle on him, and he straightened his back in defiance, struggling to breathe deep. "Indeed, even if the Nandor and the Green-folk withdraw within Doriath, what will that achieve, save to have us all like fish in a net?"

He reached up to take a lock of his wife's raven hair, smoothed it gently between his fingers. "You are mighty, Melian, Queen among Maia, and what peace we have is because of the Girdle of Defence you have wrought about this kingdom. Yet can your will prevail over that of a Valar, though he be fallen? I think not. Did Morgoth have us all in one place, it would but hasten the end."

Gazing into her grey eyes he could forget all of this, return in memory to the glades of Nan Elmoth where they had first met, where they had stood, enraptured, hand in hand while the stars wheeled overhead and the trees grew tall. She smiled at him now, and somehow, though he had not hope, he found the will to endure. "Well, the end will come yet swifter if we give up. I will not despair. Any victory over me will be dearly bought!"

There was a stir by the door, and courtiers drew aside in a flutter of silk as a grey-cloaked scout burst through. He raced into the centre of the floor and flung himself to one knee. "Lord King, I have great news!" His upturned face was stunned with good fortune, and Thingol felt wary interest. Good news would be welcome.

He signalled for the messenger to speak and, glowing with importance, the young elf burst out; "A great host of Eldar has landed on these shores from Aman. They are numerous and glorious - splendid with banners and trumpets, with armour and shield and sword. It's said that they touched ground at the same time that the sun first arose - I can't vouch for that - and have been travelling since. I spoke with some of their servants, and they said their lords were Fingolfin and the sons of Finarfin. They have returned to do battle with Morgoth."

About time! Thingol thought, slow ebbing despair making him feel bitter even towards these potential allies, About time the Departed gave some thought to those of us they abandoned to live in safety in the West. And what will be their price for this sudden aid? But he tried to ease the grimness as far as he could. Whatever change these new Eldar introduced, at least Doriath was no longer in danger of being overrun. "Valar be praised," he said grudgingly, "In the very hour of our need. Do I know these princes?"

"They are spoken of as the sons of Finu." The messenger's smile was broad, and at last Elu Thingol could mirror it. Doubts were swept aside at the name, and a great flame of joy rose in his heart that had been so bowed down only moments before. "Finwë?" he cried, leaping to his feet, "My greatest friend! The brother of my heart! Long we have been apart and yet he has not forgotten me in my need. Has he not come himself?"

"That I do not know, Sire. I lingered only briefly and then hastened away. They drew nigh to the lake of Mithrim as I departed. Beyond that, I know no more than I have told."

"Return to them swiftly then, and let one of the Princes come to me. I will send an escort behind you, so that all will be ready once your message is sped."

"My King," the scout bowed his way out, grinning, and Thingol turned to his great-nephew, the closest male kin he had left in Doriath. Celeborn was watching him with a curl of the lips catlike in its smugness.

"Ai! Now you will claim you knew all along what the rising of the Sun portended. Take your gloating gaze from out my sight...for you are the only one of rank I have to rightly welcome these sons of Finwë, and I would have you do it as a prince. So go, finish those things that need to be done, make yourself stately and stand ready to depart."

"My Lord," Celeborn left promptly, and Melian watched him go with amused eyes.

"Even if you had twenty messengers of equal rank, you would have still sent him," she said, "You do know that?"

"I do," he said, and laughed at her maternal ferocity, "But he need not. He is unruly enough as it is."

Standing, he offered her his arm, and side by side they walked from the throne room into the gardens and radiant caves of many fountains where the folk of Menegroth gathered to converse and dance. News of Finwë's return made him feel like singing in reprieve and joy... and yet. And yet a small corner of his mind whispered still that this was far too good to be true.

You are ever churlish, and ever suspicious, he rebuked himself sternly, Think only that your chosen-brother will soon be with you once more and rejoice. He called for his harp and drowned the small disquiet in song.

Chapter Four: Culture Shock

Angrod, son of Finarfin approached, in the centre of a group of outriders, all jangling with armour and spangled with jewels. Little flames of many colours went up from the harness of the Noldo Prince, and his breastplate was crusted with crystal which caught the sun's light like a sheet of water. There was a circlet on his head and a sapphire gleamed on his brow. The heavy fall of his corn blond hair was intricately braided and in places pinned with gems. Even from his sword hilt there went up a fountain of radiance from the inlaid stones and precious metals of many hues.

Above Celeborn his honour guard, Calandil, sniggered quietly in the treetops, and there came the muffled sound of Daeron trying not to laugh. Celeborn smoothed down the restrained elegance of his soft grey tunic and wondered if perhaps he should have worn the one with the overdone embroidery. Beside the Noldo's rather barbaric splendour he felt woefully under dressed. But no. It is he who looks like the inside of a magpie's hoard. With a word he urged his horse forward and came out from the shadow of the trees alone.

It was strange to see how Angrod's guards reacted to his presence - they looked around themselves at once, as if expecting the rest of his escort to burst out of the forest beside him. They did not look up, to where Calandil's forces had covered them at bowshot for the last eight hundred yards. In this, as in their clothing, they seemed at once showy and naive.

A guard challenged him, and as he put down his hood he saw a flash of ...something... go through the elf's unnaturally fiery eyes. It looked, he thought, his heart sinking, a lot like guilt. Taking advantage of the other's moment of shock he spurred his horse onwards and so came through the ring of men-at-arms and face to face with Angrod. "I am Celeborn, Prince of Doriath," he said, "And I greet you in the name of King Elu."

Angrod's face was pleasant, open, a little rounded still with youth. His skin glimmered like the moon behind a cloud and his eyes held the same flame as the guard's eyes. They also, briefly, as they swept over the long tail of Celeborn's ice-coloured hair, held the same uncertainty, the same...shame. "You look like a Swan-Lord," he said, nervously.

"A what?" It was hard to follow Angrod's rather strange accent, he wondered if he had heard right.

"You look like one of the Teleri from Alqualondë," Angrod spoke louder, as if he better hoped to be understood that way, but his face had clouded. His gaze fell to Celeborn's belt and fixed there as if he was trying to essay the value of the silver, or, more likely, as if he no longer dared look him in the eye.

"I am a Teler." Celeborn shrugged and turned his horse to lead the Noldor into the trees, "So there is little surprise in this." But he wondered all the same, feeling the discomfort around him, not just of Angrod, but of all his companions. Discomfort and anger, and guilt. What have the Teleri done to them, or they to the Teleri that they cannot look on me with ease?

"But in truth you're not." Angrod kept pace with him, and the young face was lit with an academic curiosity that seemed more a part of him than his jewels, "'Teleri' only refers to those of your people who came to Aman...just the Calaquendi. You are Moriquendi, so you cannot be Teleri."

It took him a moment to translate the Quenya, 'Calaquendi' would be...Celbin. So Moriquendi is... and then he reined in, stopping in shock and insult. "What did you call me?" An urge came over him to take hold of the little prince by the over-elaborate braids and shake some respect into him. It was not helped by Calandil choosing this moment to lead his guards out of the trees. Calandil's face was grim, and Daeron, who stood beside him, was wide eyed with hurt.

"Dark elf," said Angrod, as if it should be obvious, "You have not seen the light of the Two Trees, so you are all dark elves." He looked at the scowling faces of Celeborn's guards without comprehension, "It is not meant as an insult. It is simply a description."

"I think perhaps," Celeborn made an effort not to move his hand to his axe, though he was suddenly aware of its sheathed head beneath his elbow, "I think you should remember that in Doriath we use those terms differently. A Dark Elf is an elf who has - whether for spite or for fear - taken service with Morgoth. A Light Elf is any who have openly declared themselves against him. We are Light Elves in Doriath. As are our Nandor kin, and the Green Folk, and even those of the Avari who are our allies. We are all Celbin."

"Oh, the Laiquendi!" Angrod laughed uncomfortably and attempted a change of subject, "They are quite savage aren't they? With their arrowheads of stone and their garments of fur. Do you know, we thought all the mori... all the Lingerers would be like them. We were very surprised to find the Doriathrim have a culture almost as advanced as our own."

"Indeed," said Celeborn, his temper getting the better of him, "The Doriathrim have almost managed to scrape together a civilization. How sad that the rest of us have been too busy fighting for our lives to learn the finer points of etiquette!"

"You are over touchy," Angrod drew himself up in affront, "Again, I meant no insult. I do not compare you with the rude and unsubtle folk we have so far met. It is well known that your Queen is a Maia, and your King and ours were like brothers together."

He is a guest, Celeborn reminded himself, And a valuable ally. He had noticed that the prince's retinue seemed all the more haughty after this exchange of words, and - ridiculous though it was - he felt an almost physical threat from them. And a foreigner who doesn't know our ways. I have probably insulted him just as vilely, in some way I know nothing about. He sighed.

"I thank you," he said, "That you think the folk of Thingol worthy of your regard." It would have been politic to finish there, but the smooth words of politics had always eluded him. He did not regret that they did so now. "But you do ill to call the Green Folk savage. Three yeni I was with them in my youth - their lore is deep and their woodcraft unsurpassed. In truth we do not consider them a separate people from ourselves. We are one people - the Avari of the Third Clan, the Nandor, the Green Folk, the Silvan, the Sindar and the Teleri - we are all Lindar, the Singers. We are kin."

Again that sudden guardedness, that flinch at the word 'kin', and Angrod's fire-filled gaze fell to study the mane of his horse. There was a mystery here that had the taste of shadow in it. Proud though the Noldor were, they had not escaped the marring of Morgoth. But it was not wise to press him about this, Celeborn thought, Melian will see it in him. Whatever it is. And he should be given the chance to speak of it himself.

They had come to the great gates of Menegroth, and it was evening. The rush and lilt of Esgalduin filled the twilight with the scent of water. Greeting the dusk, a nightingale trilled. Moved by homecoming and music Daeron replied, in a voice that wove the mists and stars and silver stream into glory. His song seemed a new creation; solid as a gem, awe-filled, holy, beautiful and bright. Yet it vanished before it could be grasped, leaving only the bliss of memory.

The Noldor reined their horses in and looked at the minstrel, with their mouths open and their eerie eyes wide. Calandil came to take Celeborn's bridle and say, mind to mind, And for all their 'culture' they have nothing like him, even in Valinor.

Hush, Celeborn thought, but he smiled.

"So," he said, and took Angrod by the elbow to guide him across the narrow bridge and into the first entrance hall, "You spoke of Finu..."

A look of incomprehension. He unpicked the linguistic changes in his head, "Sorry... Finwë. Has he returned with you? My Lord is very eager to see him again."

Angrod balked at the stair down into the earth and Celeborn could feel the thrill of fear run through the muscles beneath his fingertips. Afraid of the dark? he thought, wonderingly, and then in astonished understanding Calben...elves of the light... He has not grown used to dwelling in darkness. It was both amusing and vaguely annoying, bringing to mind the millennia in which the elves of Doriath had dwelt, neglected and forgotten by the Valar, in perpetual night.

"No," Angrod said, his tones thin with grief, "Finwë is dead. Slain by Morgoth before the Enemy fled to Middle-earth. It is largely for revenge that we return." He raised his head to look Celeborn in the face. The flame in his eyes was yellow and white, mingled, and his voice lowered, as though he spoke news so terrible it had to be whispered. "The Enemy threw down the Two Trees and defiled Aman with darkness. Only their remnants now ride the sky; flower of the silver tree, fruit of the gold. The sun and the moon...the only things the Valar could salvage."

"I see," Celeborn said and brushed a hand through his hair, needing the comfort. So I was wrong. Even the sun and moon were not meant for us - we profit from them as an afterthought. And the Noldor's return is not to aid their friends, long abandoned, but only to avenge a wrong done to them. It never grew easier to learn that the Valar did not care about the elves of Middle-earth at all. Especially not when, this time, he had built so much hope on the sign. As for the loss of the Two Trees, it meant little to him, beyond a passing whimsy that he would now never see his namesake. Quite why Angrod seemed to think he would care about this was a mystery.

"You have my condolences," he said, heavily, "My lord will grieve indeed."

"Yet you do not seem shocked," Angrod looked at him with puzzled innocence, "Or even greatly surprised."

"Should I be?" Celeborn looked down at the earnest face and felt suddenly very old, though in truth there was likely little difference in age between them. "My own grandfather, Elmo - brother of Elu - and my mother and my unborn sister were killed by the servants of Morgoth. It is a daily refrain in Middle-earth. Something you will grow used to, with time."

"I do not wish to grow used to it!"

Sheltered little princeling. "Then go back to the waiting arms of the Valar," Celeborn said bitterly, "Loss is the price of life in Ennor. If you wished to be protected from it you should not have left Aman."

Angrod's reaction was instructive - the lash of pride that opened his mouth and the ...something... that closed it again with the retort unmade. He looked as Mordir had looked in court; captured in guilt, afraid to admit it but afraid to lie. "We took an oath not to return until Morgoth is defeated," he said with sullen politeness, "So do not taunt us with the desire."

Not wholly a lie, Celeborn thought, his long experience of judgement making the reading almost instinctive, but certainly not the whole truth. He sighed again and told himself that the Noldor were like the Sun - one could not give them back - so whatever terror it was they were hiding, the Sindar would have to learn to live with it. There would be time to learn what it was later, without being so inhospitable as to subject a guest to cross examination the moment he had passed through the door.

"Forgive me," he said, "Everything about you is strange to me. And I'm sure I give offence at every step. Doubtless we will all grow more easy together when we know each other more." He motioned for Calandil to escort the Prince's guards to the barracks, and smiled, rather half-heartedly. "Let me take you to your rooms. For, if you have come all the way from Valinor to here, it must have been a hard journey indeed."

***

"What think you?" Thingol stood before the fire in one of the smaller drawing rooms and nudged a lantern with his fingertip so that it trembled in its sheath of diamond, filling the air with dancing light. Empty plates were on the table and Luthien still toyed with a stem of grapes, holding them up more to admire their sheen in the lamplight than with the intention of eating more. Angrod had been persuaded to play flute for them and had left the room in the company of a servant who would help him find an instrument to suit him.

"Nice hair," said Luthien, "A little like Oropher's. Only more shiny."

"Luthien..."

"But I couldn't get used to those eyes - glowing at you in the dark like the eyes of a fox in torchlight."

"Luthien!"

She wrapped a lock of her long, midnight hair twice around her wrist and looked up coquettishly at him, making him wonder for a breathless moment whether he had spawned some emptyheaded fool of a daughter and these truly were her thoughts. Then she grinned. "Or do you mean the fact that he is an honest person weighed down by a secret too terrible to share?"

Thingol sat slowly and put his head in his hands. "You saw it too." His friend was dead and all his doubts about this unlooked for aid seemed to be coming true.

"Not just a secret," said Melian grimly, "But a shadow. A doom...a curse...some form of judgement over him." She looked up, as though she saw the stars of Elbereth through the many layers of pressing stone, and when she spoke her voice held the certainty of prophecy. Cold. Implacable. The voice of a goddess. "Fate is against them, and ill luck follows them. We would do well to wash our hands of them all."

Thingol so wanted to join the many armies Angrod spoke of and to crush Morgoth once and for all. He wanted there to be that hope, that goal to strive for. Why? Why would help be sent only to be snatched away? Why did every new thing that came to Doriath only seem to presage disaster? "Yet they are the sons of my friend," he said, and was appalled at how weak he sounded, "For Finwë's sake, I should aid them."

Melian looked at Celeborn, who remained silent, though the tension in his shoulders showed he was stifling some outburst at this argument. "You did not empty Doriath to go to the aid of Elmo when he was taken," she said, as if she spoke for him, "Though he was your own brother, and every bit as beloved as Finwë. You knew it would be in vain. It is so here. The Noldor will not prevail over Morgoth. I have seen it."

"And what of Angrod and his folk?" The slippery way Angrod had turned the conversation every time he had asked about Feanor and Fingolfin made him think that perhaps Melian was right with regard to these princes. They were at the heart of...whatever it was that was wrong with the Noldor. Let them take their revenge to Morgoth and distract his attention from Doriath long enough for the Sindar to rebuild, if that was all they could do. But Finarfin's children? "Are they not the sons of my niece? Are they not my own family?"

Seeing his distress she softened, the awe of her power giving way to compassion. "I do not council that you never see them, my love. Only that you do not let them shape your fate to their own."

He poured more wine and drank it down too fast to taste it. "I cannot refuse to greet my own kin," he said, salvaging whatever he could of personal consolation from this disappointing gift. "I did not even know that Olwë had married. What do you say, Celeborn?"

"My Lord." Celeborn's eyes were bleak with memory, focussed somewhere a long time ago. "These Noldor seem arrogant and a little obnoxious... But when Elmo died I lost all of my family at once. For his sake, I would very much like to meet these cousins of mine."

Chapter Five:  First Impressions

Nerwen caught herself rubbing her arms again as if to warm them. The halls of Menegroth were high and vaulted and full of lamplight - so like a forest at twilight that birds nested in the stone trees and filled the air with song. But she could not forget that if the lamps went out darkness would fall, utter and absolute, as it had been when Ungoliant destroyed the Trees. Nor could she feel secure in this stronghold full of elves whose musical voices proclaimed them kin to the Teleri her family had slain. Distress and guilt made her feel chill, as though she had not yet shed the deathly cold of the Grinding Ice. She struggled again not to clasp herself and shiver.

She would not show weakness in front of these Dark Elves.

Smoothing down her beech green dress, she adjusted the hang of her golden girdle and wished once again that she had at least a knife to hand, or better still her sword. No wonder women were meek, with these confining skirts to hamper them and only their empty hands to defend themselves.

"Are you ready?" Finrod asked, coming into the room with a mantle of white fur on his arm. He put it about her shoulders gently. " I thought you might be cold."

"I do not need mothering!" she snapped, seeing in his face a disquiet very like her own. Curse Fëanor for this, she thought, bitterly, But for his rape of the Teleri ships, but for his murder of the Teleri who tried to contest their theft, this would be joyful; a family reunion. It is his fault. It is all his fault. And then she laughed, for of course Feanor was cursed, and so was she. She too had killed her own kind, though it had been in defence of her mother's innocent people. And the doom of Mandos lay as heavily on her as it had on Feanor. Heavier, it seemed, now that bravado had faded and she had begun to taste the draught she had seized for herself. The sons of Feanor do not seem to regret. But I do.

"No one would dare to mother you," Finrod replied, only half in jest, "I would do the same for any of my brothers and you know it. Now please, Nerwen, be obliging with these Sindar. We do not need any more enemies."

He took her elbow and she shook him off, not liking the restraint on her sword arm. Sighing, he put a hand instead in the middle of her back and nudged her out of the door of their chambers and into the corridors of the palace, where a servant waited to take them to the king.

The audience chamber of King Elwë Singollo was huge, many pillared, arched over with carven trees and vines picked out in gems and gold. Water poured in a moss-grown fountain from the centre of the floor and ran in rills of silver beside each wall, so no part of the room was free from the music of it. Folk turned to look as Nerwen and her brother entered - Sindar in grey, Nandor in brown and Laiquendi in unwashed tatters of rags that had possibly once been green.

They are a dull folk, she thought to Finrod as she passed through them, and felt yet more out of place. Though the Noldor were also mostly dark of hair, they did at least make up for that lack of colour in their garb. These folk seemed as they were called - Dark elves. With little pleasure in the hues and beauties of light, they were clad plainly, a monotony of many shaded drab, here and there relieved with white or black, and they put no effort into dressing their hair - tying it back simply, unadorned to the point of aggression.

Did we expect them to be otherwise? Finrod's question reminded her that she should not expect too much. These elves had not had the advantage the Noldor had received; they had had no Valar to tutor them, to form their understanding of the world and equip their hands to works of craft. It was surprising enough that they were not all dwelling in trees like the rustic folk of Ossiriand.

She smothered a slight feeling of disappointment, braced herself, and came out before the King's dais. Looking up she beheld Elwë for the first time. Throned and crowned he sat in splendour. Grey cloaked, but in a robe of white, emeralds glinted at his wrists and lay about his neck on a chain of gold. Where she had looked to find strangeness she saw instead a heartbreaking resemblance. He looked like her grandfather, Olwë, and yet more like her mother, though Earwen's fragility was here recast in strength. A family reunion indeed, she thought, moved by his comforting and familiar power. He met her eyes and for the first time she felt warm enough. She smiled.

Beside the king sat his wife, Melian, beautiful and benevolent as the sunny earth and just as strong. An awesome power, cloaked in the form of an Elven-Queen.

In a canopied chair on Elwë's right hand there sat a maiden whose beauty humbled Nerwen's pride in Aman. Not even in the courts of Manwe, king of the Valar, had there walked a lady so fair. Yet her radiance was that of Arda Marred - all darkness and shadow about glimpses of light. Her face was moon-bright, and her eyes grey as the sky, and her hair was a fall of night that lifted and swayed as she moved. White gems glittered there like strewn stars.

On Melian's left hand there stood behind the thrones a tall prince clad in grey. The silver of his belt was less bright than his hair, and his face was also very fair. Not exactly delicate, Nerwen thought, pleased with his looks, but elegant and fine-drawn as a sword. They made a handsome family.

I did not know Elwë had a son, she thought to her brother.

He does not, Finrod replied, That would be the nephew, Celeborn. The one Angrod warned us about.

Oh, Nerwen smiled again and felt the press of doom ease a little over her, The one who was so disrespectful and harsh to our poor younger brother?

Finrod had stepped forward to give his gracious speech of homecoming and alliance. She waited until he was in the middle of the sentence he had so much trouble with and then said I think I'll seek him out. He sounds interesting.

Finrod's discomforted stumble after his words was one of the few things she had felt able to laugh at since leaving home.

***

After enduring more empty politenesses than she had the stomach for she found the prince in a small garden; sitting on the edge of a fountain, with his feet in the flowerbeds and his head bent over some small thing held tight in his hands.

"I take it amiss that you fled sooner than look on me," Nerwen said, wondering why he had not yet glanced up. He did so at her question and smiled ruefully.

"I looked well enough," he said, "It was speech I found myself unprepared for."

She waited for the compliment that must surely follow such a gallantry, but it did not come. He turned back to whatever it was he was working on, leaving her unsure whether she had been praised or insulted. "What is it you do?" she asked, coming forward to look. Her dress swept against the white and yellow flowers and the sweet lemon scent of feverfew rose among the spray of the fountain.

"I remembered that I had a final answer to one of Angrod's pronouncements," he said, his wary smile brightening, "And I hoped to give it to you to take to him. But it needed finishing." He brushed small flakes of stone from his knee. They fell flashing in the lamplight like the water.

"Angrod had much to say about you," Nerwen was intrigued. She swept the damp from the fountain's side and sat next to him, realizing with a faint surprise that he was as tall as she. It was odd but pleasant not to have to look down at a companion. "He said your lámatyávë was quite savage." He had also warned both Nerwen and Finrod that the Sinda had a way of unearthing subjects they would rather not speak of, and had advised them to avoid him. But Nerwen had taken the caution as a challenge, and relished the opportunity to test herself against it.

"That seems to be a favourite word of his," said Celeborn coldly, "It is largely because he called the Green-folk savage that I felt it necessary to make him this reply."

"Oh, come," she was unimpressed - he would be defending the beauty of dwarves next, "The Laiquendi may be fellow elves, but it's clear they have no art or knowledge greater than that of the birds whose nests they share. 'Savage' is a fair enough description."

"Then this will be an answer also to you," he said, "For I learned the craft of making these when I guested with them." He handed her a knife made of nothing but stone and wood and vine. It should indeed have been rude and worthy of contempt, but it was not. The hilt was carved with exquisite skill in the likeness of a hound stretched out before the fire. The lashings that held the blade in place were a bright spring green and intricately knotted, bemusing the eye with patterns. And the blade itself was a long shard of flint so pure that the light flowed through it, giving it the changeable translucence of the sea; a more subtle and beautiful colour than steel, but just as deadly.

No amount of talking could have said better what this creation made plain - that even the most backwards of the elves of Middle-earth were not without craft of their own. It was no Silmaril, but it was still a work of great beauty; the creation of a mind that could not with justice be considered beneath her own.

"This is a sharp rebuke," she said, turning it about to examine it closer, pleasantly aware that he was watching her do so, "I am wounded."

"I had hoped it would be more pointed than speech."

She found herself smiling again, taken back to a more innocent world by this foolish game of words. "Do your arguments always have such an edge?"

"Only when I am trying to be cutting."

For the second time in a single day Nerwen laughed. Rarely had she been so at ease since leaving Valinor. There must be, she thought, more to this kingdom of Doriath than she had yet perceived, and though guilt was still a nagging presence in the deep places of her heart she sighed, and some of the ever present tension left her. Looking out she saw the small garden anew, as a clearing in a forest of stone. If she let the fine carvings and the white lamps fool her eye she could almost feel a free breeze wend its way through the herbs, stirring the aniseed fragrance of the lacelike fennel and the scent of lavender into the cool air. It felt like evening, though she guessed it always did, here, under the earth.

She waited for her companion to say something difficult and spoil the mood, but he was silent once more, though she felt his gaze stray to her occasionally; a small sensation of wonderment that was not at all unwelcome. She supposed she was indeed quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. But so also was he to her.

The note of the fountain changed, and she looked up to find him with a hand in the water, watching the fall of the moon-bright liquid through his fingers. Everything about him was twilight, from his starlight-coloured hair to the soft grey and silver of his raiment. Looking at him she thought again of the knife - light passing through subtle shadows like the ocean, and the drabness of the Sindar suddenly resolved itself into something else in her mind.

The fitted cuff of his undertunic was a pale blue-grey silk, stitched with silver embroidery, and the overtunic was of charcoal velvet, woven in a diamond pattern that shimmered slightly each time he moved. This dullness is not a lack of art, she realized, Not because they are backwards and have no delight in colour, but because... In the dimness of night the colours the Noldor valued so highly would be stripped away, but these Sindar clothes of many shades and textures would become a delight of half-seen richness; a tease and suggestion of beauty, like a half heard melody that enchants because it cannot be grasped. Because their taste has been formed in millennia of darkness.

It made them both more like the Noldor and more unlike. Like, because they were not the ignorant rustics so many of the Calaquendi had supposed. Unlike because, if they had their own lore, their own arts, how strange they must have grown after so many thousand years apart.

"You have succeeded," she said, and handed the knife back to him, "I am cut indeed, cut to the quick. And the understanding is barbed. It will not easily come out."

"It was not intended to injure," he said, more gently than he had spoken before. He caught her gaze as if to assure himself she spoke in jest. He had strange eyes. They were holly green, so that with the pale hair his colouring could not have more exactly matched the Silver Tree of Valinor. But the strangeness was not in hue. They were dark, without the flame of Aman; windows to a soul that must also be dark, unknown and unknowable as all the shadowed fastnesses of Ennor in the days of awakening, before the Valar came. Dark eyes for a dark elf. Yet she thought that there might yet be a glimmer in them, like the gleam of the ancient stars of Elbereth above the mere of Cuivienen.

Am I staring?

The thought came to her like a splash of cold water from the fountain. She dropped her gaze, and if she had felt cold before now she felt too hot - discomforted and exposed. "Angrod was right in this," she said with brittle anger, "You have little respect. Few men would hand an unsheathed knife to a lady."

He drew away from her, shook out the piece of leather he had used to protect his tunic from the shards of flint and rolled it up with the round, smooth stone and piece of antler folded within it. "Forgive me," he said, his voice a little unsteady, "If I am ignorant of some Noldor fashion of treating women as though they know not one end of a blade from the other. Melian has been as a mother to me and Luthien a sister. I am not used to thinking women powerless or unwise."

Nerwen frowned, and in her astonishment forgot that she was angry. This was a reversal! How had she ended up on the wrong end of this debate? It should be she smiting and laying to waste his preconceptions, as she had always had to do with her brothers. He should be treating her as a delicate blossom to be wooed, and she setting his notions aright with the superiority of her mind. It was both dizzying and a sweet liberation to find the battle won before she had even begun to fight.

It was also a little frightening. She had never before been measured against such high expectations. For a moment she did not know what to say. '"You confuse me,"' did not seem an adequate answer.

"Am I not called 'Nerwen'?" she said, "You need not use these arguments with me."

"Nerwen?" he laughed, a light, scornful sound, "Is this not a symptom of the same pattern of thought? This claim that somehow your glorious strength makes you more masculine? Is that not an insult in itself? For I see nothing manly about you, Galadriel."

And he was, after all, just as savage as Angrod had claimed. Affronted, she rose with all the stately grace she had perfected when facing Fëanor. "Do not presume to name me," she said, "You do not know me. You do not know anything about me."

She was half way to her room before she realized that he might think she was running away, but by that time it would have been a humiliation to return. A few steps later she thought of what she should have said and cursed. No matter. She patted down her skirts furiously and raised her head, eyes flashing. If today she had underestimated her opponent and thus been beaten, tomorrow he would not fare so well. She had already several things she wanted to say to him. Tomorrow he would see why no one had ever dared rename her before

Chapter Six:  Confessions at the Baths

"Daeron, I must speak with you," Celeborn caught his friend by the arm and pulled slightly, wanting to get him away from this place as soon as possible. He liked not being back in the workshops of the dwarves and he could not see what was so interesting about the metal harp strings that required Daeron to watch over their production like a hen over hatching chicks.

Behind him one of the dwarves said a single word in his own tongue and the atmosphere of the already sweltering room heated, leaving Celeborn feeling as he had felt when surrounded by Angrod's guards. Fali was long dead, but he seemed to have cut and polished his grudge and passed it on like an heirloom to the rest of his family. It had become uncomfortable for Celeborn to be among the Naugrim at all, and today he did not have time to address such unimportant matters. "Come away from here, please. I swear if you will not let me speak of this I will run mad."

"My Lord!" Daeron tucked his braids behind his ears, leaving smudges of charcoal across his cheeks. He had pushed his sleeves up and was as grimy with soot and grease as any of the dwarves; unsurprising, since he had been interrupted at the bellows. When he saw the look in Celeborn's eyes, his air of preoccupied craftsmanship faded, "Of course. Wait but a moment while I find someone to take over."

He called one of the naugrim, though it seemed to Celeborn that the dwarf came grudgingly. Then, when all was set to his satisfaction, he grabbed his sheaf of plans, rolled them up, and suffered himself to be lead out into the cool of Menegroth's corridors. His fingers left dark imprints on the parchments and only at the sight of them did he balk and look at himself. "Ai! I am filthy. May we speak at the baths?"

"If we must." Celeborn looked again at the soot stained minstrel and managed a laugh, though the tightness in his chest did not ease, "And you must!"

The main bath lay in its cavern like an underground lake. Tendrils of steam floated over its surface or rose to twine around the spears of crystal and stone which grew from the cave's ceiling. If one came alone it could at times be an eerie place, dimly lit, misty and full of the lapping of water. It was not so today. Today it was full of mothers teaching their children to swim, and the noise and the shrieking and the laughter were as loud as an encampment of orcs.

One of the smaller chambers which led off the main pool was unoccupied. The bath in it was sufficient only for six, but it was a pleasant place - plants grew and trailed from alcoves and niches, adding their freshness to the humid air, and one of the aqueducts emptied above the arch which led to the main pool, so that, once within, one could drowse in the heat, curtained by an ever changing fall of hot water.

Ewers and basins were set out, and a servant brought in linen towels even as they were disrobing. He drew water from the pool for them and waited while Celeborn washed his long hair and passed the soap to Daeron, who scrubbed his arms and face. As they were stepping into the deep pool, the servant took away the soiled basins and returned with drinking cups and a pitcher of cold water before withdrawing altogether. He did all in silence, but still his presence was an irritation.

Now that he was permitted to speak Celeborn did not know how to begin, but Daeron's face was grim as if he expected truly bad news, and he could surely manage reassurance. "I find I must apologize to you, my friend. I confess, I have long thought you foolish to circle Luthien as the stars circle the earth but now..." Oh now he understood. He understood it with a knowledge like despair. "Well am I paid for my arrogance! For I have met the woman I love with all my soul, and she likes me not."

Daeron set his head back against the lip of the pool and there passed across his face a look of great pain, swiftly concealed. "I will not jest with you about this," he said, "If you are in my case it is no matter to laugh at." He sat up, making a small wave, "But tell me who she is, and what has happened."

"It is," Celeborn took up a handful of water and gazed at its brilliance, to calm him, "It is Nerwen." The light on the liquid resolved itself into her hair, deep golden and shining like a royal circlet, and he relived, yet again, that moment when it had seemed to him he had seen her fëa; the spirit of a queen, powerful, glorious, splendid, and yet sad, oppressed by the shadow that lay over all the Noldor. Like a fine blade quenched to the point of brittleness. It was hard to fit words to that moment of understanding.

"When I first saw her, defiant and proud in the stronghold of strangers, it was as I felt when the Sun first rose. At first I was blinded, and then all things were coloured by her light, forever changed. Then much in me that had been sleeping awoke and burst into flower, like the new blossom that came in the first springtime."

"I have never heard you speak this way before," said Daeron in quiet gentleness, "Did she say aught to you, or you to her?"

"In truth, I fled," Celeborn's unruly emotions surprised him with joy. She had sought him out, though there was far better company than he at the feast, "We met later, and she sat by me," such a simple thing to build ridiculous hope on, "She looked at me, Daeron... She looked at me with wonder."

He clenched his fists and the muscles across his back - which had at last been relaxing in the heat - tensed again and ached as he felt once more the bitter barb of his own stupidity. "And then I...I lost my head. I charged in recklessly where I should have lain in ambush, and I was utterly routed and overcome." Remembering her walking away in cold fury, he put his head in his hands in dismay, and whispered, "And she will never want to speak to me again."

***

There was silence, but for the music of the water and the muffled laughter of children in the further cavern. Celeborn looked up - Daeron's eyes were wide and sorrowful as the sea. He did not seem to know what to say. And why should he? He might understand, but he had no solution to offer.

A quiet scuffle in the passage caught his attention; the sound perhaps of napping servants being unexpectedly awoken. The hanging curtain of green and silver linen was pushed aside and a hand came in bearing a wine-jug and a goblet of gold, dangled unceremoniously by the stem. The rest of Elu Thingol followed it, smiling with the blithe certainty that he was welcome everywhere.

"It's like a rookery at twilight out there," he said, "How they bear the din I know not. And all the other small chambers are occupied by folk who would either flee in awe of me, or regale me for hours about taxes." He poured wine for himself, then filled the cups that had been meant for water and passed them to his nephew and his bard. "So you will have to make room for me." The silence, perhaps, prompted him to pause in the act of unlacing his tunic and look at them properly. He frowned. "You are a cheerful pair. Why the long faces?"

At that moment Celeborn knew his secret was out - Daeron's nerve, never particularly formidable, always failed in the presence of the King. Commanded to speak he could never keep his mouth shut. So it was now. The minstrel shrank into the corner of the bath furthest away from the lamps and sank as though he would submerge altogether. Seeing it, Thingol raised one silver eyebrow questioningly, and even in the heat Daeron paled. "Celeborn's in love with Nerwen," he blurted out, using the words as though he was fending off an attack. "Or at least he thinks he is...though he has barely spoken to her...and I do not see how one moment of revelation is enough to be called love."

Celeborn was stung by this. Daeron may have grown up loving Luthien - knowing her every thought and expression, all the steps of every dance, all the places she would go and the things that would amuse her. There had never been a time before Daeron loved Luthien. But he thought his case was not so different. Nerwen was here now. Galadriel was here now, and there had never been a time when he had not been waiting for her.

Elu's face settled into a look of concern. He stepped into the pool and sat, stretching his arms about the rim, so that it became a throne to him, recast in the aura of his authority. "It takes only one moment, only the meeting of eyes for love to reshape the world," he said, "Like lightning out of a clear sky - unexpected and devastating. This I know from experience." He gave Celeborn a warm but worried smile, "Perhaps this is a family trait, and you inherited it, as you have inherited the colour of my hair."

He drank and put the cup down again with a metallic ring on the stone shelf behind him. "But if that were so, why would you not be with her? Why would you be hiding in here with a face like a month of rain?"

Celeborn bowed his head and watched the surface of the water once more. "The Lady was not equally impressed with me."

"How can that be? How can lightning come upon two standing together and take one but not the other?" The King shook his head. He reached out and touched Celeborn's tensed shoulder with his fingertips, a slight caress to take away the hurt from his words. "But if it is so, is it not a fortunate escape for you? Remember the words of Melian. 'Fate is against them and ill luck follows them.' Even your Nerwen is cursed; you cannot tell me you have not seen it."

Celeborn had not forgotten the Queen's words, and he could not deny that some dire thing lay heavily on Galadriel, filling her eyes with grief and secrets. But even this had become secondary to him. She was high hearted and noble. Whatever it was, if Galadriel had been involved, it could not be as bad as it seemed.

"Do you really wish to join yourself to that?"

Having spent his eloquence on Daeron, Celeborn had nothing more than the brutal words of fact to give to his liege. "Yes." He wiped the steam from his face with both hands, "For I am not cursed, and it may be that my innocence could yet be some shield between her and her doom. If only she were willing to receive it."

"She is frightening," said Daeron unexpectedly from his dark niche, trying to lightening the mood, as he would have slackened the strings of a lute before the tension tore it apart. "A very scary woman. I know not what you see in her."

At that, Celeborn laughed at last. You say this to me? You who love Luthien? But he said nothing, for the delicacy of mentioning Daeron's obsession in front of Luthien's father.

Elu too laughed. "Perhaps what you call terror we call splendour." he said, "It was thus between myself and Melian. They wondered how I could dare raise my eyes to her, but the truth was she filled my vision, where ever I looked." Then he ducked beneath the water and surged out again, causing a great wave to suck and splash against the mossy wall. "Come, you two look poached. Let us go somewhere and drink too much and recall times when life was simpler."

"If it please you, Lord," Daeron dried and dressed with embarrassment, "Now that I know my friend is in your care, there are some harp strings I would like to get back to."

He was a strange creature, Daeron. Content to fill the forest with heartbreaking music from some hiding place where he could not be seen, but always unreasoningly awed and brought to incoherence by the King. He would be happier as a disembodied voice, Celeborn thought, and then shivered, appalled at the idea . No. I meant it not! He had to hope the chill and ill omened thought had been only his own foolishness, and not some moment of insight. In either case a blessing seemed called for May Elbereth protect him!

"Of course," said Thingol. He lifted the curtain for the minstrel and, when Daeron had left, dropped it and sat, the desire to go elsewhere apparently gone from him. Looking up to where Celeborn stood, only now beginning to struggle into a slightly damp tunic, he sighed. "I have today received the fealty of Finrod."

Celeborn stopped, startled. He shook off the dread his fleeting thoughts had conjured, and turned his mind to this unexpected news. Finrod accepted Thingol's overlordship? He was impressed. Perhaps he is not so proud as the others. Perhaps he really has come not to conquer but to serve..

"Nerwen and he have gone with Beleg to view the caves of the Narog," said Thingol thoughtfully. "He hopes to set up a kingdom of his own there, in imitation of Menegroth." He took off one of his bracelets and gazed at it - the gems were brighter for the thin film of water that still clung there. "In truth, I was surprised by this humility in him. And I like him."

He raised his eyes to Celeborn's face, his pewter grey gaze full of care for Doriath and its people. Worries that would have crushed a lesser spirit, and a weight of concern that made his nephew very glad Kingship had passed him by, were reflected there for the younger elf to see. Like all of his subjects, I rest in the care of his hands, Celeborn thought, moved.

"Finrod's people may be inexperienced in warfare, but they are fierce," Elu went on, "And he at least remembers he is of our blood. They will be good allies to have in this dark time. It is my hope that, by my lordship over him, I might protect him from his ill-luck - divert his shadowed path into my starlit one. So I understand well enough your desire to be Nerwen's shield. We are playing with fate, you and I, but we would be less than Celbin to venture nothing for our kin."

There was some hope then, Celeborn thought, pulling his tunic aright. He began to plait his hair into a thick rope, squeezing the water out as he did so. "So you do not object to my pursuing her?"

"I do not."

"Then do you have any advice as to how to go about it? This is not an art I have practised before."

The king laughed, and stood up, stretching. "Nor have I! Were she an encampment of the enemy things would be easier."

With hope revived, Celeborn recovered his courage. He liked this better than talk of fates and dooms and shadow. The future was nebulous and he cared little for it, better to concentrate on the present where at least his problems were solid and had a shape that might be known and acted upon. "I have already tried the frontal assault and been repulsed," he said, "I think I must now set in for a siege."

"You have not the patience for a siege," Elu scoffed from long knowledge.

"I will learn it."

Leaning down, confidingly, combining the roles of King and Father and confident, Elu smiled a sly smile. "You need to suborn her allies, and compromise her lines of support."

"Alas! Your metaphor has now escaped me," Celeborn laughed.

"Finrod," said Thingol, "Will he not have much to tell you that you need to know about your beloved? And will she not look more kindly on a man her brother likes? You should cultivate his friendship."

There was more in this suggestion than simple helpfulness, Celeborn knew. He was not unaware that it suited Thingol's statesmanship to reinforce the allegiance of Earwen's children to Doriath, first with friendship and then later, hopefully, by marriage. But it did not trouble him. He would as lief be the friend of Galadriel's brother as not. And as for an alliance by marriage, he could think of nothing he wanted more.

Looking up at Thingol; tall and bright as a Lord of the Maiar, who took the trouble to persuade when he might order, wonder came over him. Perhaps it was not so surprising after all, that Finrod had accepted Elu's authority. Perhaps it was only an example of how things ought to be. "If he is not like Angrod," Celeborn said, "And if it is possible without doing violence to my own nature, I will befriend him as you suggest. Even in my love I will serve you... I would always have it so."

Chapter Seven:  Killing Fish

'Galadriel' Nerwen thought, as she braided up her long hair, twisting a blue ribbon into the plaits. The name had been haunting her. It had followed her to the caves of Narog and whispered in their dry, arched darkness, sometimes in his voice, sometimes in her own, distracting her from Finrod's speculations and the gruff mutterings of the dwarves. For all the help she had been, she might as well have stayed in Menegroth; her mind too full of nuances of meaning to be at all attentive to architecture.

She wound the plaits about her head like a coronet, and looked with some curiosity at her own face, reflected in her mirror of polished silver. Maiden crowned with a radiant garland, she thought, and tucked the ends in firmly. Well, it was apt. Even in the candlelight the braids shone deep gold, touched with some memory of the pale glimmer of Telperion. "Hmn!" she said, and undid the elaborate arrangement with swift irritation. Queenly she might look, thus, but she was as yet no queen, and it felt presumptuous to seem so. Why do they never see aught of me but the hair?

Feanor too had praised the hue of her long tresses, his eyes following her with something of the strange obsessiveness which he kept for his art. His desire had been to take, to possess, even as he had hoarded the light of the Trees; 'I ask but a strand, you will not miss it.' She had refused; no part of her was a thing to be owned. She did not belong in another's possession. She was herself.

But perhaps the most obvious interpretation was not the intended one. It had been a long time, after all, since Feanor had given anything away, even a name. Perhaps she did the prince of Doriath an injustice by the comparison.

Maiden crowned with radiance, she tried a variant meaning. If not her hair, what had he meant?

The silver of her mirror became liquid as she recalled the fountain playing, and he simultaneously mocking her and praising her 'glorious strength'. Could the galad of which he spoke actually be the fire of her spirit, the flame she tended in her secret heart. Was it possible that this dark elf saw and valued her for what she truly was, within?

Or was she reading too much into this, and he meant merely 'Lady of Light', in a bare and literal description of her Calaquendi status?

At this last idea, tired of her chasing thoughts, she laughed, smoothed out the braids and stood. Sindarin was so full of exotic aspirates - though it made for a pleasant accent - that he might well have called her 'Galadhriel - tree woman,' and she misheard. Who would have thought that a man whose lámatyávë she had called savage could come up with so intriguing a name?

She laid her hand on the handle of the door and paused, seeing her sword. It stood, sheathed and peace-tied, between herself and the outside world. From Alqualondë onwards it had been her constant companion, for there in Olwe's city she had fought against her own kin; fought against theft and murder and madness in defence of her mother's faithful people. Ever since then she had needed it by her side, not knowing who in the Noldor host might wish her ill, might consider her a traitor, might even have just cause for vengeance against her. In defending the innocent she had exiled herself not only from Valinor, but also from her father's folk.

The Helcaraxe had paid for much, and many grudges had been smoothed over since, but none knew better than she what pride and resentment simmered beneath, and even in Fingolfin's house she now felt at threat.

Not since the sack of the Swan Haven had she been without it. Not until her audience with Elwë, and it had been a great effort to set it aside then. Picking the sword up, she lifted the belt about her waist, and paused again.

Here in Doriath she was not among Noldor. It would look foolish, it would look suspicious to be armed within the protection of Melian. Here too, no one had a just complaint against her. She had defended Elwë's kin. She had placed herself on their side, so surely with them she would be safe?

Setting down the sword, she turned her back on it. Walking out of her chamber, she closed the door behind her, and it felt as though she left the spilled blood behind with the weapon. Nerwen could be left behind, with the sword, with her guilt, and here in Doriath she could be something new.

How had Celeborn known that her fëa cried out to be washed of its stain, to be made afresh? How had he known - before she did - that she needed a new name?

She could be Galadriel, new and clean. No darkness lay on the name of Galadriel; born beside a fountain in Doriath.

Smiling, lightened, she seized the arm of a servant who was hurrying past. If a beginning was called for, where better to make it than in her brother's new city? "Do you know where Lord Finrod might be?"

"But a little while ago he was in the workshops of the stonemasons." said the lad, his eyes sparkling as she turned her smile on him, "I can show you the way if you will."

"I know it," she said to his evident disappointment, "But thank you."

There was nothing in the cave of the masons but dust, a scattering of hammers; large bulks of white stone half carved, some smooth as new lain snow, some from which it seemed carved beasts struggled to emerge. A horse stood drinking from a river of sensuous curves, his mane all pointed with moisture, but his back legs little more than scratches disappearing into the marble. Scrolls were rolled and stacked in wooden shelves so heavy with dust they seemed calcified. She took a few down and spread them, weighting them with chisels and set squares; a map of the hot springs with suggested routes for aqueducts. A plan for ventilation shafts to bring fresh air down through the press of earth to all the main rooms. A sketch of decorative detail - lily of the valley, its petals weighted by rain.

The art of these elves was different from that of Valinor. Less... fraught with immanence; more frivolous, more fresh. And their architecture spoke of camouflage, of hiding rather than mastery; yielding to the contours of the ground rather than reshaping them to a powerful will. Subtle, she thought, but a little weak to her taste.

"I guessed I would find you here." The voice was clear and sweet as new white wine. Turning, Nerwen beheld Luthien poised in the doorway with a spear in her hand. The King's daughter was barefoot, bare armed, in a loose dress of the silver-grey for which the Sindar had been named. Her hair - a long plait that flicked to and fro behind her - was sprinkled with diamonds, but she was otherwise unornamented. Artless and wild as a child of the Avari, she looked to Nerwen, and beautiful as the moon. "Are you looking for your brother?"

"I was. I imagined he would be hard at work, planning his new kingdom."

Luthien laughed, "Aye, busy as a troop of ants he was, and all alone. Today is a day of rest for the dwarves, and our own masons observe the same feast days out of respect. Yet Finrod would sit and make notes and worry himself over details he could better solve tomorrow when he will have someone to ask. And so Celeborn came upon him, frustrated and crosseyed with poring over faint plans, and took him fishing to clear his head." She picked up a bag that had lain by her feet and slung it across her shoulder. "Then I bethought me that I would join them, and that perhaps you would enjoy the company too."

Oddly, the idea delighted Nerwen. When was the last time she had had leisure to do something so simple? These joys she had thought left behind in the peace of Aman, and her life from now on all politics and warfare. "Thank you," she said, "I would like that."

The sun was up, but still pale in a sky filmed with mist as Luthien led her through beech woods and thickets of sombre yew. The turf underfoot was speckled with white flowers. As they walked, the sun's beams filtered through the tree-trunks in long slices of lemon yellow light. Finding that she had drawn ahead Nerwen stopped to see Luthien caught, ensnared by the beauty of a spidersweb beaded with mist, all gold and faint blush pink against the deep spiked green of the yew trees in the dawn's radiance.

"Sable and argent," said the Princess of the Sindar, "And indigo and grey - these I am accustomed to. But now there are so many fresh hues that I am dazzled wherever I look. Who would have known the trees were so green, and every leaf a different colour?"

"If only you could have seen the world in the light of Telperion and Laurelin," Nerwen replied, unsettled. Luthien's wonder at maimed, impure Anar made her feel a little guilty, like a man whose cloak is rigid with jewels walking past the ragged. "Can you imagine sunlight and moonlight mixing, the proportion of each changing through the day, so that every moment and every sight is a dance between gold and silver; equal but different. I used to lie abed and watch the shades slide across the white wall until I felt I was floating on a sea of pearl. I am afraid the Sun does not compare."

Luthien tore herself away from the cobweb and began to walk away once more through the long wet grass, her skirts and her bare white feet glimmering "I do not think I would like that," she said, brushing aside a branch of ash, "I would miss the stars. I would miss the darkness itself," her smile was fleeting as a firefly, "Like a velvet cloak, it can be; soft and welcoming. Intimate."

Nerwen thought of Ungoliant, the spider-demon, who slew the trees and sucked Aman dry, until all that was left of millennia of brilliance was the gleam at the heart of the Silmarils. After the terror of Ungoliant's shadow, it was hard not to feel that Luthien's enjoyment of the night was an indication of moral frailty. Hard to trust there was not true darkness in the heart of the Dark Elves.

"The Night was not created evil," said Luthien quietly, sensing the turn of her thoughts, "So Daeron says, who knows all the lore of the ancient times. Iluvatar Himself chose to create us in the darkness, beneath the stars, and if we love what He gave us, is that not to our credit? We are as we were created to be. So Celeborn says, who thinks more than he talks, and better. And you..."

So they had both almost come out and said cruel words. Nerwen felt better for it. She was not permitted all the honesty she would have preferred - having secrets which were not her own pressing on her - but something approaching the truth had almost been said. "We are what?" she asked.

"I don't..." Luthien hesitated, "Forgive me. Those who come back from Valinor seem - like my father, like myself - to be a strange hybrid of elf and Maia. It should make me feel greater kinship towards you, but instead I feel you are strange, unstable. Like a maid with one foot on the hythe and one in the boat."

"I have little choice but to step in the ship and learn to sail," Nerwen was at first surprised at the Sinda's insight, and then taken aback at her own surprise. Is not Luthien half Maia? Of course she is wise. "I am an elf of Middle-earth too, now," she said, "And the blood of Earwen runs in my veins. I can learn to love the forests with every bit of passion I once reserved for metal and gems."

"Thank you." Luthien offered her hand and Nerwen clasped it, "If what I said seems cruel it is only that the Noldor seem to think us all so lowly and worthy of contempt. The Green Folk tell us such tales of the terrible sons of Feanor and their arrogance. Even this fair land fails to delight them, and we wonder why they returned if they are so determined to dislike everything."

"And what is your conclusion?"

Luthien turned, tugging her to come. The beeches had given way to birch and willow and there was an endless flutter of small leaves, delicate against the sky. Nerwen heard the lilt and lap of a swift but shallow water. A splash, then cursing, and the easy, companionable laughter of men.

"There are those who say you were sent by the Valar to our aid," Luthien said, brushing aside the peridot curtain of a willow's hanging hair. "But mother would have received word from the Powers if that was so, and she has not."

Coming out from behind the curtain of leaves Nerwen saw a bright broad valley; a slope of poppy-scattered turf descending to a shingle and stone beach. The stream glinted where the sun struck it, but beneath was as brown and clear as fortified wine; all the pebbles richly coloured as agate in its peat stained depths. Finrod stood with Celeborn, knee deep in the water, his undertunic and half the length of his sun-shot hair soaked and dripping like a small rain into the flood. He was hoisting a spear out of the mud of the river bed, shaking his head and laughing.

Luthien paused on the bank, looking across at the two neri with a speculative gaze. "But Celeborn says that perhaps the Noldor realized they'd made a mistake in going in the first place. He says that you needed more room to quarrel in than was available in Aman." Luthien's grey gaze wandered back to Nerwen's face - testing for a reaction. A smile lurked about the corners of her perfect mouth, painting her beauty with mischief.

Nerwen held back laughter. She had come to Menegroth from Fingolfin's stronghold of Hithlum, where many songs were sung of the coming of the Noldor - how the Moriquendi and the rude Sindar were overwhelmed with admiration and awe; how they trembled in their hidden fastnesses at the might and majesty of the people of Finwë. Would that the bards who spread this tale could hear the true thoughts of Elwë's folk, she thought. It would do them good.

Nevertheless, she drew down her brows and frowned at the Grey-elf Prince where he stood, slender, silver, poised in the rush of the stream. Finrod had already waved and was wading towards them, but Celeborn had not moved. "Does he indeed,'' she asked with hauteur.

He struck with the same unhurried sweep as a heron, and drew the spear up with a brown trout curling about its barbs, only then did he turn and favour Luthien with a complacent grin and Nerwen with a look of uncertainty.

"I'm sure he didn't mean you," Luthien said, amused.

"I daresay he would have, had he known me then." she said, watching him - very Teleri he looked, in the water, his movements fluid as the stream, "We did not go from our first meeting on the best of terms."

Luthien laughed, "My kinsman has a way with first impressions." Then she handed the spear to Nerwen and went to Finrod's side. "Lord Finrod! You are soaked. Look - over there is a little bay where we might make a fire to dry you out. I have my tinderbox here, would you oblige me by fetching some wood?" She drew him away, leaving Nerwen and Celeborn facing one another in shared, uncomfortable silence.

A cloud passed over the sun and its shadow passed fleet across the trees, scudding like a living thing across the river, cold on her shoulders, then passing, leaving the warmth of the sunlight newly welcome. They watched it go together, and though she had many clever things planned to say she found that none of them exactly fit the moment. She had been envisaging a meeting in Menegroth, both of them in their finery, surrounded by courtiers who would admire the wisdom and the art of her reply. Not here, with him barefoot at the stream's edge, dirt on his hands and leaves in his unbound hair; like a child caught at truant from his tutor.

At length when she did not speak he sighed, and his dark gaze came to settle on her. "Lady," he said quietly, "Rightly you said to me, when we last met, that my words were presumptuous and unmannerly. I beg you, forget them, and let us begin anew. For if my speech was insulting my intention was not, and I would gladly be counted your friend, if you will have me."

Nerwen was taken aback. This was unforseen. She had indeed done him an injustice to compare him with Feanor, who had never in his life apologized for anything. Ridiculous though the comparison was, she was reminded of her father, turning back from rebellion, bearing the ridicule and contempt of his family by admitting that he was wrong. At the time she had thought it cowardly of him. Now she was coming to see it as a strange sort of strength. A flexible, resilient strength, like that of the best steel.

Impressed though she was, she felt oddly bereft. Some part of her had been looking forward to the argument - to matching him and forcing him to acknowledge her victory. Now that contest had been set aside; parried by this unexpected move. "Do you then demand back the word you hurled at me with such vigour?" she said, and felt a pang of regret. Galadriel. It was a beautiful name.

He laughed. "It was rather launched as an arrow, was it not? But no. It was a gift. Yours to use or discard as pleases you. I have no more part in it." He ducked his head and put down his catch on the grassy bank. Then he looked at her sideways with an expression of faint daring. "Your brother says that in Valinor you use a rod with a hook, and have not spear-fished before, which explains his clumsiness. Do you think you can do better than he?"

"Of long experience, I know I can." Nerwen boasted, and her mood soared, leaving her neither determined nor fell, not triumphant, nor grim, but only happy, as she had not felt since unrest came upon her people in Aman. So rare a feeling it was indeed that at first she could not remember its name.

Kilting her skirts, she slipped off her shoes and strode into the water. It was clean and cold. The small stones underfoot were rounded, slippery, making each step a matter of care. As she drew near to Celeborn the water deepened and grew dark. Its surface smoothed, but its current strengthened. Sunlight was stained topaz by the time it reached the stream bed, lighting a forest of swaying weed with a storm-like gold.

"Hold the spear like this, and raise it thus," said the Sinda, demonstrating. She mirrored him, determined to better all of his expectations.

"And then?"

"And then we wait."

Tiny crayfish scuttled among the stones and weed, their eyes on stalks, their backs painted in intricate designs. Freshwater crabs sidled out of the shade to grasp at empty light. The flood nudged at her knees, deliciously cool, and the scent of mallow and balm lay over the water. Warmth caressed the back of her neck from the last fruit of Laurelin, and the unfamiliar happiness grew until it filled her lungs like a song.

"There are no fish," she said.

"Because we were moving," Celeborn replied, "Which is why we prepare for the strike now, and then settle into stillness. You are to be - for them - a tree. Rooted, drowsy, drinking and thinking slow thoughts. Then they will come close to you, suspecting no harm."

"Is it not cruel, deceiving them thus?" she said, looking at him from the corner of her eye. She could see only his shoulder and hand, a sweep of bright hair and just the edge of a sweet, private smile.

"Finrod says you bait your hook with food, and they, receiving your gift, are drawn out to death with steel through their lips. Is that not equally cruel?"

"Aiya!" she laughed, "We are monsters, then, both of us."

"Still now. See - he comes."

This was also a trout, but of every colour - faint rose and citrine stripes glimmered on his sleek sides as he came nosing into the dark water, looking for cover. The fans of his tail worked with lazy grace and his eyes were cold yellow moons. Drifting, a weightless dragon of the deep, he passed under her shade, and for a moment she quailed, thinking of other times her hand had dealt death, pitying him.

But if I will not kill, I may not eat, She plunged the spear down with all her strength - it dived like a kingfisher. Impact jolted through her back and the tug and shudder of a life passing broke open memories of the slaughter of Alqualondë. Blood in the water. There was blood in the water. She recoiled, sick, assaulted by the past.

"Lady?" Celeborn was beside her. She looked at him and saw the faces of Teleri mariners; surprised by doom - confused, but not yet afraid, because they had not learned to conceive that elf might slay elf. "What is it? What is wrong?"

Aman's holiness had been spoiled that day. But Doriath...Doriath retained its innocence. Here, in the power of Melian, the elves were free of fear and guilt, as they had been in Valinor, before her family tainted it. She covered her eyes, and felt the pressure of his fingertips on her wrist - a little, inquiring touch, shy and concerned. They were like children, these dark elves, secure in their safety, untouched by Morgoth. A desire burned in her to keep them so, to protect them. By her ruin she could stand in places they dared not go. She would be their champion.

"What can I do?"

Shaking her head, she brought herself once more to composure. "Stay, it is nothing. Only I...I do not like to kill."

Such a hypocrite I am, she thought, as he took her arm gently, to steady her and help her to the bank, Such a hypocrite.

Chapter Eight: And Other Matters of Guilt

Finrod's tunic hung on a tree, small tendrils of steam rising from it in the warmth of the fire. He sat, bare to the waist, gutting and cleaning the brown trout. Luthien had rolled a large flat stone into the centre of the fire and taken from her bag a loaf of bread, a pat of butter and a flagon of white mead, stoppered with wax. Both looked up easily as Celeborn and Nerwen approached, and Finrod beamed to see her catch. "I told you my sister would uphold our Noldor honour," he said, "She was ever unwilling to be outdone by any of us."

Only his eyes told of concern as he looked up, seeing her white face. What happened? Is there aught I can do?

Bitter memories, she replied, and set down her kill beside him, still skewered on the spear tip, Let me be a moment. Hands on hips, she raised her chin and looked sternly at the shadowy woods. Breathed in, then let the past go. That was Nerwen. Not Galadriel. The pungent smell of wild garlic provided her an excuse to walk away, and she gathered herbs until her hands and heart steadied. When she returned it was to find the brown trout split and smoking gently on the hot stone, basted with butter, sprinkled with sorrel which grew beneath the willows. Luthien took the garlic from her with a smile of thanks, to chop it, and it went in the rainbow trout with more butter, and breadcrumbs, and a splash of mead.

"I will never remember all those names!" Luthien was laughing in reply to something Finrod had said. "So Finwë had Feanor, Fingolfin and Finarfin, and then Feanor had...far too many sons, Fingolfin had Turgon, Fingon and Aredhel, and your father had you two and three more brothers besides?"

Celeborn returned from the edge of the wood with four lengths of birch bark, smooth and grey as cloud, which would serve as platters for the meal. He sat down on the grass with his back to a tree and began to whittle forks out of peeled sticks.

"That's, what, fifteen royal cousins!" Luthien shook her head. "What would you do with so many princes?"

"It doesn't seem so many to me," said Finrod, "Though we were a rowdy tribe of children together, and it may have seemed more to the adults. To us it was simply a case of having many ready-made friends."

This was a better thought, and Nerwen wondered if Finrod had chosen it deliberately. Sitting on a sun-warmed boulder she took the loaf and began to slice and butter it. "Aye," she said, remembering a lost paradise, which had seemed at the time just to be normal life, "In and out of each other's houses and the workshops and studios of our elders. Always someone to talk to, or fight with; knowing that if you woke in the night your champions and your playmates would still be there."

Behind Nerwen a lark sang out, and a blackbird answered it in a duel of sweet notes. The shifting wind brought her the savory scents of smoke and cooking fish, and the green open smell of woodlands. The susurration of leaves above her and the lilting chuckle of the stream against its banks were huge and gentle at once. Contentment returned to her, and humour. All of a sudden she wondered what this little picnic would seem like to Caranthir, or the twins, who preferred not to dine off silverware if they could get gold. "She's eating with sticks! Barefoot, off plates of bark! Our coz has turned as savage as the natives.

At the thought she turned to look at Celeborn, with whom she had wrangled over the word. He was uncharacteristically quiet, his head bent over his carving, his back a tensed line, his face obscured.

"To me it seems strange there are so few princes among the Sindar," said Finrod, tying his hair in a knot behind him so it would not catch the flames as he lifted the food off the fire. "From three brothers in Aman come fifteen children, but from two brothers in Ennor, only the two of you. How can that be? Does Aman increase the birthrate? Or Middle-earth decrease it?"

"It would seem in keeping," Nerwen said, caught by the observation, "Since the Two Trees increased our strength in all other spheres for their light also to improve our power of generation."

Luthien too had now grown still, her smile with a splintered glass edge. "You are not comparing like with like," she said, very carefully, "For my mother is not an elf, and it is wonder enough that I exist at all, without demanding siblings."

"I think it has little to do with Treelight," said Celeborn without raising his head. He shaved a long curl of wood from the branch he was carving, and looked at it rather than at them. "Only that in Aman you were safe. My grandparents had Galadhon on the march, when they were under Araw's protection, but when Araw went ahead my grandmother was slain by wargs. So there was one child of that union only. My parents had two sons and were expecting a daughter when my mother was killed and Elmo...taken by orcs. Then Galadhon could bear life here no longer and went West and Galathil, my brother, went with him to the Havens and did not come back."

He laughed, without humour, and looked up at last, vestiges of ancient hurt in his gaze. "So that is why I, distant though my kinship is with Elu, am 'Prince of Doriath'. Out of all his brothers and his brother's kin, I am the only one left."

There was a silence. Finrod gazed helplessly at Nerwen across the fire. I did not mean to cause pain. I did not think. We feel so much is due to us, because of Finwe's murder... Yet we are not the only ones to suffer.

Nerwen reached across and clasped Celeborn's wrist. "When?" she said, "When did this happen?"

He gazed at the hand on his sleeve and then up into her face with a rueful look. "I was not yet twenty, and understood nothing but that my family had all gone, and left me behind. Folk said to me 'Your father sails the white ships in the Haven of the Swans now, and when your mother is reborn they will dwell there together, happy and free from harm.' It did not seem a great comfort, when I wanted them here."

"Lamps of the Valar!" said Finrod, uncomfortably. "So much death! And you a child!"

"It is not an uncommon tale," Celeborn smiled, shrugging off their concern. "There is scarce an elf in Doriath who has not lost a loved one, and the case is all the more common outside the Fence. Besides, my fate is not so pitiable. If I lost Galadhon I gained Elu, and Luthien is a better dancer - and prettier - than Galathil."

Nerwen laughed, and ate, and heard with great relief as Finrod moved the conversation on to forms of dance, comparing the traditions of their two peoples in a discourse that swiftly grew too technical for her. Like children, secure in their safety, she had thought of the Doriathrim, but no elf of Aman had ever lost a parent, save Feanor alone, and him it had driven slowly mad. Doriath was not, after all, a little piece of Valinor on Earth, but a fortress against a world whose hostility she still had difficulty comprehending. The Sindar had borne such blows as the Noldor had inflicted on themselves - worse blows - without becoming fell, or doomed or dangerous. In the midst of death they remained light of heart; worked, played, rejoiced, and by their mere existence defeated Morgoth's plans daily.

It was a sobering thought, humbling her Calaquendi pride, but perhaps, before she could claim the right to protect them, she should set herself to learn from them how to live in such a marred, deadly world.

***

The cooked fish was full of flavour, the bread light and the mead sweet. Under their influence the grimness of topic swiftly passed. Nerwen eased once again into unaccustomed pleasure, flicking the bones into the water and dabbling her buttery fingers to cool and clean them.

From dance, Luthien's discourse passed to music. She pressed Celeborn to sing with her the duets and love songs of Beleriand. It was natural then for Finrod and Nerwen to reply with the music of Tirion, the hymns of Indis' people and the shanties Earwen had sung defiantly in the stone city of her husband. There was much to praise in both traditions. Privately though, Nerwen felt that while she and her brother could not compare as singers to the fair-voiced Lindar, she preferred the complex depth of Valinorean melody to the simplicity and occasional folly of the alternative.

Thus the day passed in wonder, and night came down, while their small fire painted every face with gold, and the stars were strewn like dew over the meadow of the heavens. Then Nerwen went to the edge of the wood, where Celeborn sat. Looking up with him into the sky she breathed in the wonder of Varda's ancient creation and felt both released and apprehensive, on the cusp of something untried and wonderful, though she did not know what it could be. Certainly the stars were more awesome because of the darkness that surrounded them, just as the diamonds were made more beautiful by the contrast of Luthien's midnight hair.

"I have not had a day so free from concern or grief for many years," she said, half to him, half to herself. "I had forgotten who I was, in my zeal to be achieving things."

"That will not do," he said, smiling. The branch he had been carving was now a fish with whorled fins and a comical expression. He put it down and looked at her. "I thought to take you and Finrod hunting, but since you are so loathe to kill perhaps I will take him alone."

"And leave me in my chambers, bored?" She was affronted by this piece of tact, and furious at herself for giving rise to it. Was she really so dispensable to their amusements, that they would go without her? It smarted, worse than many other things which should hurt more.

"And show you the river instead. Do you sail?"

"My grandfather is Olwë of the Teleri," she said, all insult forgotten in eagerness to prove herself once more, "And I have spent many a day on the waves in the Bay of Eldamar. Gladly would I relearn such skills as I have lost from lack of use, and pleased I will be to see more of the fair country of Doriath, which I am rapidly growing to love."

She had not seen such a smile from him before - it lit him like the scattered stars. She had endured the empty words of many great Lords among the three kindreds of Valinor, and not once felt so flattered as she did by that smile. Her reeling emotions touched on joy once more.

"Tell me of Eldamar," he said, suddenly, "And Alqualondë. I should be glad to know what life Galadhon lives now. That he is happy."

It was all she could do not to flinch. Joy became misery with a rapidness that seemed unnatural to her; a keenness that must - she had no other explanation - be some result of Melian's overarching power. Curse Feanor, she thought, And his bloodyhanded sons. And whatever misguided loyalty which keeps me silent. But she sat by his side and forced herself to say, lightly, "I had rather you told me more of this land. Did you say you had dwelt in Ossiriand in your youth? What is that country like?"

The pleasantry bid fair to choke her. Guilt closed dark wings over her like a hawk mantling over its prey. Chances are, she thought, bitterly, your father met his death on the end of a Noldor blade

Chapter Nine:  A Mistimed Blow

The sword thrust came in hard, swift. Nerwen blocked it only just in time, her shield arm aching with effort, but her opponent had left himself open. She stepped in, sliced toward his ribcage, sure she had him now. He leapt back and parried her blow - the blades of the two swords sliding together down to the hilt. His movements, which had been thoughtful, cautious, suddenly became sure as he twisted the weapon in a violent circle, the quillions grating on her steel. Her wrist felt fit to break, but she pulled her sword from the lock in a shriek of metal and sparks, and jabbed it straight in again to press the links of metal just above his belt. At the same time, a blow in the side made her reel - he had hit her, ungently, with the rim of his shield.

"Do not take out your ill temper on me, my lord Prince," she said scathingly, "You lost. Had it been my pleasure, you would be dead."

Celeborn tossed the shield on the ground and kicked it, though not so harshly as to do it harm. "If I bore my own weapons, you would be dead," he said. "That lock would have broken the blade of your sword, an' I used an axe." He took off his helmet and combed his fingers through his hair - brighter than the polished steel. "And I am accustomed to wielding a weapon in the off hand, not a shield - that would have been a killing blow, had I my knife."

Nerwen put her own shield down more reverently on the turf, where it all but disappeared into long grass and waving buttercups. Where they had fought a swathe lay trampled, but it began to spring up again even as she watched. The practice ground was deserted. Apart from them the only living things were meadowlarks singing in the twilight. The sun was going down - a great wrack and glory of madder and gold in the west, and the heavens seemed all around them here, bathing their mail and their weapons in glory.

"You fall instinctively into your own style," she said, "Whenever you are pressed. And while it's a good style with the axe, it will not help you learn the sword."

"I begin to wonder why I want to."

By the side of the meadow there lay a fallen tree, left to provide homes for mushrooms and hedgehogs, which also served as a bench. Celeborn sat there, and after a pause, looking out at the curtain of fire between herself and the West, she came and sat by him. It was peaceful. Mist had begun to arise beneath the trees, and spill in long runnels of cool translucence out among the cornflowers. Dimly, in the East, stars began to shine, and the moon was a crescent of white in a pale blue sky.

"The sword is the weapon of Kings," Nerwen said, reflectively, "Symbol of power and authority. The axe ...just makes you look like an overgrown dwarf."

Celeborn laughed and stretched out his long legs, linking his hands behind his head. "I little care what I look like, and I am no King. Besides, the axe is the traditional weapon of my people - why should I be other than they?"

Over the last few months, Nerwen thought, they had done much together - he keeping her company while Finrod became more and more absorbed in the planning of Nargothrond - and this was one of the things she found most frustrating about him. "But surely you will be a king one day? Your birth entitles you, and you have strength and wit enough. What is lacking?"

"Only the desire. Elu is my king, and I am content."

His contentment was all too obvious, and she found she both admired and begrudged it, depending on her mood. It was very alien to her - she had inherited in full the drive and restlessness of the Noldor, who understood neither the settled security of the Vanyar nor the drifting happiness of the Teleri. "Yet I should like to be a Queen," she said with tart asperity.

His eyes widened, as though he had seen something astonishing in this reply, and then he looked away with a slow, delighted smile.

"Is it so amusing to you, that I might rule my own country?" she said, nettled "What makes you grin so?"

"My own thoughts."

"Share them with me then."

"I will not," he unstoppered his water flask to take a drink, passed it to her, "I deem the time not ripe."

Taking a mouthful of watered wine, she felt herself filled up with annoyance. How could he be so blunt at some questions and so provokingly silent at others? "I have learned many things from Melian these past months," she said, threateningly. She would not be made the butt of some private joke. "I could ferret out these thoughts of yours did you will it or no."

"Yes, you could." he looked back, his voice gone hard with warning, "And the cost would be our friendship. I will not have you meddle in my mind like Morgoth in the thoughts of his orcs."

The moon had waxed and waned a half dozen times and more since they had met, and in that time Nerwen had begun to see that beneath the rough surface of the Prince of Doriath there lay a complex and intriguing man, surprising wise, surprisingly kind. But it could not be denied that his turn of phrase was unfortunate in the extreme. "I would not by any means emulate the Enemy," she said, managing to be light hearted about the slight. It was she, after all, who had offered the first offence. "Keep your secrets - I doubt they could insult me worse than this comparison."

He laughed and stood, stretching. "Well, I'm to work - I hold court today. You?"

"To Melian, she and Luthien are teaching me to spin the web of those grey cloaks you Sindar wear. It is quite an art!"

"Indeed. Shall I see you here tomorrow?"

"Before that, even," Nerwen gathered up her shield. Her feigned amusement transformed into anticipation. She could not resist a parting dart. "For I'm sure you will not miss Daeron's recital this dawn-tide, and I would hope to hear your insights into the work. If they are not too delicate to share."

***

Celeborn sang to himself on the way to the bath, his court robes over his arm and his heart light. 'Should you not like to learn the use of a sword? I will teach you, if you would.' She had said, little over a month ago, in the rain, as they stood beneath the same oak and looked out at Finrod, blade-dancing in the downpour. Finrod had seemed a flame unquenched, leaping, radiant in the grey, and Celeborn had thought of little but the beauty of it, in taking up the offer. Well...that, and the excuse to spend more time with the lady. He did not know then, he believed that she did not know, even now, it was the root of a seedling which might grow up into hope.

'I will teach you the sword.'... 'The sword is the weapon of kings.'... 'Do you not want to be a king?'.... 'I want to be a Queen.'

She was mighty, fair, incisive, and endearingly vain. He enjoyed her company and believed she liked his. But this was the first indication that - however vague the stirrings - she was beginning to wonder if their futures might run together.

He bathed with no awareness of the water. Folk greeted him and he noticed the greetings a little too late to return them, distracted as he was. Dressing absently he checked twice to be sure he was neat, and still did not know.

If no one interfered, in the next five or ten years he could take this little seed and nurse it into a great tree beneath which they could both shelter. Only time was needed, and that he had in abundance.

It was going to be hard to maintain a pretence of Magisterial sternness, when he so felt like grinning for joy.

***

The workroom of Melian was full of lamplight, blended of gold and silver in a heartbreaking echo of the Trees. The walls were covered with tapestries and storied hangings of many colours; depictions of the Valar, of the garden of Lorien. A cunning mirror brought a square of the night sky down into the cave, so they could look out as if from a window at Menelvagor, bestriding the sky. To the left hung a scene of Oromë, discovering the elves by the waters of Cuivienen. To the right - all pearl and mithril on a sea of palest blue - a depiction of Swan Ships off the coast near Tol Eressea. This last, Nerwen thought, must be taken from dream, or vision, for Melian could never have seen the ships in waking life. And now she never would. They had been burnt - Feanor destroying the master-work of others in chasing his own masterpiece, betraying his kin who had followed him to their own ruin, leaving his brothers to walk to Ennor, across the grinding ice, or to perish in the attempt.

She did not look at that picture as she sorted yarn and warped the great loom.

"I want more gold for this," said Luthien, and rose to pause in the doorway, "I will run down to the workshops and see if the naugrim have any." She leaned over, plucking a mist grey thread from Nerwen's tangle, "This one should be in the sixth shed, not the fourth. Is there aught I can get for you?"

"Thank you no."

On Luthien's departure, there was silence for a while, though Melian's gaze beat upon Nerwen's bent head like the heat of the sun. Then the Queen of Doriath said, "Nerwen, have you received welcome here?"

"I have, Lady," she smiled, "As though I came home from a great journey."

"Yet you repay us with silence."

Nerwen looked at her hands and wished fervently that she was outside at swordplay once more. True, Elwë and Melian, Luthien and...and all their people, did not deserve this of her. Feanor did not deserve her protection. But she would not be like him, she would not backstab her own kindred. Not now, when Maedhros' torment and Fingon's heroism had drawn the Noldor back into one folk. "Though it grieves me to do you discourtesy," she said, "The secrets I have are not my own to share."

Melian withdrew the weight of her glance and stitched the white wing of a bird in flight. Into the silence her voice fell both serene and commanding, like the voices of the ocean. "The Noldor speak never of the Valar, nor have they brought any message - not even from Olwë or his people, who went away. And if we speak to them of returning they say 'we may not' and then lie. For what cause were the high people of your folk driven forth as exiles from Aman? And what evil lies on the sons of Feanor that they are so haughty and so fell?"

"We were not driven forth." Nerwen raised her chin, her pride flaring, "We came of our own will. For vengeance for Finwë, and for the Silmarils." Then she told Melian of the glorious jewels and their theft. But still she said nothing of the Kinslaying, or the Doom of Mandos, or the Oath before Iluvatar which had already chained the sons of Feanor in such madness.

"You have not told me all." Melian said, her face as still as a mountainside. Beneath her fingers there spread the flutter of Telperion's leaves, many shades of dark green and silver. Her presence was golden and heavy, like the light which broods on earth before a storm. "But from what you have told me, I guess much. A shadow you would cast over your journey here, but it is a shadow thrown to cover evil. Deeds have been done which Thingol should know, for his guidance."

In her childhood in Aman, Nerwen had not conceived that light could have a pressure, that holiness and innocence could cause pain, but it was so. She felt torn apart under the Maia's gaze. I have found folk I want to belong with, and I do not wish to deceive them. But I do not want them to know, either. I could not bear it if ...they... were to look on me with abhorrance.

She despised her pain. Yet I am Nerwen, daughter of Finarfin of the royal house of Finwë, and no umanyar is going to make me feel like this. "Perhaps," she said, simply, "But he will not hear of them from me."

***

Luthien returned with her hands full of overflowing light and poured on the table gold thread as fine as gossamer and gems pierced for stitching. Then Melian rose. Her hair fell about her like a cloak; shadow enfolding splendour. "I must speak with Elu," she said, and departed. When she had gone, it felt as though summer had passed to autumn.

Nerwen came to stir the gems with her finger, to watch the ripples of colour they made as they worked upon the lamplight. She did not like the dwarvish step-cut in which they had been shaped, which made the colour seem richer, but reduced their sparkle. Now, however, was not the time to say so.

"Bad?" said Luthien.

Nerwen looked up. "Bad enough." She tried to smile. Her mouth had forgotten how.

"Aye. We have all seen this darkness in you," Luthien said lightly, "And wondered at it. And at last Mother said she would come out and ask you. Did you tell her?"

"No," Nerwen said, "But I wonder at you. You have welcomed us and feasted us, learned and taught and played with us, and we thought...we thought you saw nothing until now. Why would you be so kind if you knew we were marred?"

Luthien unwound some gold thread and held it up as if testing the colour against Nerwen's hair. She shrugged and gave a comely grimace of resignation. "You are family. Is that not enough? I just wish you would tell us, so we could have the argument and the reconciliation, and get it over with. You will have to speak, at least, before you and Celeborn get married. It cannot be the sort of secret you keep from your husband."

"My what?" This was so unexpected that Nerwen recoiled from it as from a literal blow, taking a step back, raising her hands defensively. Her mind likewise reeled and for a time she was speechless, though aware enough to be insulted by the clear sincerity in Luthien's eyes. "I think you have misunderstood. If we have been close it has been as friends. I do not regard him in such a light, and he, I am certain, does not see me so."

The past half year wavered as an image caught on water. 'Galadriel' she thought. Even the best of friends might consider the gift of a name too personal to hazard, but it was customary for lovers. She had slapped him back for it, and he had seemed to take the correction, but suppose he had merely feigned a change of heart, deceived her since, regarding his intent?

"He does though," said Luthien warily, "Love you, I mean. He said so." She sat down, turning a great sapphire over and over in her fingers, watching it, crestfallen. "I am sorry. I thought you knew."

"He said so?" if she had been incensed before that anger was now white hot. She clenched her fists and tried not to loom over the Sinda, but she could not keep the contempt from her voice. "And has he been saying this to all of Menegroth and I the last to hear?"

"You are unjust!" Now Luthien stood, her grey eyes glinting like spearpoints, to match Nerwen stare for stare. "He told Father, who had the right to know - in case he wished to veto such an alliance - and Father told me. And I would not have said a word had I known your mind. Though I do not understand why you are so up in arms - you are together all the time, you light up when you see him, you even laugh, sometimes. And if rumour flies round Doriath that you will soon be wed it is not I but your own behaviour that has made it seem so."

"I..." Nerwen felt huge with intolerable emotion. "I must think on this." Surely this was how Maedhros had felt in Thangorodrim - in agony he was helpless to relieve whether he writhed and cried out, or lay still. She had been betrayed by her closest friend, and now she was being blamed for it? "I must..."

She turned and swept through the door, unsure if she wanted to do murder or to weep.

Chapter Ten:  Some Things Become Clear

The case - a wrangle between fresco-painter and tapestry-maker as to who had stolen the other's idea - was reaching a level of inventive name-calling which displayed livelier imaginations in the artists than their work, when it was interrupted by an usher declaring the sky outside was full of shooting stars. Since the artist's dispute would wait, but the heaven's glory would not, Celeborn adjourned the case until tomorrow, so all were free to go and watch. He went himself to Melian's rose garden and lay down flat on the daisy spangled turf, enfolded by scent. Looking out, the world was a wall at his back: above and around him he faced the deep quiet of night and the arrow-swift flashes of hurrying stars. Did Elbereth weep? Did she hunt? Or was she dancing, her hair spattered with white gems, flying out behind her like Luthien's?

If Galadriel were to dance, he thought, it would be like the sunrise - all fiery colours and splendour and heat.

He sighed. It would have been nice to share this with her. His heart always beat faster in her presence, and joys were tripled. The very world adorned itself in extra beauty around her, and though it was fair to lie here alone under the mithril sky, it could no longer be perfect until she was beside him.

As if in answer to his thoughts she came striding through the starlit garden, the trailing sleeves of her gown catching on thorns, so that she left a trail of strewn petals and eddying perfume. He sat, and happiness blossomed within him; because she was here, because she was so beautiful, because she was so very angry, and he had always found her anger as delightful as the rest of her.

Rising, he bowed, "Hail, warrior Lady." he said, laughing, "Well met, oh terrifying one, under a storm of stars."

She stopped, planted her feet apart, and looked at him. There was not a flicker of amusement in her eyes, but she was tall with fury; her mouth closed tight on something like contempt.

Celeborn's merry mood fled, leaving him empty and unsettled. Anger he feared not, but distain? He had done nothing to deserve such a look as this.

Galadriel balled her fists and her lip curled as though she was about to speak the name of the Enemy. Her alto voice was dark with distaste. "Do you love me?"

The words hit him like a punch to the stomach - winding him. He had to breathe carefully to find voice to answer her. Curse it! Too early, in a soil unprepared, someone had told her. Daeron, he had no doubt - fool that he had been for ever confessing anything to that sounding reed. And now all was ruined, the seed uprooted, its delicate leaves withering. "I do," he said, pain making him reckless, "Why it should make you snarl at me so warg-like I know not."

"Oh, warg like am I?" her eyes flashed, "Then what are we to say of you, Deceiver! Pretending friendship where you sought alliance. Had I known your intent I would have kept you further off." She paced away, charged back. "Long and bitter experience I have of those who load me with praise, and see in truth only their own heads crowned with the diadem of Finwë's house. A more sneaking strategy than yours I have not yet seen. But that does not make it any more admirable!"

This he had not imagined, and would not bear. She thought him a fortune hunter? Why? "What care I of Finwë?" he exclaimed, angrily. "I am Prince of the greatest elven realm of Ennor. Elu's kin. Of royalty your equal. And even if I valued such trifles as crowns I would not buy one thus; by making false love to one of the Departed; self-dispossessed, self-darkened, self-doomed."

Looking at her face, eye to eye, gazes locked in hurt and fury, he heard what he had said. It was true, but it was probably not the right thing to say to the woman you loved. He forced himself to breathe again, tried to calm down. "If I offered friendship it was because it seemed to be all you would take from me," he said, "All that you wanted." A little flare of jealousy surfaced, at the thought of the many suitors she had claimed to have on Aman. Had any of them followed her here? "How many of your admirers spent nigh on a year in your company, knowing your mind and heart, and still loved you? You are not the easiest woman in the world to care for."

Evidently this too had been the wrong thing to say. If possible, Galadriel's back became more rigid. Her mouth compressed to a thin line, and light skittered over her skin in curls like the sun-tails on Finarfin's banner. Revealed as a being of power and light she looked down on him and sneered. "Self-darkened? This is an odd accusation from you, Moriquende. My equal? Dark elf, prince of a people of darkness. I do not blame you that you have never looked upon the Trees. Indeed, I pity you. But the fact remains that you have not their light in your bones, in your blood. You are lesser than I, and your pride deceives you if it tells you otherwise. Night does not marry day, nor does Light wed Dark. They are too far apart. And the mere notion is..." she grimaced as though she would be sick, "Disgusting. You will forgive me if ever I gave you cause to think differently."

She turned and stormed away, stiff as an injured man holding closed a mortal wound, and he stood as stunned as though the world had ceased to be, orphaned and afloat in the black sky.

***

There passed a time which seemed infinite, during which his heart beat twice, and he laboured under many emotions and thoughts, none of which made sense. He saw nothing, but he heard: a sly footfall, the sound of silk brushing rose-leaves, the falter of the air as a shape moved through it. Someone was there. Someone had been there all along. Had watched him be utterly destroyed, and now slid away while he stood maimed by pain. Fury lit him. He spun and seized the eavesdropper by the flick of his cloak, tugging sharply. The spy reeled back into the garden, sat down heavily in a flower-bed and rubbed his throat, where the brooch of his cloak had been pulled against his neck. It was Finrod - Finrod Felagund, as the dwarves now called him - with a face rueful, and red from embarrassment, and not unsympathetic.

"I did not overhear deliberately," he hastened to say, "I was sitting in the arbour watching the stars. I thought, if you did not see me, I could feign ignorance of the whole matter, and you would be spared at least that humiliation."

Humiliation, Celeborn thought, and how I make all worse by acting in rage. Shame replaced fury with drunken swiftness. He reached down and helped Finrod to his feet. "I am..." he said, suddenly weak. In the centre of the garden a queen among willows grew, and her trailing hair curtained a carved seat which encircled her lichen greened trunk. He sat there, lowered his head into his hands. "Forgive me. I am...not entirely master of myself at this moment."

Another endless period of misery passed in the time it took him to think Disgusting. I disgust her.

Finrod lowered himself tentatively onto the seat next to him. Celeborn felt the Noldo's presence like a wash of faint warmth against his shoulder, looked up to see Galadriel's brother turning his rings one by one and frowning at them. "Should I leave you?" Finrod said gently, "I can see that you might not be able to bear me."

"Will she not need you?" She had seemed distressed enough to need comfort, and though he knew he could not go to her - because I disgust her - surely someone should.

"No," Finrod laughed quietly, "Nerwen is invulnerable, and needs no one, as she would be sure to tell me at length did I dare try to aid her. I will let that furnace cool before I step into its glare. But you...?"

"I would speak to you a little, then. Because," an urge to weep stopped his mouth. He fought it off, "Because I do not understand what just happened, and you are the only one who can explain it to me."

"What is there to explain?" Finrod left off fiddling with the jewels about his fingers and looked out at the dim garden and the streaks of falling stars.

Celeborn drew his legs up, wrapped his arms around them and rested his cheek on his knee. "These past months we have been inseparable. We have talked and laughed and rejoiced at the ways our understandings fit together, and squabbled when they did not, and enjoyed the contest. And all this time I have disgusted her? Why would she befriend me if she bore me such contempt?"

Finrod frowned, and, distracted though he was, Celeborn could sense him chasing down words, trying to fit them to some concept as insubstantial and essential as air - as difficult to grasp, as hard to explain. At last the Noldo shrugged and said "Friendship is not marriage. Friendship is of the mind, but marriage of the body, and in body...you are Moriquende."

"What of it?" said Celeborn, annoyed at the word, and thankful for annoyance; it suited him better than despair. "The Trees are dead and we will all be moerbin from now on, together. How does that make me worthless?"

"It is as Nerwen said," Finrod smiled apologetically, as though trying to absolve himself of blame for the way the universe was. "The light of the trees altered us - we are stronger and greater of mind and body than we were when our forefathers awoke by Cuivienen. Wiser, brighter, taller, fairer, more skilled than you are. We are become like...like oak trees among willow. We cannot help it, nor can you. It is in the blood."

He did not look down, but of themselves his hands began to move again, lacing together and pulling apart. "If you had children," he said, "You and Nerwen, they would be half Dark. She would look at them and know they were marred because of you; breakable as a willow twig, because of their father. You would not want that any more than she did, would you?"

It was a relief, Celeborn thought, to have this out in the open. Putting his feet down on the turf he noticed, with satisfaction, that Finrod was shorter than he - 'taller', indeed! It seemed the end of a long oppression to know why 'moriquendi' sounded like an insult on the lips of the Departed, even though they claimed it was not. They truly believed themselves to be a race apart from those they had left behind. He found it a needed distraction to wonder if they were, or if they merely deceived themselves in their arrogance.

"I have not seen much evidence of greater wisdom in the deeds of the Noldor thus far," he said. The thought gave some pleasure, under the circumstances. "Riding up to Morgoth's Balrogs and shouting 'kill me if you can' ? And then being surprised when they do?" He shook his head, "And that was by your own admission the greatest of you. I am not impressed."

Finrod shifted uncomfortably. "Now you leave the subject. Feanor cannot be said to be typical of anything. But you see why Nerwen could value you as a friend but not...could not entertain the thought of marriage. It is not personal, for personally I know she likes you well. She speaks of you often. But she could not...she could not wed you."

Celeborn's mind cleared a little, as though a sea-breeze stole through mist, eddying it, showing glimpses of shorelands under sunshine - 'I know she likes you well, - and his torn heart eased. There was room for the resurfacing of insult and understanding and bloodyminded stubbornness - the refusal to accept defeat - which had always stood him in good stead, before.

"In truth," Finrod said, "Is it not the best thing for you that she will not marry you?"

"So Elu has said, and Daeron. 'Is it not fortunate that she likes you not? You can find someone less ...difficult, less ...cursed.'" Celeborn laughed, harshly, "But no, it is not fortunate, for I love her, and I will not cease to love her just because she does not love me. I do not want someone else."

A wind blew and swayed the willow-stems. The long, narrow leaves hissed with peaceful melancholy, fluttering against darkness, white roses and sparkling sky. It was Finrod now who curled one leg beneath him and clasped the other, uncertain and, perhaps, regretful. "A marriage between you could not work," he said gently, "She is greater than you - you will not deny that?"

As well deny the sun's ability to drown the moon. "No. In power she is greater than I. I see it."

"But you are proud and self willed and have not the temperament to be ruled," said Finrod, "You would envy and resent her strength. It would soon come to chafe you that you could not be her equal, and the marriage would fail. It could not work."

Astonished, Celeborn looked at the Noldo carefully, but could not see any evidence of a jest. "The whole kingdom of Doriath is built on such a marriage," he said, puzzled, "And we have daily proof of how blessed it is. Have you not seen Melian and Elu together - how beautiful they are? I was raised in the aura of such a love. Why should I not want the same for myself? I do not understand you."

Streaming on the wind came faint banners of cloud, lit eerily by the fleeting stars. A pared moon rose over the trees. The nightingales greeted it in Melian's garden, and Celeborn and Finrod quietened together, listening. Once, Celeborn thought, we loathed Ithil, and his first coming was greeted with dismay, yet now we love him. Disgust can abate. He took up hope with both hands, defiantly. "Also," he said, "There are other things in this world with value besides power - or we would worship Morgoth."

Shaky gratitude for enduring friendship filled him for a moment with affection for Finrod. To stay and comfort a sister's spurned suitor was kind indeed. And Finrod spoke his hurtful 'facts' with sympathy. Still, good though he was, and wise in the lore of the Noldor, he did not know his trees. It was a weakness Celeborn fully intended to exploit. He would not let personal anguish get in the way of winning this argument - if only for the sake of the honour of the Sindar, thus insulted by the Noldor's 'truths'..

"It is not possible to build great cities or keel the ocean going ships without oak." he said, "But oak does not endure storms as the willow does." Standing, he cut a length of willow twig with his belt knife, and looked down into Finrod's shadowed face. "And willow is a healer - its bark takes away pain. Even self-inflicted pain."

He put the twig into Finrod's hands. "My children will be breakable as a willow twig. So you have said. Then break it."

The withy was green and flexible in Finrod's fingers. He bent it double and even the skin did not part. Twisting it fully in a circle several times around only produced a wooden spiral which sprang back - scarred indeed but not broken - as soon as he let go. After several more attempts Finrod laughed ruefully, tied it in an intricate knot in the shape of a flower and tucked it into his belt. "I should be more careful with my metaphors," he looked up with a brief grin as bright as the smiling moon. "Suppose I had said 'oak and alder'?"

"Alder is the only wood you can keep wet without splitting, and the trees keep stable every riverbank."

"Beech?"

"Beech is the mother and father of the Green Folk, who eat no meat and thrive on beech mast."

"Ash?" said Finrod and then laughed again, holding up a hand, "No, do not tell me - I take your point. What we perceive as weakness may just be a different set of strengths. Next time I will take my examples from metallurgy, and then you will be confounded!"

They settled back against the tree and there was silence for a while. Celeborn's satisfaction in defending his people's reputation wore off as his mind replayed the look on Galadriel's face when she told him he disgusted her. In Elbereth's name! It hurt to think on it.

"Of course," said Finrod at last, cautiously, "I am not the one you have to convince."

Put like that, it was hard to keep his head above despair.

Chapter Eleven: The Eye of the Beholder

Nerwen kicked aside the rubble, endlessly dissatisfied. Menegroth was a forest at twilight in which a thousand lanterns shone. But Nargothrond was as yet only a darksome pit. It was a darksome pit full of rock dust and filth and the endless hammering din of dwarves. She rounded a corner and came upon a completed antechamber clad in black marble, whose walls flashed and glittered at the light of her torch. The council room beyond was all white, smooth and clean as snow. The contrast seemed over abrupt - ill thought out; unpleasing.

"Maybe inlays of jet in floor and walls, to soften the divide," she said to herself, wondering what to do to improve it, "And moonstone in the antechamber." Like black hair and white mingled on a pillow. Light and dark reaching out to touch. She hissed and turned away. "No. No, maybe not." Fury and nausea and a sense of being trapped came over her again. Why would her mind not obey her and think of other things? "Definitely not. Leave it as it is."

Ai! It was intolerable! How long must she wait until she could put the argument with Celeborn behind her? Why could she not stop thinking about it? Was she not master of her own mind? Controller of her own destiny - yes, even to defying the Powers! Then why...why must she still be harping to this tune?

Nargothrond was an uninspired, unwelcoming, unsatisfactory hole in the ground, and there seemed nothing she could do about it. Fuming, Nerwen turned her feet towards her room with the dreary knowledge that it too would provide no refuge.

Nor did it. The guest room had a velvet couch of sky blue and silver, cushions and drapes she had woven herself, stitched with clouds of river-pearls, a mirror in which she could see her scowl and an untidy litter of paints in the corner, where she was working on a scene of seagulls crying out at the first dawn. She jammed the torch in its bracket, kindled the lanterns - they seemed deliberately fiddly to light; intent on thwarting her - and went over to the painting. Something simple, to begin with. Something to soothe her. Mixing golds, she tried to paint the line of the coast as Fingolfin's heralds set foot there, stepping into the new day.

It would not go right. The colour was wrong and the shape of the line was foul. Foul! With main effort she stopped herself from hurling the brush across the room, rinsed it, put it down carefully. Then carefully she sat on the edge of the bed, knotted her hands together until the fingers ached and glared at the floor.

What was the matter with her? She had come to Nargothrond to be away from Doriath's intrigue, to do useful, creative, constructive work. To help Finrod. To make a difference. And her mind would not function, her soul would neither sing nor settle, and no matter where she looked she could not see a single thing to praise. All the world had become vile in her sight.

Varda Starkindler! What is the matter with me?

She had lost friends before. Even in Aman she had lost friends to the lure of Feanor's honeyed words. But always she had been able to throw herself into the creation of new things, and the ache would diminish as her interest was caught by the needs of art. Never before had the loss threatened to undo her whole world, so that she could not think for it.

Perhaps because I was unjust? 'Long and bitter experience I have of those who load me with praise, and see in truth only their own heads crowned with the diadem of Finwë's house,' she had said to him. Yet when had he ever flattered or fawned? What compliments he gave were rare and always no more than the truth. Nor did he desire a crown - she had berated him for it often enough.

I am not settled within myself because I have affronted my own honour with this accusation, she thought, and nodded, sighing with relief. Yes, that must be the reason. It felt good to have come to a conclusion - to have made a step towards putting this behind her and recovering.

Rising, she picked up the stoppered jar of wine which lay on the sideboard, and poured herself a drink. The chalice was shaped of two trees, their intertwined trunks forming the stem, their raised branches and spread leaves of mingled silver and gold.

"Ai!" at the sight of it she slammed the cup back on the board and covered her eyes with a spread hand, "All Ea mocks me!" The brief moment when she thought she had solved this puzzle made all worse now as confusion and heartache surged back in a glamhoth of yammering voices. What is happening to me?

Abruptly, she felt the need of council as a ravenous man needs food. Finrod...she could go to him and.... But no. This was not the sort of dilemma a brother should be asked to face. If only she had a sister! She thought of Luthien. But she knew what Luthien would say and did not want to hear it. Aredhel then? No. The white lady of the Noldor would laugh for scorn at the thought that Galadriel had a Dark Elf admirer.

Nerwen! she told herself angrily, hearing the slip in her own thoughts, I am not Galadriel. I am Nerwen.

At the thought a well of darkness opened in her fea and filled her chest with emptiness. She wanted to weep, but could not - she was too cold for that. Tears would freeze on her cheeks, as they had done when she walked to Middle-earth across the ice.

Why does it matter so much? she thought, desperately, It is no more than a name. But she knew she deceived herself. 'Galadriel' was healing and hope, the knowledge that someone, even now, could perceive in her both goodness and glory. Reprieve, redemption, a future.

A gift of love.

"No!" She paced from one end of the room to the other - it was not far enough. It was a trap, just as her thoughts were a trap, just as the whole of Endor was a trap into which she had thrust herself recklessly and which now constrained her. Was there no way to be free?

Taking the torch up again she left the room and wandered alone through building sites and rough hewn caves where stalactites hung like deformed fingers from the ceiling and bats flitted over her, squeaking piteously. At last, when she could not outrun her thoughts, she came to the great stone doors which opened onto the river valley, and looking out she saw a grey boat draw near, and Finrod step from it onto the wharf.

She did not run to him. She merely stood and watched as he spoke to the servants and sent them on before him. But she thought that perhaps he was swifter in his dealings with them because of her presence, and though he waved to her as he spoke to the boatmen, his smile seemed a sickly thing. When finally he slung his travel bag over his shoulder and walked up to her she found it easier to be unconcerned because of his evident worry.

"Are you well, my sister?" he said, taking her arm.

He was the wisest of their family, but she, she was the strongest. She had no intention of letting such a foolishness as this besmirch her reputation. "I am," she said, "We had little idea of the time of your coming, but your chamber is prepared. If you will wash, I will see that the board is set for you."

"Nerwen...?"

"Peace." Pulling her arm from his she drew away from him, and though she had been eager for his arrival, now she wished he would leave her alone. Finrod was not...she did not wish to discuss this with any of her brothers.

"As you wish," he said, coolly, and bowing went away to wash.

The meal was silent, and - perhaps because the cooks as yet had no proper kitchen - tasted of ash. She took a forkful of flower salad; rose petals and marigolds like dawn on a plate, and put it down again listlessly. "The carving of the second entranceway goes well," she said with determined cheerfulness, "And the cladding of the main bath is complete. They mean to run water into it later today."

Finrod put his knife down with a clatter. "Are you pretending that nothing has happened?" he said, his expression gone from uncomfortable to disapproving, "Regardless of your personal feelings we must deal with this. He is Prince of Doriath and we are Doriath's allies. For the sake of politics alone we cannot ignore it."

She did not want to speak of it! "You mean to marry me off to keep the peace?" she said quellingly.

"Don't be a fool!"

Brittle silence fell. Finrod studied his food, and Nerwen looked about herself so that she need not look at him. This private dining room was small and away from the apartments of state. The walls were of green agate, curiously swirled with blue. The plates were copper and the cutlery bronze. Behind Finrod's seat a door stood open on the ancient darkness of the deep places of the world. His hair gleamed gold as Laurelin against that shadow, but there was in the room no echo of the paler, gentler light of Telperion. No silver.

Desolation blossomed in her heart. "How is he?" she asked at last.

"Like a man in mortal pain," said Finrod, "With moments of lucidity that lapse into empty eyed staring." He lowered his voice to say gently, "This is no light thing for him, no dalliance. He is genuine in his love for you."

She breathed in sharply and folded her hands about her cup, to be holding on to something. Of course, she had not truly doubted Celeborn's love. If he had said he loved her then he did - he was never less than brutally honest. In fact, she liked that in him - the way that if you asked his opinion you would get it, whether it was pleasant to hear or not. Only shock at finding a valuable and delightful friendship snatched out of her grasp; twisted into something unknown and dangerous, had made her accuse him otherwise.

I was unjust, she thought, I arrived in Doriath wanting companionship, and he gave it to me. What is there to resent in that? The news of his suffering made her feel both guilty and hurt herself. But if he loves me and I cannot return it, where is the blame? It is only an unkindness of fate. And he is strong. He will recover.

That thought gave rise to a stab of sourceless anxiety which she ignored, meaningless and irrational as it was.

If I take back the vile things I said, she thought, with a sensation like the sun rising we will be no worse off than we were before Luthien spoke. I need not lose him... She breathed out; a long sigh of relief, and lowered her head to rest on her linked fists, tension passing from her back, leaving her limp. This time she truly did understand. It was not mere justice she desired, but for things to go back to how they had been. And there was no reason why they could not. We could pretend that neither of us knew. We could be content again.

How complex the heart was and how strange its ways. She laughed, a little shakily, I missed my friend. To think that all this anguish could be caused by something so plain, that was all. There is nothing wrong with me, I just missed my friend.

"I will go back tomorrow and apologize," she raised her head and smiled at Finrod, who frowned, slow to catch her reassurance. Council she had thirsted for, and never thought of the obvious. She did not want to speak to Luthien or Aredhel or Melian. The one whose advice she desired was Celeborn himself. He was her friend, and she trusted his opinion. She would talk to him and between them they would work something out. "And all will be as it once was, both politically and personally. So eat, and do not look so fraught. All will be well."

***

Nerwen paused at the door, with her hand on its pale oak planks, waiting for the servant who had brought her here to go away. She was tired. Not of body, though she had spent the greater part of the day scrambling between boat and raft and barge, but tired of spirit. All this past week voices had kept her awake in the night, niggling at her, whispering that she had forgotten something, overlooked something, was not seeing something vital. Yet when she tried to quieten and hear them they would fade and she would find herself staring at the wall and the long ugly line of her painted seashore, frustrated and dreary.

She supposed she was merely dreading this meeting. Celeborn was of a quick temper - that burnt up like straw and as soon went out - but what if he also held grudges? What if he did not forgive her?

Worse...Or was it worse? She detested being so confused! What if he saw her contrition as being a sign of hope? She would have to be very clear, very forthright, and leave him in no doubt that while she did not wish to ever be parted from him, she did not...could not...see him as a lover.

Well. She was brave, one of the bravest of a family which had come to Endor to challenge the mightiest of the Valar - Manwë's equal - face to face. She would not be daunted by so stupid a thing as this. Pushing the door open, she went through into candle light and quiet, and balked, brought up short by what she saw.

The study was painted with firelight and the air as golden as birch-sap wine. Celeborn lay asleep on a divan before the fire, a lute dangling from one tuning peg from his outstretched hand, his open eyes full of reflected flames. He must be as weary as I, she thought, surprised by a great swell of affection, And for the same reason. For all Finrod's delicate phrasing she had not been so touched by her brother's words as she was by this proof that she was as necessary to him as he was to her.

Involuntarily she took a step forward, drawn, her mood lightened merely by looking on him. He was elegant even in disorder, long limbs sprawled. His hair, like water in starlight, trailed across cheek and chest, glimmering as he breathed. Tendrils pooled in the hollow of his throat, leading her eye to the fair skin shadowed by the open neck of his tunic.

What am I *doing*?!

She recoiled, her breath laboured as if from running. Her shoulder struck the door and it closed with a click. At the small noise Celeborn was instantly awake, on his feet, unsheathed knife in his hand. She reached for her sword, but her hand had barely closed on the empty air above her hip before he was backing away, wide eyed.

For a long time they stared at one another, and she did not know who was the more appalled.

"Forgive me," he said, with a look of helpless confusion, "I had troubled dreams. I knew not..." He sheathed the knife and turned half away from her, looking at the floor.

"You have fine reactions for an elf of sheltered Doriath," the words were out before she knew what she was going to say. But for the fact that they were in her voice she would not have known who spoke them - the world was reshaping itself under her hands fast as poured metal and she could not control it. She could only wait to see what shape it bore, when it had cooled.

Celeborn's eyes narrowed and his chin went up, insulted. "You speak to me of being sheltered? You who grew to womanhood in Aman where even the roses have not thorns? Is it your purpose to patronize? Are you come to abuse me again in some new way you did not think of last time?"

He turned his back on her and folded his arms, "No, I think I have heard enough from you." The posture only emphasized the long, strong line of his back, cleanly muscled, eloquent of unbearable pain. And she wondered why she had not noticed before how beautiful her friend was; why she had to notice it now.

"I came... to apologize," she managed, "To say..."

He tensed like a bow at full draw, and she found herself wanting to lay a hand on his shoulder, perhaps to give comfort, perhaps only so that she might touch him.

"Ai Elentari!" Shocked at herself a second time, lost in a world gone altogether strange, she turned, flung open the door, and fled.

Chapter Twelve:  An Agreement Made

Downriver from the main wharf of Menegroth, where the wide river Esgalduin flowed smooth beside a meadow of poppies, there stood a boathouse of withies, roofed with turf. The afternoon had been hot, and the lowering sun glared across the water, but inside it was cool. Water fretted against the uprights and bumped the grey skiff within gently against the hay-buffered sides of the landing. Further inside there lay a scatter of shipwright's tools amid woodshavings and the bare white ribs of a new boat, slowly emerging out of disorder. The smell was of water, the tannin-sharpness of oak, and the pepper-sweetness of honeysuckle, which had rooted in the roof and now trailed in curtains across the entrance.

Nerwen sat beside the strafes with a plane in her hand, but did not try to pretend, even to herself, that she was working on the boat.

They had found Bothir* too cramped to sail together comfortably, and as she had learned some of the craft of boatbuilding from Olwë's people, and he from Cirdan's, they had begun to build another, larger vessel. A pleasant pastime, a harmless hobby, soothing after the mental ache of Melian's lessons, the heartache of dancing around Elu's political speculations.

A good excuse to go somewhere private and be alone together.

Why had she not seen it then? Though she had, as she had told him, many admirers in Aman, and though it was pleasant to stroll across the lawns of Tirion surrounded by adoring men, she had rarely found any of them interesting enough to work beside, and of those few never twice. Why had she not questioned her eagerness to teach Celeborn Quenya, and the sword, or to walk in the forest beside him, and have him teach her the lore of the woods? She should have noticed, surely, that those days which she spent in Nargothrond she spent thinking of him. Or that the delight of Menegroth largely faded when he was gone from it. Why had this come as such a shock?

Because falling in love was never part of my plan.

She had come to conquer and rule, to take vengeance on Morgoth and to spite Feanor. For all of those purposes she needed to be free; the ruler of her own fate. Thus she had brushed aside thoughts of love as a pleasantry which could come later, once she had wrought her will upon the world. And I knew not that love was so mighty. I believed I could bend it to my hand and make it wait for me.

Putting down the plane, she laid a hand on one of the timbers, feeling the gentle curve and the memory of song that echoed in it, urging it to be buoyant and light. At the touch, her unruly heart spoke again, lamenting that he had not followed her flight from the Thousand Caves. He had watched her leave, in evident distress, and for all his protestations, he had not cared enough to come to her when she was in need. "And thus love makes me weak," she said, half to the boat, half to herself, "For I was not in need before I met him. Now all my plans lie in ruins at my feet, and it is all his fault."

Light shifted, and a hand parted the curtain of vines. At once, sharp citrus sunlight lanced into the room, making the shadowed water glitter like fountain-spray. As he held open the honeysuckle, Celeborn was silhouetted by the blaze of golden river. Then he ducked through and she could see his face - strained, worried; weary. Evidently she was not the only one suffering.

"I did not know if you would follow," she said, and found it hard not to still feel that hurt, "Or whether I wanted you to."

"Nor did I know," he said quietly, "Until I found my feet on the path. But since I am here, may I not come in?"

"It is your own boathouse. You may come and go as you please."

So many things to say, and yet she could think of none. He let the vines fall, and scent filled the sudden darkness. As he came in, she found herself conscious of his every movement. A brief caress to the prow of Bothir, like a horseman's instinctive gentling of his steed; the scrape of a stool as he brought it away from the wall to sit upon; the glimmer of his eyes and belt in the twilight; the soft slide over his shoulder of the long fall of water-bright hair. His presence seemed to flow into every shadow, until she felt lit by him like moonlight.

He put his head in his hands, and they sat together, lapped in the cool, while the voice of water murmured gently about them. Some fear went out of her then, seeing him thus. Love seemed less like a trap, less like the invasion of her personality she had feared. For see, she was as aware of him as of light upon her skin, but still she was herself. Still she was free.

Silence pressed on her, and a grief for which she had no name welled in her slowly. Was it even now too late? What she had said to him...was it impossible to take back? Why did he sit there and say nothing? Was he too insulted even to gaze upon her? Had they come so far apart they could not even talk, here in this place they had once filled with arguments and laughter?

At length the pain became unbearable. They looked up together. "I..." she said, and he said "Galadriel..."

At the name, tears sprang to her eyes and her throat closed. Seeing it he rose, abrupt, furious with himself. "No," he paced away, hands clenched, "Forgive me. Not Galadriel. How I let my mouth run away with me!" He turned back, pale and wretched, but Silmaril-intense, "Nerwen, I beg you, do not let this make you unhappy. I love you, what of it? You are not obliged to return that love. I will never speak of it again. I will be your friend only, as Daeron is Luthien's. If he can endure it, so can I. Only..."

Her tears spilled. She wondered at herself, who had not been able to grieve thus since the Ice. Why did she cry now, now, when she did not feel sad, but only awash with fallen certainties, overmastered where she thought herself invincible.

He threw himself on his knees in front of her, close enough to touch, but not touching, unless with the naked despair of his gaze. "Only, please, Lady, do not weep. I would not, on my life, cause you pain. Tell me what I can do. Tell me what you wish me to do to ease you, and it will be done. But please..." he brought a hand up as if to wipe away the tears from her cheek, let it fall without touching. The lack of contact was a small wound. "Please do not weep."

She shook her head, not sure what she was denying, and wept into her hands; long dammed tears for all the griefs she had set aside on her journey, all the sorrow she had hoarded secretly since Darkness fell on Aman and she had been forced unwilling into a world where even the Valar could fail. A monster had sucked the light from the land of the blessed, and her family had run mad, and the cousins she had so admired had become murderers, leaving her behind to die. All of it she had born in pride, alone, afraid to admit to weakness even in front of her brothers, lest the rumour of it spread.

Warily, Celeborn put his hand on her arm. When it was not slapped aside he leaned forward and pulled her into an awkward hug - her elbow trapped between them, as she slumped to lean her head on his shoulder and cry inelegantly into the warm indigo velvet.

Not alone any longer, she wept, and was held, and felt ...comforted.

***

"Clearly neither of us have done this before." After what seemed an age Nerwen pushed away from the hesitant embrace, offering the comment with a watery smile. Her neck felt cricked and her eyes swollen. What her father would say to her woebegone look she could imagine well enough. He would not be pleased with Celeborn, she thought, for reducing her to this. Yet though her ribs ached where her arm had pressed against them, and her poise lay shredded, still some part of her heart - some large part - seemed lighter than it had been for centuries.

"I have hugged Nimloth," said Celeborn and offered her his sleeve to wipe her eyes on, "But she is a lot smaller." A corner of his mouth turned up, but his eyes were too concerned for the expression to be called a smile, "If she is not comfortable she wriggles until she is."

Picturing him with his niece, storytelling perhaps, or just soaking up each other's presence, made Nerwen think once more of Finarfin, of whom she had been careful not to think during these years of exile. "My father used to hold me..." she began, and grief surprised her with its infinite reserves as she remembered that she would never see him again. "My Ada..." She pushed the stool away, turned and was engulfed in solace as Celeborn pulled her close once more. "He did not come with us. He turned back and left us, knowing it was forever. I think, I think perhaps he loved me not. Not at all."

This childish fear she had not told even to Finrod, and she was aghast at herself to thus expose her most painful secrets to this near stranger, but Celeborn only said "That cannot be so," as though it truly were unthinkable. "He turned back for your mother, perhaps, so that she would lose all she loved at once, but it must have riven his heart in two. I know it would mine." Looking up she met his puzzled, sympathetic gaze and could almost sense the effort it cost him to stop himself from stroking her hair - a lover's gesture that even now he did not know he was entitled to make. The unmade caress made her want to weep again.

"You must think me so weak," she said, and drew in a strengthening breath, fighting for control.

"I saw your sorrow when I looked on you first," he said, "And how bravely you bore it." He sighed too, and loosened the hug in which he had cradled her, as reluctantly as if he believed this to be their last touch. "I vowed I would lighten it, if I could," he said, looking away, "Yet I have done naught but make it worse."

Even now, she thought, with some surprise, she had not yet taken back the words of hatred she had flung at him for daring to love her. No wonder he was wary. Like one of Aulë's students sidling up to a crucible full of strange ores, he had no way of knowing whether he would be greeted with treasure, or an explosion. If only she knew what path she should take from here. If only she knew what to say!

For a time she merely rested against him, thinking. Slowly, as sorrow fled, she began to hear the song of his body against hers; his breathing, the press of his warmth, the firm embrace of velvet and silk and strong arms. Her heart fluttered and blood suffused her face, making her burn.

She pushed him away and stood up hurriedly. "That is not true."

"I disgust you. You have said so. My love has made you flee here into the darkness to weep. I did not wish..."

"Ai!" Striding to the door, Nerwen swept back the trailing flowers and the lowering sun smote her dazzled eyes. Walking to the bank, she knelt among the purple iris, scooped up water and washed the tears from her face. Even the cold river's touch would not rid her of the soaring tingle which had driven her away from him at last, but she was not entirely sorry for that. "You have too long a memory. And I...I spoke foolishly."

"I do not..." Coming to her side, Celeborn sat a decorous arms length from her and left unsaid the rest of his thought.

Swallows were wheeling over the stream, and, in the trees, crows began to welcome the night with comfortable squabbling. The sun was huge but cool before them, and the forest of Region encircled them with a green scent. She thought of stones and waterfalls they had visited together; the long views and the quiet places, and it occurred to her that other suitors had brought her jewels, but only he had thought to bring her the world.

"What do you mean?" he said finally, plucking the long stemmed poppies and watching his hands as he weaved them idly together.

"I..." she slipped her shoes off and laved her bare feet in the water, studying the slide of liquid in the sunset. Both of them, it seemed, were too embarrassed to look at one other. "I was afraid, and fear made my words bitter beyond all reason."

"Fear? How could Nerwen fear aught? I would have said it were impossible."

"Yet fear I did." Risking a glance, she saw him sitting tailor fashion, pleasingly incongruous in his fine court clothes with his hands full of flowering weeds. His brow was creased and his eyes shadowed at the thought that somehow he had frightened her. She hurried to explain, that he might not be even more angry at himself. "I was afraid to lose my friend, Celeborn, whose society has meant much to me," she said, "And I was afraid that if you loved me, you would try to ...to own me. Love would give you power over me. You would seek to control me, and I would lose who I am for your sake. Of that I was...afraid."

Nerdanel came to mind. Bold, adventurous Nerdanel, the great explorer. Feanor had taken and tamed her. Now, tied by love to a man she could not reason with, drained of her vitality by bearing sons, she had at the last been abandoned entirely, her life sucked dry by the one she loved.

"You think I am the kind of man who would try to hold you captive?" said Celeborn sadly, "Have I seemed so to you? When have I ever...?" He shook his head. "Why would I clip the wings of a hawk whose flight made my heart sing?"

"You would not, I know." Water was chill and swift about her calves, pulling slightly on her as it rushed past. Managing to laugh slightly, she let it sweep away her foolishness into a drowned past. "It was only a fear."

By chance both looked up at once. He saw her watching him and frowned, even as she was stabbed by the resolute lack of hope in his gaze. "Does it come down to this then," he said, "That I am but 'Moriquende', and my 'darkness' repels you?"

It was in her heart to deny it, if only to soothe his hurt, but she could not. She would not lie. Morgoth had long poisoned the lands of Middle-earth, and his power spread through every mote of it, insidious, marring. Of that poisoned earth was Celeborn grown, and he bore its subtle influence in every fibre of his body. Even now, if she thought of it, she found her newborn desire for him distasteful, almost perverse. And if she found it so, how much worse would it appear to her brothers? To her father...if he ever heard of it? Or to the cousins who had slaughtered even Amanyar Teleri in the belief that as Noldor they were greater, and entitled to take what they would. Caranthir - who had spoken so vilely of Thingol - what would he say? She could hardly imagine in what depths of contempt he would hold Celeborn, or the scorn he would pour on her for making such a choice.

"Still you are a dark elf," she said, "And I know not what it would do to the unity of the Noldor if I were to pledge myself to you. My brothers...I dread what they would say if they knew I loved you. I do not know myself what I think of it."

There was a space in which he heard what she had said, and then he turned, sharply, scattering the forgotten flowers while his head came up like that of a stallion wild to gallop. "'If they knew I loved you'? ...You love me?"

The way he thawed out of despair into ferocious eagerness was like seeing winter give way to spring. At one word from her, Nerwen thought, he had bloomed like a white tree in sunlight, and it would take only her honest answer to make him blossom. It was a pleasing thought, and for a fleeting moment she wished she could cry in happiness, so that he might have an excuse to hold her again.

"I love you," she said, and felt overwhelming relief. It was good to have it said.

Joy lit Celeborn's face brighter than the sun. He leapt to his feet and stood gazing at the sunset for a moment. Then he took her elbow and drew her up beside him. "Look!"

Sliding silently half below the world, in the West Anar was wreathed in boiling gold and rose and amethyst. The sky's luminous glory rose through snow and lemon into an arch of pale, pure blue, shading in the East to indigo and the silver glint of early stars. At the sight, Nerwen laughed, and her giddy emotions touched an exaltation she had only felt before looking in the face of Varda. This joy was less high, perhaps less holy, but sweeter. Infinitely sweeter. Behold, she thought, looking at the sunset, Night wedded to day, and darkness to light. Neither destroys nor changes the other. Only they create, where they touch, a splendour greater than that either had apart.

"If we may be a sunrise together," said Celeborn fiercely, "Then all else is tactics. Not 'what will my brothers think' but 'how will we persuade them?'" He strode away, came back. She noticed that his restlessness measured an area the width of a campaign tent, and was amused. Had he learned to pace thus in the Battle of Amon Ereb, working out his strategies of warfare before Elu? Would he marshal their romance like a general marshalling his troops?

He looked at her with a clear and merciless look, "Not 'will it not lower my status among my people if I am seen with this man,' but 'how will I retain my allies, and which ones can I afford to lose?'" And she felt accused and absolved in the same breath. A turn brought him back to stand just within arms reach, and this time his dark gaze was full of uncertainty. Nerwen wondered - if the sons of Feanor were nothing more to him than allies he could afford to lose, then what could he possibly fear?

"And not 'how can I bear him touching me?' but 'will I let him try to persuade me?'"

Oh, it was uncomfortable to be wooed by a man who saw so clearly into her heart. She had wanted to keep secret the small frisson of distaste that still accompanied any fantasy of them together. "Celeborn," she said, "I do not mean to... I am sorry."

Evening shadow spread from the trees and slid across his face. As the light faded he became one with the twilight; all glimmers of mithril-silver in the darkness of a warm summer night. "I would not have you other than you are," he said softly, "And there are moments when I find you uncanny. But if we love one another then this will fade with time. And we have time in abundance. Let us only be acknowledged lovers and I will not speak of marriage to you for many years. Not until you are ready."

"I care not how long it takes," he said, and held out his hand to her to take, to make the pledge, "Though it is not what I hoped, I swear it is infinitely better than I thought."

How straightforward he was, and how wholehearted, and generous, to take love with so many caveats and not once complain. Nerwen smiled and felt humbled among her gladness. If only she could be as honest in return.

At that thought memory leapt upon her like a hunting wolf and she was savaged by its teeth. How could she have forgotten the fate she bore, who she was? Bliss soured in her throat. With misery she saw the way Celeborn's smile transmuted into pain as she hesitated. This curse on her he did not see, and could not. "Will you not take my hand and begin it?" he said, puzzled, his mouth thinning with hurt.

'Everything you begin will end in ruin,' Nerwen thought, and the Doom of Mandos crushed her heart for the first time as she saw to the depths the punishment that had been laid on her. Elentari... I did not know I loved him, and thus I dragged him unknowing beneath the anger of the Valar, and my curse will lie on him the moment he accepts my love.

The outstretched hand had become an accusation; a future of love she desired but should not grasp. Eru forgive me for thinking him unworthy of me when it is I who am tainted.

"Lady?" he said, and touched her sleeve. Nerwen turned her face away, feeling the now familiar burn of tears. How could the Valar be so cruel? She had done nothing to deserve this! Nor had he. I must tell him, she thought, It is as Luthien said - I cannot keep such a secret from him. He must learn that I am cursed.

"Celeborn," she said, and wrung her hands, turning half away "I would not have you pledge yourself to me not knowing that I am... I am..."

If she needed proof of her love for him it came in this - the devouring terror that if he knew all he would walk away. He was wise, and it would be wise to turn his back on a woman as tainted as she. But she was not now certain if she could survive such a rejection.

"Nerwen?" he asked again. He was pale as the moon and seemed to have caught something of her terror, and she could not bear to give him this one blow after so many. Later. There would be time later to explain.

"I will be your lover," she said solemnly, "But do not ask me to begin it. You must start this between us, and you must pursue it. It must be your doing and not mine. I swear. I swear I will explain later. Only do not make me speak now."

At that he frowned, and she was afraid he had somehow divined her thought and would turn away. But he merely struggled with his curiosity, and won. And at last he gathered up her hands into his. She breathed in, shut her eyes, feeling the touch of skin to skin with a strange shock. His hands were large, the fingertips calloused from bowstring and lute, stronger than hers, but gentle. It was a grasp from which she could have withdrawn at any moment, and so she did not. Nerwen let herself rest within his strength, and, as they stood together, stars springing to light above them, gradually her unquiet soul at last stilled into peace.

Opening her eyes she looked on him then; intent, utterly beautiful, and hers, and she sighed. She should be full of doubts, frightened by her secrets, but at this moment they, along with the rest of her, could do naught but float on contentment. Perhaps love never had been part of her plans, but it had come, and now she would set her will against any who tried to destroy it, be it the Valar themselves. The plans would have to be changed.

Chapter Thirteen:  And Demonstrated

"Is she not radiant as the peaks of Ered Lhun in the sunshine - white and gold and full of majesty?"

Daeron put down his pipes and grimaced, looking out over the revellers to where Nerwen danced with her brother Orodreth. Orodreth was dark, his hair a twined length of shadow, his sombre claret tunic brown as a bloodstain under the stars. But Nerwen, who had begun to dress in the pale hues and silver greys of the Sindar, glimmered as she moved, and her coronet of aureate hair gleamed with a deep lustre in lamplight.

"Why do you never say these things to her, my lord?" Daeron asked, smiling, "Why practice your romantic repartee on me?"

Celeborn laughed, and watched her - her light step, the lithe swing of her body, the flutter of loose skirts against her legs, the tendrils of hair that had escaped her severity and now curled in wistful tenderness about the nape of her neck. "Because I need to say it to someone, yet when I am close to her, I forget all."

"I am," Daeron blew a line of notes which took flight like a bird wheeling and dipping in the joy of the breeze, "I am happy for you." But his eyes were less certain of that than his music, and his gaze strayed to Luthien, who laughed as Finrod lightly lifted her through the measures. "At least, I try to be." He hugged the pipes to himself, his long, agile fingers stroking them lightly, like a pet. The only thing he had to love. "But I cannot praise Nerwen as I am sure you desire. I...I will never know what you see in her. Beside Luthien there is no other beauty for me. Nerwen is a scorching light. Luthien is my breath and my song and my dreams. But I say that to you, knowing that I will never have the chance to say it to her. If I could, if ever she lifted one smile on me, I would tell her her perfections and not be silent until the end of the world. How the gagged envy the merely shy!"

"Shy?" Celeborn leaned back against the trunk of the linden tree beneath which he sat. Pale lanterns swayed on its branches among the honey-scented flowers. "Not that. Only clumsy. But you, are you truly gagged, or do you merely lack the nerve to speak?"

"I could not!"

"So you have said before. But it seems to me that if I - who so disgusted her only last month - can now be Nerwen's lover, then why should you not go from friend to sweetheart if you were only bold enough?"

The bard gave an unmusical squeak at the thought and, if possible, looked even sadder. "She is our princess. I am nothing."

"You are the greatest genius of our realm," said Celeborn sternly, "And she likes you."

"As a friend," Daeron gave a bitter smile, "A playmate, whose affections she thinks are still what they once were. Still the protective worship of a younger brother, nothing more. She is so great, and without some sign from her I dare not...I dare not say more. What would the King think, or Melian her mother?"

"Will you not brave that for her?"

"It is easy for you to say! You are their beloved kinsman. I am...only a minstrel. I could not stand before their wrath."

Not for the first time, Celeborn wondered what it was that had so convinced Daeron of his own worthlessness. If only it could be undone. On this festival night, bathed and upheld in the knowledge that Galadriel loved him, he had a strong desire to make miracles happen for his friends - to share the joy.

"Suppose I spoke for you? Told her how you felt?"

Daeron dropped the reeds and his face paled, becoming like snow beneath the shadow of his hair. From that whiteness his slate blue eyes stared in horror. "I beg you do not! She would send me away. Only the fact that she is oblivious to my desire allows me to stay close to her. Did she know...were we parted, I..." he wrung his hands, "It would break me. I beg you, my lord, keep my secret as you always have done. Speak no more of it!"

"She will not be unwed forever," Celeborn watched the amicable squabble as Aegnor contended with his older brother for Luthien's hand in the next dance. Both princes were fair, light and lithe as fire, and Luthien laughed at them both, equally, with huge and tolerant amusement. "And then your chance will be gone."

"In a way I will be glad," said Daeron, unplaiting the end of a braid to fiddle with it. "If he is good for her - worthy of her - if I see her in joy, perhaps I might be able to finally reconcile myself to the fact she does not love me. It is knowing that the chance still rests on me which makes the waiting so unbearable. Do you think it will be one of these?"

'These,' were Galadriel's four brothers, who had come to Doriath from their several realms in order to be together and to visit their little sister. 'Though,' as Angrod had said when he arrived last night, 'I know not why she could not have come to Nargothrond, rather than host our family reunion in a foreign kingdom.'

Some of Angrod's youthful sleekness had been pared away since Celeborn had last seen him, and his turn of phrase too had become sharper over the years. He wore much dwarf-worked gold, doubtless traded through the hands of Caranthir Feanorion, and had received Celeborn's present with a look of polite disdain, and the words 'A stone knife? How quaint.'

He irritates me precisely because he is too much like me, Celeborn reminded himself, to take the sting out of a little insult that annoyed him far out of proportion to its worth. Besides, it does not matter that he is blind to crafts other than his own. Galadriel understood.

"I doubt it." Celeborn said, watching Luthien accept one brother and send the other away, both happy. "See, she plays a fine diplomatic game with them all. And who can blame her - Finrod is the only one among them who could keep up with her. But Finrod's heart - so I've heard - is already taken, by a maid left behind in Valinor."

Now the dance shifted from a gentle-paced, graceful thing, inspired by the movement of meadow-flowers in a summer wind, to a leaping whirl - a revelry that came out of the deep places of time, ancient as Cuivienen. After the separation of the Nandor, the Sindar had taken this form and refined it into something almost polite, something which only hinted at primordial passion. But when the Green Folk had at last drifted into Beleriand they had reintroduced the more basic form - a spinning, leaping, pulse-quickening, endurance test of a dance, ideally performed drunk, with uproar and great merriment.

Luthien passed, swept along in the mad rade, her cloud grey dress hitched up to the knee, her bare arms and legs glimmering, springy as a hart in the chase, free and wild, her eyes like stars. Aegnor dropped out, not knowing the steps, slightly disapproving of the fey, unsafe spirit of the thing, but his place was taken by Calandil - chief of the warriors of Celeborn's personal guard - who ran with the swooping ease of an eagle flying. His shadowy hair was twined with silver thread, and flickered like a fall of white water in the starlight.

In the split second he had before he was drawn or driven past, Calandil caught Celeborn's eye, and his wicked smirk widened, "Too noble for this peasant dance, my lord?"

Thus challenged what else could he do but stand, slip his cloak gladly, and plunge in to the stamping, shouting, racing throng. At once swept up like a leaf in the storm wind of the joy of Doriath. The king too had cast aside dignity and position - his swift, strong form easily visible among the other dancers, tall as a Maia, his streaming hair the silver of a sword blade.

As the dance went on folk began to fall away, exhausted, their faces burning, but alight with life. The crowd flocking to the fountains, or the barrels of wine, grew as the dancing-circle shrank. Upborn by the collective energy of those who remained, Celeborn spread his arms and laughed in delight, leaping like a stag. He passed the small, disapproving knot of the sons of Finarfin, registering Finrod's hand upraised in a characteristic gesture as he explained and excused this cultural riot. Then Melian and Galadriel, a goddess and a princess, standing giggling together like little girls, their eyes shining as they watched. It was a sight so wondrous it made his spirit - already drunk on music and speed - exult. His fea was weightless as silver flame, and his hroa soared in response.

Galadriel's brothers stood coolly, untouched by Doriath's madness, trying to approve. Which made it all the better when he lengthened his step, swept out an arm, captured her hand and pulled her into the measure beside him.

Better than flying - if flying is but drifting on the wind - for this quickened the body with effort, flooded limbs with life and power. They ran and leaped together, and were matched in joy and abandon, in swiftness and grace. Though she began with a shadow of embarrassment in her bright eyes, Galadriel's gaze cleared and then glittered as the music soared . Her high-piled hair scattered diamond hairpins like the flash of sparks sent up by a fierce fire. The ground grew spiky with them - introducing a new element of delightful challenge to each footfall. As each pin slid to the ground, her mass of golden hair came further unravelled from its prim coronet. Her tolerant smile became a grin, fierce and sweet, and she stamped and jumped like any Sinda, letting Celeborn lift her, send her vaulting into the sky. Or taking his hands so they spun together around their linked grasp like children playing, like the sun and the moon circling about the earth.

Luthien dropped out, and her father too, and at last even the music faltered, and they were left together in the centre of the clearing, clinging together, unable to accept that it was over. Alone, though they stood in the sight of hundreds. He stopped, and felt as graceless and foolish in the act as a swan coming down from flight. But Galadriel retained the music within her, and something of the spirit of the dance hung about her, even at rest. He looked at her, and her face was flushed, her eyes were full of laughter, and the coils of her hair lay in disarray on her shoulders. She was as wondrous as sunrise, and as warm.

Her fingers tightened on his. Without thought, each stepped slightly closer. And they were touching, just barely, tentative as the first snowdrop of a new spring Her gaze softened as though - unbelievably - she saw something in him to cherish. His breath had stopped, and the world had stopped, and he did not care. This was all of Ea that mattered. He leaned in and brushed her lips with his.

It was as though he tasted the light of Aman. Molten radiance lanced through him, shockingly intense. The recoil of surprise warred with an instinct to pull her closer, to touch more, everywhere. With help from the small rags of his wisdom, surprise won, just. He stepped back, breath coming hard, and felt trembly, lightheaded. Almost as though he had taken a wound - except that if it was so, he wanted to be hurt again, soon, until he died from it. Gazing in wonder at Galadriel, he saw her eyes were wide and dark, astounded, just as he was. And he was further amazed that he had done that to her - that he had almost frightened her, as he was himself almost frightened, by the strength of that momentary bliss. A long time he had been waiting for this moment, and he had not thought himself unprepared. But he was.

How long they stood, bewildered by the wonder of each other, he knew not. But then Finrod took his elbow, and at the touch the world rushed in upon him once more, in all its noisy, confusing, unwelcome distraction. Angrod stood watching with a face like a thundercloud. Aegnor had dropped his cup and the wine ran out to stain the butter-yellow leather of his soft shoes. Orodreth was agape, a dark, undecided presence poised on the brink of righteous, brotherly wrath. "Hmn," said Finrod, chidingly, though his face softened at Celeborn's dazed look, "You could have picked a better way than this to announce your intentions toward our sister."

Chapter Fourteen:  Some Nasty Revelations

In warrior training Celeborn had often been the centre of such an exercise - surrounded by foes, uncertain from whom the first attack would come, braced and threatened from all directions. But the faces of the warriors of Doriath as they trained were not so grim. With a son of Finarfin at each compass point, and feeling himself hemmed in, some of his exaltation withdrew. Not lost - for he knew he could never lose the joy of this moment - but set aside in a safe place to be hoarded against better times. For a moment he wondered if he would have five opponents or four, and looking aside at Galadriel his courage soared to see her eyes still bright. Defiant. Her brothers knew little of her, he thought, if they sought to dissuade her from this by force. By challenging her will, they but confirmed her in it.

"What..." predictably it was Angrod - with the shortest temper, and the most inclination to speak his mind - who began, in a hissed, furious whisper. "What do you think you are doing? Dishonouring our sister in front of your whole country!"

"I do not dishonour her," Celeborn could not quite find anger in return - so buoyant he still felt. "If I did, would she have allowed it? Nerwen knows her own mind, and does as she wants."

Angrod shook his head, speechless, and it was Aegnor who spoke for him. Fair and beautiful Aegnor, aflame in face and voice. "She meant it not. She was carried away by a madness of music, reflecting a zeal that was not her own." He rounded on Galadriel, his eyes haunted with a dread that seemed over-deep even for this public spectacle. Just so he had looked when he dropped out of the dance, and what Celeborn had thought of then as disapproval was shown to be more primal. It was fear.

"You should have learned by now to keep away from such forms of collective madness. Who, better than we, know what it is to be caught up in the fire of others' desires, and awake later with nothing to show for it but regrets?"

This outburst tightened the faces of all Finarfin's children. Alike they looked in their response; shocked, guilty, as though Aegnor had said something forbidden, and stirred awake a doom long sleeping. Celeborn might have wondered at it, but that he was overcome by his own doubts. Did Aegnor speak the truth? The dance was, after all, designed as a release - a way of letting go of all expectations and restraints. In it, anger could be purged and resentment alloyed, losses forgotten. The essence of the self was set free, expressed, and joined together with all Menegroth, with all Doriath, with all the Lindar of Middle-earth - a mighty water flowing together towards the sea. Suppose Galadriel had merely been swept away in its torrent, had not truly meant that mark of her favour. Suppose he had - knowingly or not - taken advantage of her?

His mood plummeted. O Araw! Tell me I did not! Shame threatened him, hot and dark. But as he slid towards its abyss, Galadriel reached out to take his hand, and he knew it was not so. At the touch, his mind cleared. He straightened, giving her a look of thanks. Her startled expression had faded, and to his delight he recognized the glint in her eye; the look of fell laughter she bore during swordplay. Standing shoulder to shoulder with her, he knew that the sons of Finarfin had better guard themselves, for they were well outmatched.

"We need to talk," said Orodreth at last, looking at the linked hands with some bemusement.

"But not in the middle of the clearing, with all the eyes of Menegroth on us." Finrod noted, quietly.

Celeborn took a deep breath, and thought again about battlefield tactics. One did not win a war by allowing the enemy to take command at the outset. There might be four of them, but they were in his country, on his territory. "Yes," he said, calmly, "We have much to discuss. And I know a good place to do it in. Follow me."

***

He brought them to a smaller glade, pillared with the straight, shining trunks of silver-birch and roofed with the delicate flutter of their small leaves. Some of Melian's roses had escaped her gardens and grew wild there, entwining the tree-boles. Their gold-centred white flowers swayed like the lanterns among the branches. The air - after the dancing circle - was cool and sweet with their scent.

At Celeborn's command, a servant laid cloths on the leaf-strewn ground, for the princes to sit on, and set out wine, bowls of apples and hazelnuts. They would find it much harder to be intimidating from a prone position, he thought, amused, and holding a cup would give their hands something better to do than hauling he and Galadriel physically apart. He gestured for them to be seated, and when they had reluctantly acceded he poured the best wine for them, and smiled. "Now we may talk like civilized people. And since Nerwen has not expressed any objection to my actions, you must first tell me what exactly I have done wrong in your eyes."

Angrod gaped and looked at his brothers for support. Finrod had reclined gracefully on the cushioned earth and was watching this with a look of interest, as an observer might pore over a game of 'Hawks and Swans'. Orodreth seemed troubled, his gaze inward, struggling with some problem of his own. Only Aegnor looked as indignant as Angrod seemed to hope. "You kissed my sister!" he cried, and seemed newly appalled at the thought.

Galadriel laughed at that. She had, through some months of practice, acquired the ability to sit on the forest floor as though it was a throne, and - having taken out the remainder of her hair pins - she looked composed once more, both elated and formidable. "He did not kiss me," she said, with deliberate emphasis. "I kissed him."

A second wave of dismay went through the Noldor at that. Celeborn tried very hard not to grin at their discomfiture, but he was, unexpectedly, finding this conversation as delightful as the dance - just as she trod lightly, a responsive, wholehearted partner in merriment, so too it was a pleasure to face trials beside her, and watch her strength and subtlety at work. With one stoke she had taken away any need for their righteous wrath, and protected him from the angry accusations, the insults, which might have obscured the true issue for hours.

"Do you know what you are saying?" Orodreth's fingers circled the lip of his cup thoughtfully.

"I am saying that Celeborn of Doriath is my lover." She squeezed his hand at the words, and the smile escaped him. He knew he must look foolish and smug, but could not find it in himself to care. "He has spoken to me of marriage, and I have given him the right to court me."

"Marriage!" Orodreth's fingers stilled, and Celeborn thought at once that he received this news not as a shock, but as a revelation, some deeper purpose of his own stirred by it. Marking Orodreth as one already, or at least soon won over, he turned his attention to the younger two. Aegnor was shaking his head, disbelieving.

"What of Glorfindel? What of Celebrimbor?" he said, and the names were ugly in Celeborn's ears. Guessing that these must be two of the 'many admirers' Galadriel had threatened him with, that night in Melian's garden, he found it hard not to hate them on this evidence alone. "There is an understanding that you will marry one of them. They will be insulted that you accept a..." He took a breath, and Celeborn could see him swallowing the words 'Dark Elf'. "A stranger in their place."

"That 'understanding'," Galadriel bared her teeth, "Was an understanding which lay between them and my father. He thought them suitable. I do not. I am full-grown and do not require his help or yours in deciding my future."

"Equally," Celeborn, drew their attention away from what seemed likely to degenerate into a mere family squabble, "I do not require your approval, and your disapproval will certainly not dissuade me." He allowed a certain irritation to colour his tone - it was tiring and false to be forever dancing around their convictions of superiority. Time, perhaps, to match their pride with his own, and let them know that theirs was not the only heritage of value in Ea. "But I do not see why you should be so appalled. This Middle-earth has long belonged to the Lindar. All its peoples have answered to Thingol, and the children of the royal line of Doriath are acknowledged as the rightful rulers of all Ennor. If the Golodhrim have been permitted to settle here, permitted to take lands, it has been by Sindar forbearance only. And if a prince of the Sindar wishes to marry into your family you should be glad for this chance to legitimize your rule. You arrived here with nothing, sons of Finarfin. Did you imagine that what you found here belonged to no-one, and was free for the taking?"

"It looked fair to belong to Morgoth when we arrived!" exclaimed Angrod, stung, and even Finrod looked at Celeborn with surprise, not having heard him speak in this vein before, "We won it by force of arms, and by our own blood."

"And a thing stolen from its owner, though bought at great price, does it become yours?"

"Something is owed, I think, for great sacrifice," Finrod said, mildly, though his eyes were thoughtful. "And it might be politic, and generous, to waive your right, in light of what has been suffered."

Celeborn smiled, liking the clear moral high ground of the point, "True. And thus it was politic and generous of Thingol to allow you to claim the lands that once were his, in honour of your valour in gaining them. Just as it was generous of him to overlook the fact that they were never actually offered back, but were taken as though you had a right to them."

"By 'you'," Finrod leaned forward, intent, "you mean 'you Noldor' in general - Fingolfin's claim and that of the sons of Feanor. For we Finarfians have our lands by direct gift from Thingol, and cannot be accused of theft or disrespect."

"No." It was a tendency of all speech with Felagund to stray into matters of ethics and metaphysics, until the original topic was lost. So Celeborn dragged the discussion back to the subject of marriage unsubtly, but with some force. "And that is because the children of Finarfin are our kinsmen. But as kinsmen you have, again, no reason to object to me as a suitable husband for your princess."

At that, Finrod burst out laughing. "You argue like a Teleri," he said. "Always changing course! My mother has that same knack, and my father despairs of it."

"I may change tack," Celeborn was thankful for the lightening of subject and mood. Finrod was a gracious man to debate with. "But I hold my course, which is that I love your sister, and I will wed her, if and when she says 'yes'."

Galadriel, who had sat in stiff self control through this discourse on Sindar pride, now softened and gave her brothers a smile of such happiness it was an argument in itself. "Is it not a sign of hope?" she said, "Middle-earth is not so ill a place as we were told - for not only vengeance may we find here, but love. A new life. A future."

She grew brighter as she spoke, the flame of her spirit showing through, as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud, and Celeborn observed for the first time some measure of her power as it pressed, incandescent, against her brother's minds, less persuading than sweeping them away under her own ardour. "We were right to come. Not just for us, but for the sake of all those left here to fight Morgoth alone. Presumptuous seemed Fingolfin's claims to Thingol, and cold seemed Thingol's welcome to Fingolfin, but see - love can reconcile the two kindreds. Ere long we will no longer be Noldor and Sindar but one nation: Quendi, mingled in blood, united in loyalty. Then let Morgoth fear! For there will be nothing more he can do to divide us."

There was a moment of silence. In the distance could be heard the sound of Daeron's pipes, sweet and slow, as the dancers glided in stately pavanne, starlight on their sleek hair and a mist of light about their feet. Above all, the stars shone like silver flames, and the stems of the birch glistened in their grey twilight.

"That is all very well," said Angrod at last, shaking off both its enchantment and hers. "But it will not be as you say. You have been here too long, Nerwen, and do not know what it is like, trying to prove that your mother's blood does not make you disloyal, does not make you lesser. Marry him, and all it will achieve is to drive a wedge further between the children of Finarfin and the rest of our host, weakening us at a time when we need all our strength. They will say we are forgetting our father, forgetting that we are Noldor first. We are Calaquendi. With a high purpose, united in doom. Not fainthearted loiterers who have dwelled with evil thousands of yen without once assailing it. We came to destroy Morgoth, not to interbreed with those who did not even have the courage to complete the March."

A hiss of intaken breath stopped Angrod's speech. Like a ray of moonlight lancing into a dark pool, Luthien had alighted on the edge of their clearing, and her perfect lips were curled with contempt. "My father commands you to wait upon him," she said coldly, making Celeborn wonder for a moment if she had been sent to rescue him; if Elu had supposed he needed aid against four angry brothers. But there was no complicity or amusement in her. Indeed, he had never seen her look so chill - fair as a night of ice which glitters with killing cold.

"Luthien?" he asked, the small anger of pricked pride disappearing in the face of her great wrath. What was happening?

She shook her head, "I will not speak here." As she looked between him and Galadriel, he saw with a sudden opening of dread, dark as the caves of the Narog, that some of her fury was on his behalf, as though she knew him betrayed and dared not speak of it. "Come too, if you will. For this concerns you closely."

***

Thingol and Melian had departed from both feast and dancing, and sat in one of the smaller reception rooms. In state. The formality was a warning and rebuke in itself. Melian's gaze was impassive, but as heavy as her robes - she had donned the draped velvets of a Queen, and her storm-dark hair was crowned with silver and gems which gleamed like lightning. But it was at Elu that Celeborn looked, and seeing an anger he had not seen since Denethor's death, he knew the tempest was come. Elu was all steel, hard and sharp. Rage glinted from him like sunlight from a sword.

Brusquely, Thingol gestured for Celeborn to come and stand beside him, and he went to his place in silence. Nothing had ever been achieved by arguing with Elu in this mood. Luthien sat down in the throne at her mother's side, and as simply as that a line was drawn between Noldor and Sindar. A line which had not been there since the first day the children of Earwen had come to Doriath.

"My lord?" Finrod stood a little in front of his siblings, like the prow of a ship, which is the first to bear the onslaught of the sea. There was innocent puzzlement in his face, and, at the sight, Elu's weapon-hand clenched.

"Ill have you done me, kinsman," he said, "with your craven secrecy. Ill have you done us all! Yet you have not saved yourself. For I have learned now of all the evil deeds of the Noldor."

So it was come at last, thought Celeborn and his dread had some admixture of relief, knowing that finally he would know the worst, and there would be no more secrets. Watching, he saw that Galadriel had hung her head, and her loosened hair hung forward, casting shadows over her face. His heart twisted within him - he had never imagined that anything could make her look thus.

"What ill have I done to you, lord?" said Finrod, "What evil have any of the Noldor done to you, or in your realm? Nothing." It was, literally, the truth, Celeborn knew, and yet it came from the gentle, forthright heart of Finrod like a falsehood. And his nerve almost failed him, not wanting to know what fell thing could make this upright man circle about the truth like a clever liar.

The disingenuousness did not sit well with Thingol. He laughed, sharply, "I marvel at you, son of Earwen. How could you come and feast with us, while your hands were red with the blood of our slaughtered kin - and not say anything. How can you not have the decency even to explain it, or ask for forgiveness?"

Celeborn frowned. He had surely heard wrong. Or Elu had not meant what he seemed to imply. Elf did not slay elf - it was unthinkable. They must have fled perhaps, and left their kin to the mercy of orcs... Except that there were no orcs in Valinor. So... There must be another explanation of which he could not quite think...

But there was horror in the gaze of Melian, and tears in Elu's eyes, "You killed them," he said, "Not only fellow elves, but elves of your own family, your own kindred. Does Olwe live still? Would you murder your own grandfather? And what of Galadhon - my nephew, Celeborn's father - did you hack him down before you came here, claiming to be our friends? How could you do this? And how could you call it nothing?"

Celeborn's breath failed, and his chest ached as if he had plunged into a frozen sea. This must not be true. It must be a rumour put about by Morgoth to discredit the Noldor. Shadowed though they were, the taint could not be this dark. But then why did Finrod not speak? And Galadriel - why did she not look at him and tell him it was not so? An emotion began in him, like ice forming about a tree root, spreading, thickening, stopping the flow of his blood. The lanterned hall dimmed in his eyes, and the fountain's flow seemed to falter, its voice falling silent. He remembered asking her about his father, that first day they had spent together, and how easily she had turned the subject, falsely innocent. And this had been in her mind?

His body felt again the press of a sword-point against his stomach as her hand drove it inwards. He had killed enough orcs and werewolves to know the feel of muscle separating under steel. Had she done that in truth? And how did it feel? Did elven flesh part more easily, the blood well slower or with more speed? And what did she see, when she looked in the eyes of a fellow eldar, as she cut out their heart?

Nausea swept through him, and the slow hardening of his soul became suddenly recognizable as cold fury. And still, Finrod did not answer, chastened and silent as one falsely accused.

But Angrod had had enough. He stepped out of his brother's shadow, and if the Doriathrim were all ice, he was fire. "I have had enough of this," he said, "I know not what lies you have heard, Lord, but the children of Finarfin are guiltless, and I am sick of being caught in the middle of this quarrel. 'Tale tellers' we have been called by the Noldor, though as you know we have said nothing, and 'murderers' you call us now, and we are neither! For our loyalty we are punished by either side. Well, I will bear it no longer, and I see no further harm from telling you the truth."

Then, with great bitterness, he spoke of the words of Feanor against the Teleri. How the sons of Feanor - armoured in mail and helm, equipped with sword and shield - had fallen upon the mariners of the Teleri, whose peaceful folk had nothing but hunting bows and fishing spears with which to defend themselves. "And Fingolfin, finding them already at odds, not knowing who had begun it, joined the fray on the Noldor side. But we - Finarfin and his folk - we did nothing. Indeed, Nerwen armed herself and fought in defence of the Teleri. Then Feanor took the Swan Ships, and sailed away, abandoning us to deal with the consequence of his rapine, or to follow as we might across the Grinding Ice.

Then Mandos spoke, and told us that, should we depart, all that we sought to do here would end in ruin, and that we would not prevail over Morgoth. But how could we turn back then? After so many people had died? We could not."

He began to speak of the Helcaraxe, and the torment of cold with which that decision had been rewarded, but Celeborn had no mind to pity a punishment so self-inflicted. The fury had begun to flower in him, and it was all he could do to stand still and listen. This was Noldor wisdom, was it? This was the truth of the glory of the Calaquendi? They slew their own kind, betrayed their own families, and they dared - they dared still to look down on the Sindar? Ruinous, doomed, fell and bitter, they still thought themselves too good for Ennor? The arrogance was breathtaking.

"We have done nothing wrong, and been punished as though we had," cried Angrod, impassioned, "Why should we be called kinslayers and traitors, when we are not?"

"Yet the shadow of Mandos lies on you also," said Melian, and her voice was implacable, "And if you do not share in the Noldor's guilt, you share still in their curse. Did you not think that was something we had a right to know about?"

Yes, Celeborn thought, bitterly, knowing their war is doomed from the start, they still come, they still seek to embroil us in their hopeless carnage - assuming that they will lead and we will follow, not troubling to ask. And then they have the gall to resent us when we will not come to their hand, like a dog. Yes, that hurt. But it was understandable, for of course all nations viewed events from their own halls first. It did not hurt so much as the merely personal. Looking down, at Finrod - whom he had grown to like very much - and Galadriel...no Nerwen - whom he loved, he did not know what to think of them now, or which betrayal hurt the most.

By Angrod's own word, Finrod and his brothers had done nothing. They had stood by while innocent people were slain; while their friends, their kinsmen were murdered, and they had done nothing. Might it not have stopped the fighting if they had at least stood between their mother's people and their father's? Feanor, perhaps, it would not have shamed, but it would have stopped Fingolfin, surely? They did nothing. Could they not have done something?

But was it better to draw sword against your own family, as Nerwen had? 'Disgusting', she had once said, at the thought of marrying him. Now his own thoughts revolted from touching her, as though the blood of slain eldar oozed still in invisible stain, unwashable, over her. And still he could hardly believe any of this. Elf did not slay elf. It did not happen. The world would not endure it - it would break and fall into the sea, it would return to the void, rather than bear so evil a thing. Surely?

"Go now," said Elu at last, and everything that Celeborn felt - the fury, the disbelief and the pain - was echoed in his voice, "At this moment I cannot bear the sight of you, and I am too... angry.. for debate." He took a deep breath, as a warrior might labour for air on the battlefield, trying to clear the haze of red from his eyes. "Later you may return, if you will. You are my family, and you did, at least, not aid this evil. With Fingolfin too I will keep friendship - he has been punished enough."

He breathed again, deliberately, preparing to give judgement. Authority settled on him as he stood. Tall and beautiful and terrible as a Lord of the Maia in wrath he seemed to Celeborn, but with a heart hot with love for his folk. He had not forgotten, nor would ever forget, that the Teleri of Aman were once his people too. "Hearken to my words," he said. "In all my realm I forbid the open use of Quenya. Never again will my people speak, or answer to, the tongue of those who slew our kin in Alqualondë. All who use it shall be held slayers of kin, and betrayers of kin, unrepentant. Let the Golodhrim learn to speak and think - aye, even to dream - in the language of the Lindar. Let them remember those they murdered every time they open their mouths. Now, go!"

The sons of Finarfin bowed their heads and left, silently. But Nerwen paused beneath the arch of the door and looked back, meeting Celeborn's eyes. Her gaze was, as it always had been, proud and clear, but as she looked in his face there was a new despair visible in its depths. Seeing her so, her feet bare beneath her white festival finery, her hair loose and tangled from dancing, he knew he should say something. But he had no idea what. It was too sharp a pain; wrenching control of both mind and body from the fea, leaving him helpless to act or think. He needed to hit something. Needed to consider, to understand. He needed to stop seeing - in his imagination - the dried brown blood that pointed the ends of her golden hair. Needed to find out if he still loved her, as he had said he always would. But he could do none of those things while she stood, all vulnerability, gazing at him. Just as Elu needed time and space to cool down, to accept this, so Celeborn needed Nerwen to be gone.

She opened her mouth to speak, and he turned his back on her, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. There was a silence, and then footfalls. The door closed behind her quietly, and only then did he sink to his knees on the dais, wrap his arms around himself, and join Luthien, Elu and Melian as they wept.

Chapter End Notes

Celeborn's use of the Sindarin word 'Golodhrim' instead of the Quenya word 'Noldor' is somewhat less than polite. The connotation of Quenya 'Noldor' is 'The Wise Elves' or 'The Deep Elves', but 'Golodhrim' which is the direct equivalent, means 'The Sorcerous Elves', and is almost as disliked by the Noldor as 'Moriquendi' is by the Sindar.

Elu, of course, calls them 'Golodhrim' later in obedience to his own decree not to use Quenya.

Chapter Fifteen: A Change of Scene

A chill wind flowed down from the Ered Wethrin, and stirred the springwaters of the river. Only a short time ago this place had been perhaps a large pool, fringed with bullrushes and mud. But Fingolfin's masons had been busy, and its edges were now a perfect circle of white marble. Eithel Sirion welled up and lay within those pale bounds like the mirror of Elbereth, smooth, perfectly circular, reflecting the sky and the peaks of the mountains in crystal brilliance.

The outlet of the river, which doubtless had once been a swift, noisy stream, had also been deepened, smoothed into regularity and edged with marble - a canal as straight and silver as a sword, lying harnessed and placid under a myriad of small, shallow draughted craft. Boats and punts, rafts and barges jostled for mooring spaces within the fortress walls, bringing goods from Mithrim and Dorthonion. Some had even made the lengthy journey up from Sirion's mouth in the Bay of Balar. And they were Cirdan's folk, who handled much of the river-trade, since it had to pass through Brethil in Doriath, where the Noldor were not permitted to come.

Nerwen sat on a bale of thatching reed, brought this morning from the fen of Serech, and pulled her cloak closer about herself, holding the hood tight against the questing fingers of the mountain breeze. She had no mind to be recognized, to have the fortress a chatter with idle talk; 'does she so hate her own people she must slum it with the watermen at the docks?' 'How coarse she has grown - did you mark how her shoes pinched her in the dance last night. I'll wager she's been barefoot these last hundred years. And her gowns! All of them are grey. She went forth a princess and has come back a very woodpigeon - drab and wild.'

Oh, the talk would go on whether she was recognized or not, but it was the better not to have to acknowledge it. Not to hear the maidens of Fingolfin's house giggling over her wardrobe, or the more serious murmuring which went through the lords and captains. 'Why has she come back? She fled to Elwe as soon as she could. Everyone knows her heart is with the Teleri, so why is she here?'

Shifting slightly on the cold reed she leaned back and there came into view the soaring white tower of Barad Sirion - the stronghold of Fingolfin in the land of Hithlum. Mist curled about its base, for this was a land of cloud and pearl, but today the drifting fogs were thin, and the upper portion of the tower stood above them, lit by strong sunlight, dazzlingly white against a clear blue sky. In delicate filigree baskets on its sides - their supporting chains too flimsy to make them a danger in warfare - flowers grew and trailed in colourful vines down its shining stone. Songbirds had been encouraged to nest there, and their music filled the courtyards to the curtain wall. Even the canal, though marble lined, did not run silent. It lilted with a soft and pleasant voice, which - Nerwen had discovered on her second day - was caused by baffles carefully carved and positioned in the channel.

Why am I here?

The question stroked her heart with cold, as though the breeze had found a way inside garments and flesh to chill her soul. She narrowed the question down, keeping her mind occupied so that it might not stray back into endless descending spirals of despair.

Why am I here in Hithlum? Because she had sacrificed her position among the Noldor, her loyalty to her father, even the very cleanness of her hands, for a people who would not accept the sacrifice; who would not take her in. She had fought on the Teleri side, but the Teleri did not want her - stained as she was - as one of their own. What else could she do then, but try to anneal herself once more with Noldor steel, try to persuade them that the alloy of her blood made her stronger, more flexible than they. She would try to convince them that they wanted her back, and herself that she wanted to come back. At least until she had time to make other plans.

Ere long, she told herself in grim defiance, she would put together a following of her own. There were enough folk, convinced, as she was, that Mandos' words were true and their battles here were vain. They lacked only a leader, and that she could be. She would take them somewhere else. Away. East, where the umanyar would not be too proud to accept her as Queen. She would carve out by her own hand the kingdom she came to Ennor to rule, and rule it alone. Away from doom and politics and whispering. Away from Noldor and Sindar both.

But if that is my plan, why am I idling here? In hiding?

This question, though less important, caught at her heart more nearly. For she sat here often, watching the loading and unloading of the small boats, pondering over the differences between this and the landing stages outside Menegroth, where the Esgalduin flowed deep and wide between banks of turf and trees. Tree-roots, and the nests of waterbirds were the artifice which gave Esgalduin its voice. Rougher and less lyrical was its music. But day by day it changed, and each moment there was a new note. She found she missed the variety, the surprise.

She was, she supposed, merely avoiding the noise and enthusiasm of Celegorm and Curufin, who were also staying for a while with their uncle. Neither had improved since she saw them last. The recklessness which had been theirs from the start was now combined with something sly; ungovernable. Even in Valinor, Nerwen had been an outspoken opponent of Feanor, their father, and they continued that enmity with spiteful words and hard looks. Their presence was a grief she would willingly spare herself. And besides, it was more pleasant to be out of doors, in the fresh air, watching the bustle on the banks, than to sit indoors and fend off for one more time Fingolfin's questions about Elu's military strength or intentions.

'You say he knows about Alqualonde? And this has nothing to do with the visit of the sons of Finarfin to Doriath?'

'So a king may say, in closed council. It is hardly a public proclamation. Suppose he said it only to lull you, and later, after the attack, he will claim you misunderstood. Who could gainsay it?'

A stir among the warehousemen drew her dimmed gaze, distracted her from brooding. A raft laden with preserved foodstuffs all the way from the Sea sat in a birth closest to the fortress walls, where those who manned it could see furthest out over the surrounding lands. One of the raft-elves pointed, another dashed for the harbourmaster, as dock workers straightened to see what was so worth exclaiming over. The harbourmaster ran up the steps to the top of the curtain wall, stood watching for some moments, then sped down, seizing the first elf he came across to send as a messenger to the keep, then disappearing into his cottage to emerge robed, knotting his sash and straightening his hair as doubtless he did when the king and his officials came to inspect.

Curious, Nerwen got up and joined the folk lining the waterfront, craning for a glimpse of this marvel - whatever it was. Standing behind a fisherman's daughter, she peered over the girl's head, her own hood far forward, shading her eyes. She saw at first only the long canal, lying straight as a metal rule. Both the mountains to the West and the grasslands to the East were shrouded in fog, and the water barely gleamed - smooth and dusk-grey. The sky was as wan as the marble, and all that sailed on the stream was a single skiff, gray as ash wood, with a sail as white as a seagull's wing. Disappointment mingled with her gloom. Another little boat. What of it? There were craft like this coming and going all day long. How did that explain the stir, the tension and excitement of the crowd?

And then the wind gusted, and the pennants on the skiff's mast fluttered once more into sight. The uppermost a winged moon on a field black as the night sky. Below it a silver tree on a background green as holly.

The elf who sailed the small boat was hooded against the cold mist, shrouded in a cloak whose colour changed to match every slide of shadow. When he rose, to take the sail in slightly, she recognized the height, and the gentle, competent way he moved. Sitting once more at the tiller he took down his hood, and the spill of hair like moonlit mithril about his shoulders confirmed the tale of the banners. It was he. Her heart rose into her throat and choked her, and she had to turn away and find her seat once more, sink down there and clasp both of her hands over her mouth. There was an anguish within her, and it felt as if her very fea struggled to escape her body; whether to fly to him, or from him, she did not know. She held it in, behind her hands, and did not dare move. It would shatter her ribs. It would break free, and she would never be herself again. Celeborn

He had looked at her, in Doriath, as though she was repulsive. As though she stank of spilled blood. And she had been certain that would be the last sight she would ever have of him. The journey to Eithel Sirion she had passed in anger - how dare he look at her so - and a grief she would not allow herself to feel. But since then she believed she had achieved some kind of bleak acceptance. Ruin she had been promised. Why be surprised if it had come so soon? One day, she thought - when she had recovered enough - she could have come to be thankful that he at least was spared her accursed presence in his life. He would take less harm from it, ending now, than if he had been allowed to hope longer.

She had steeled herself to accept a life alone, for he had done exactly as she thought he would and turned his back on her. Forever.

But if so, why was he here?

Briefly - in a panic of self-consciousness - she half rose, preparing to return to the fortress. It would not do if he was to spot her here and think she had been sitting at the waterfront all this time, waiting for him. But she was not sure if she could move without being seen. The broad steps up to the fortress were unusually crowded. Among various servants strolling - with excessive nonchalance - towards the harbour, she recognized the cellarer, Rilmiriel and the stablemaster, Thalmo, walking together. Both were sharp of mind and eye. They would know her by her tallness and gait, and wonder why she fled at Celeborn's approach.

Thwarted, she sank back into the shadows, and thought how odd it was that the servants made so much of this arrival and her own people so little. If asked, she would have expected a few curious Noldor to come. The messenger must, by now, have passed on the news that a prince of the Sindar was here, and this was the first time the reclusive Doriathrin nobility had ever deigned to have personal contact with anyone outside. She might have expected spectators on that account alone. But those who came were the Sindar who sewed the clothes of the Noldor, groomed their horses, farmed their fields and organized their kitchens, setting food on their tables.

When Celeborn stepped ashore - looking a little travelworn and grim - it was into a crowd of his own people.

"My lord," the harbourmaster bowed to him, "You fly the banner of Thingol, and a second, prince's device. Are you...?"

"I am the King's nephew. Celeborn Galadhonion."

There was a murmuring among the crowd, and they drew away a little, like a tide-pool receding. Rilmiriel and Thalmo were left like small islands, singled out by some deepfelt communal agreement as spokesmen.

"My lord," Rilmiriel began - she was dark haired and grey eyed as almost all in the crowd were - but there was no mistaking any of them for Amanyar. Their faces were too shadowed; their gazes deep, but not bright. "Before you go up to the Fortress will you not speak with us? We are concerned."

Celeborn paused, thoughtful, then leaned out to lift onto the shore a sack and a bag from the bottom of his boat. Piling them one on top of the other he sat down. "Tell me," he said, and at the words there went through the gathering a breath of deep, heartfelt relief.

Now Nerwen felt more than individual concern; she was fascinated. It seemed to her that Celeborn was holding court, here on the Noldor-tamed banks of the Sirion, in the heart of King Fingolfin's realm, and neither he, nor Fingolfin's subjects, appeared to find it incongruous or out of place.

Rilmiriel and Thalmo looked at one another, anxiously, and it was Thalmo who began. "We have heard rumours that Thingol commands us not to speak Quenya, or even to hear it. Is that so?"

"It is."

"Then it is true," Rilmiriel gathered up the corners of her apron and twisted them, as another woman might wring her hands, "About the kinslaying? We thought... We hoped it was but the Enemy's lies."

"No," Nerwen watched Celeborn's face carefully as he replied. There did not seem to be any lessening of his grief - in less than a month how could there be? But like the stream it was now channelled - quieter, but deeper. "What you have been told is true. These very Golodhrim slew our kin in Alqualonde. Feanor deliberately, and Fingolfin by mistake, thinking we attacked them. Only Finarfin's children stood aside. The Lady Nerwen, indeed, fought for us, at her own great peril."

Was there approval in that terse summary? The thought of it made her feel as one frost bitten, coming too soon into the heat - a brief, delicious warmth, and then pain as the thaw began to spread.

"And Elu asks no more of us than this?" the harbourmaster wondered aloud, "Not to rebel? We could leave, even - let them sweep their own floors and make their own beds."

"Would you?"

"Not willingly," Rilmiriel said, now deeply worried, "This land is my land, and I would not gladly leave it." She shook her head; "I like it here. I like them. It is hard to see that Lord Fingon, who rode so valiantly against the dragon, protecting us, should be punished by desertion."

"But we would," Thalmo rubbed his hands - which smelled of horse - against his horse-smelling trousers. "Maybe not willingly, but we would. A lot of us, anyway. If the King commanded it."

Celeborn smiled at that, as regal as a man could be, who was clothed in homespun and sitting on a pile of sacks. "He does not ask it of you. Though I am sure the offer will make him glad. No, the ban is all. Beyond questions of judgement it will be good, I think, if the Golodhrim learn to use our tongue as their own. It will prevent at least the daily humiliation of being given orders in a foreign language."

"But the sons of Feanor?" the harbourmaster persisted, and Nerwen wondered if she should warn her uncle that he employed an elf so eager for vengeance, "We are to do nothing more against them?"

"The King's thoughts, concerning the Feanorim," Celeborn looked up at the harbourmaster with a dark, speculative gaze, "Are thus: The sons of Feanor have placed themselves in the positions of greatest danger, and Morgoth's wrath falls upon them most harshly. Perhaps, Elu has said, perhaps they seek to atone for what they did. If so, it should not be hampered by any deed of ours."

There was a stir about the doors of the tower, and a banner-bearer came out, carrying Fingolfin's many-pointed star of fire. The Castellan of Barad Sirion strode forth and began to walk swiftly towards the docks. Seeing him, some of the crowd drew off, or began at least to pretend to work once more.

"And your own thoughts, Lord?" asked Rilmiriel, who seemed a little happier, though she still frowned.

"For my part I will say only that loyalty is an admirable thing, even where it is undeserved." Seeing the movement, the flaming bright banner above the heads of the crowd, Celeborn stood and slung his bag over his shoulder. At once the court... the conference, whatever it could be called, was over. Nerwen watched as her uncle's trusted servants obeyed the unspoken dismissal - the command of a stranger - and left. They bowed in reverence to Bronwë the Castellan as they passed him, and there seemed no falseness in it, but she felt for the first time that she understood Celeborn's words to her brothers in Doriath. 'The children of the royal line of Doriath are acknowledged as the rightful rulers of all Ennor.'

It was a quiet power, unobtrusive. Less like the clear and visible authority of a king, and more ...organic, like the scarce to be traced lines of influence within a large, contented family. And Nerwen, to whom the threads and interweaving of power were an absorbing interest, discovered something new to be intrigued about in her lover. How naturally he handled power, and how restrained was his use of it; subtle, almost invisible. What havoc he could have achieved if he had chosen to inflame, rather than to soothe! How much Noldor glory was built upon the menial labour of their Sindar subjects - who were in their hearts good children of Thingol? No wonder he had said even their own realms existed by Sindar forbearance.

She was so absorbed by this new insight that even pain receded. Bronwë bowed and welcomed Celeborn, and took him away to be bathed and housed and rested, so that he could appear before Finarfin looking a little less like a wandering fisherman. It amused Nerwen to watch them go, Bronwe in fine damasked silk, sky blue, with the golden chain of his office about his neck - studded all over with gems, even the keys which hung from his belt gilded and set with diamonds. And Celeborn in white linen and grey wool; with no diadem but his hair - the unmistakable shining silver crown of the line of Elwë. You could take everything from him, she thought, seeing it. A pang of mingled regret and admiration struggled through the guard she held over her feelings. One more thing she might have lost, or might regain, if she dared hope it. Yet, naked, he would still be recognizable as a prince.

When the great door had closed behind him she scrambled up and made her own way back to her chamber. Changing her gown and re-dressing her hair in confused, impatient swiftness, she gave no thought to her maids - curious about this change in her. Let the gossip fly - she cared not. When Celeborn was introduced to Fingolfin, she had to be there. Regardless of personal feelings, the clash of unsuspected, clannish Sindar influence with the Noldor king's more blatant strength should prove instructive to watch. And she would not have either of them think she was absent because she dared not look them in the face.

Chapter Sixteen:  Very Nearly Betrothed

Bronwë smote the rod of his office against the many coloured floor of Fingolfin's throne room. Its steel-shod foot sent up a ringing note, as though the stone sang. "Galdaran Arafain Celeborn, kinsman of Thingol, Prince of Doriath," he announced, importantly.

Nerwen sat rigidly in her seat - on the lower step of the dais to Fingolfin's left - and did not allow herself to raise a hand to check the set of her high piled hair, or smooth the skirts of her heavily embroidered gown. Celegorm and Curufin, who sat beside her, or Fingon - who sat opposite, on the king's right hand - would surely notice, and if her heart pounded, or she felt sick with nerves, she would rather they did not know. "One of your dark-elf friends?" Curufin murmured, looking at her sideways, his narrowed eyes full of amusement. His hands - which were rarely still - toyed with a length of copper wire in his lap, and as he spoke he bent it swiftly into the shape of a spider; mean and scurrying.

"Yes." She fixed her eyes on the parting crowd, as though she had not seen the beautifully crafted little insult.

Though heads turned to gawp at him, and a chill seemed to follow him like a shadow, Celeborn strode easily through the hall and stopped with a small courtly bow before Fingolfin. She saw immediately that he was ill at ease - had he truly felt at home he would have been more curious, less polite - but his discomfort was as nothing compared to the catch of breath, the plummet into the past; into deep waters, that went through the onlookers at the sight of him.

Whether for her benefit, or in order to represent the nobility of the line of Elwë among a hostile nation, he had taken more care over his appearance than was his usual habit; his damasked silk tunic gleamed like snow beneath a mantle of indigo with the same sheen and depth of colour as a magpie's wing. He wore a torc of twisted silver, and a circlet of mithril in which a single frosty jewel flickered. His hair lay loose and bright over the night sky of his cloak. She saw that he had attempted to marry Noldor and Sindar style into something that was acceptable to both, but - though a small part of her mind exalted in the attempt - she knew it had been a mistake. For he looked neither Noldor, nor Sindar, but Teleri. Elu's kindred all bore a striking family resemblance, and, clad as a prince, tall as an Amanya, with the honed, bladelike beauty of his house, Celeborn could have been a murdered son of Olwë, come to claim revenge. He stood before Fingolfin like the ghost of something they had all much rather forget, and she knew there were few in the Hall who, looking on him, did not think of blood, soaking into the pearl-scattered strand of the sea.

Beside her, Curufin tightened his fist on the spider, squashed it into shapelessness.

The silence grew, and in the tense space, Nerwen sent up a desperate prayer that her lover's talent for making a terrible first impression was finally exhausted. Surely we can now advance to the point where Uncle realizes he likes him after all...

Fingolfin breathed in through his nose and let the breath out silently through a half opened mouth. Then, with an effort, he smiled and rose to greet his guest. "In the name of the great friendship between my father and your uncle I greet you, prince of Doriath. What may I do to aid you? And what brings you so far from your realm?"

Nerwen's hope fell into darkness with her heart. Seeing one before him who might have been from Valinor, desiring to do him honour - not to treat with him in the language of servants - Fingolfin had spoken in formal, sonorous, beautiful Quenya. She knew that Celeborn understood what had been said; understood too the kindness of it, and did not enjoy cutting the hand that was outstretched to welcome him. His brows twisted, and his eyes were downcast, regretful, as he met Fingolfin's gaze and replied in his own tongue. "Forgive me, Lord, but I must ask you to speak to me in Sindarin."

Taken aback, Fingolfin covered his frown by settling once more into his seat. Knowing him well, Nerwen could see that he was casting about for the most generous way of interpreting Celeborn's rudeness. He switched languages smoothly, and - possibly without realizing it - a tone of condescension crept into his voice. "You do not understand Quenya? I should have realized."

Curufin sniggered and leaned over to say to Nerwen, in something less than an undertone, "None of them can, you know. It is too difficult for them."

"I understand it." At the comment, Celeborn's regret had smoothed away, and he stood tall, but quiet. Almost humble - if it is humble to contradict and command a king. "However, I and all other Sindar are forbidden by Elu to speak or respond to it. Therefore I beg you will use our language when you treat with any of us, from the king himself to the lowliest of these your subjects."

Muffled gasps of outrage sounded from many in the hall, and indignation pulsed through the chamber like the note of an organ, so deep it shakes the walls. The Sindar refused to welcome them, refused alliance with them, left them to fight Morgoth alone, and now threw a courteous welcome in the face of their king, following it with intolerable demands. Understanding, she abandoned any hope that her kinsmen and the man she loved could ever be friends, and only held on to the wish that Celeborn might come out of this with his life. For Curufin, incensed, was already on his feet, his blazing eyes fell as they had been when he ran, sword drawn, into the huddle of Teleri carpenters and craftsmen. "Man Elwë Thingollo i válëa i lambë quetilvë núrolvain, ardalvassen?" he shouted. "Realms he neither founded nor defends. King of cravens! But for Melian you would all still be living in trees. Who is he to give us commands?"

Silence descended once more. Subtly, Celeborn's posture changed as he relaxed into the stance of a warrior who expects an attack, but will wait for it to come before countering. In its own way that too was an insult, for it said plainly he did not trust the sons of Feanor to keep the peace even in their King's Hall. Very alone - in a fragile bubble of Fingolfin's restraint; breakable as glass, he stood in readiness and said nothing.

At first, when he did not reply, Curufin smiled, sharp and hard as the wire in his hands, clearly thinking the Sinda was wrought speechless by his rage. Gradually, however, it became clear that Celeborn was not cowed, but that - as Curufin had spoken in Quenya - he had merely chosen not to hear. He stood, obdurately silent, and studied the floor.

"It is a just question." Fingolfin repeated it in Sindarin; "Who is Thingol to decree what language we speak in our own realms?"

Looking up at once, Celeborn smiled. "He does not, Lord. He only tells his people to which tongue they may listen."

"'His people?'" Curufin paced forward, poised to launch himself off the dais onto the bright ceramic floor before Fingolfin's feet. In the dusk of the narrow-windowed fortress, he blazed with something of his father's radiance. Clenching her fists on the arms of her chair, Nerwen prepared to leap to her feet and restrain him. "They are not Elwë's people any more," he continued, in pointed Quenya, as if trying by his brute presence to make the Sinda respond - anger or fear, either would be a victory. "They are ours."

But - for all the reaction to his words - he might have been voiceless. Celeborn simply stood in the lamplight and studied the patterns of the tiles, moved as greatly as though Curufin had said nothing at all. Furious, Curufin half turned, gathering the approval of the onlookers, gauging the mood. Then, above the heads of the crowd, he saw Rilmiriel outlined in the darkness of the door to the kitchens. "Elyë!" he called, "Neta limpë nin!"

The cellarer had been standing quietly, relaxed against the joist, gathering news to take back to the kitchen staff. Curufin's voice shocked through her - by her start and widened eyes she could not pretend not to have heard. Instinctively, she took a step back, and shadows spilled over her. Her dun dress and black hair melted into the darkness, until she was no more than a face - white and frightened - and an apron twisted between pale hands. Another step and she would have disappeared altogether, but something, pride perhaps, or the paralysis of fright, kept her rigid between the darkness and the light.

"A lelya!" Curufin growled and turned fully, crouched as a hunter stalking a nervous hind, his burning eyes fixed on her. "Go!"

Perhaps surprisingly, at this more blatant threat, the fear left Rilmiriel's face to be replaced with a look of mulish stubbornness which made Nerwen poignantly homesick for Doriath. From the highest to the lowest, she knew that look. She was not surprised, therefore, when Rilmiriel dropped her apron and smoothed it, her gaze on the creases, as if the son of Feanor had not spoken.

Throughout the hall, Nerwen noticed, there stood scattered, disregarded Sindar; grooms, messengers, craftsmen and merchants. They were watching with a kind of delight; empowered by Rilmiriel's struggle, unconsciously lending her strength. But she could feel, too, the barely leashed rage of her uncle's knights; Fingon's hurt puzzlement, Fingolfin's brooding sense of insult, as this nobody challenged the might of Feanor's son. Rilmiriel herself, though she well pretended indifference, could not wholly conceal her trembling - the focus of a titanic, bloodless war between two mighty peoples. Balrogs had fallen before the fury of these princes, but Rilmiriel stood. Silent, defiant, wanting to cry and not daring, she endured.

At last, Nerwen could stand the unequal struggle no more. Rising, she took hold of Curufin's wrist, restraining him. "Rilmiriel," her own Sindarin accent was that of Doriath rather than of Hithlum - so strange a web of loyalties she had woven about herself - but she smiled nevertheless and said lightly, "Please have someone bring the Lord Curufin a drink, 'ere the world ends."

The cellarer's wan face filled with gratitude. She curtseyed deeply, "At once, my Lady." Released, she fled instantly into the bowels of the citadel, taking her tale and her triumph with her.

Shaking off Nerwen's grip, Curufin glowered at her. He made a slow turn to glare at the whole hall, as if seeking out any who smiled. When they would not meet his eyes he was placated, a little, and slowly sat once more in his place. Allowing herself to breathe again, Nerwen sat too, and as she did so, she found that - for the first time - Celeborn was looking at her. In his level gaze was the same gratitude, and her heart bounded at it. A heat rose in her and rushed to her face. Looking away, she pressed her hands to her cheeks to cool them and fervently hoped no one would notice. She was 'Nerwen', and all these, her cousins, she had defeated at one time or another in the quest to be acknowledged as a leader among them. It would not do for them now to see her blushing like a moon-struck maiden in the presence of her first love.

"I see," said Fingolfin slowly, the condescension gone from his voice, "that there still exists a deep loyalty, even among our own people, to their king of old. It should not surprise us that we - being newcomers - have not supplanted it." Looking at Curufin thoughtfully, he stroked the ermine cuff of one trailing sleeve while he pondered his nephew's deeds. He would not try the same experiment himself, Nerwen knew, for he could not afford the loss of authority if it should fail. Instead she beheld his statecraft at work, conceiving a way in which to save as much from the situation as he might. "I see too there is some justice in Thingol's edict. It is a fine stroke - at once a demonstration of power, and of mercy. Since he and I should not be at odds - for a world in which Morgoth dwells has enemies enough for both of us - I will not oppose his will in this. Our subjects may follow their own conscience and obey, or not obey, as they see fit."

He bent his bright gaze on Celeborn, who bowed with a smile of thanks. "Was that all the message you were sent to bring? Or is there more?"

"To you, Lord," Celeborn said, quietly, "I bring only the assurance of Elu's continued friendship. But I also bear a private message for my kinswoman, the Lady Nerwen, which I entreat your permission to deliver."

Heads turned, and Nerwen found herself the focus of every eye. It was a position she was familiar with. Paying the courtiers back for their month of gossip, she smiled mysteriously, and wished they would choke on their curiosity.

Fingolfin leaned forward in his seat, and for a moment - for all the clash of cultures, the tensions of race and place and language; for all his sceptred and bejewelled might, - he was less a King than a dutiful uncle, guarding his brother's daughter from unsuitable admirers. "You may give me the message - I will see it is delivered to her."

Indignant that he should thus interfere with her life, set himself between her and her doom, whether it was a final rejection or a new hope, Nerwen prepared to argue. She fashioned a sentence which would hold her curiosity while giving nothing away to the onlookers. But there was no chance to use it, for Celeborn laughed and raised a look of rueful humour to the King. "We do not write such things in Doriath. We are not overly fond of the craft of letters. The message I have must be repeated to her."

Curufin laughed too and dug Nerwen in the side with his elbow. "You did not teach the savages to read while you were there? Or was that also far too hard for them?"

But for a second, longer time, Celeborn was now looking at her, and the smile lingered on his lips. The son of Feanor became unimportant to her, fading from her view. Even Fingolfin, giving a grudging assent, and Fingon, pulling on his gold wound braids with startled concern, slid from her sight as she bent her mind on her lover, seeking to read behind the courtesy, to uncover what he really thought. Her whole future lay upon his decision, and the thought made her queasy, for no one in her life had ever had such power over her before.

He had learned, perhaps from Melian, to shield all, and stood before her examination with the unyielding meekness he had shown before the King. Opaque and isolate, unreadable. Torn between anxiety and elation her heart fluttered, and again she broke the gaze, looking away. It seemed whatever judgement he had made, she would only learn when he chose to tell her. At once, every second between now and then took on an aspect of eternity.

***

The stateroom in which Nerwen waited was beautifully appointed in shades of scarlet and gold. Shelves of elegant electrum held many treasures - a bowl of glass whose ever changing surface seemed fluid as the sea; an eagle, sculpted out of a solid ruby; a harp made out of steel, whose perfect strings never needed retuning. There were settles positioned where one could sit and admire each object, becoming, over weeks or months, fully aware of their wonder, the genius of their making. Nerwen flitted from one to the other restlessly, touching them, drawing a string of shining notes from the harp, picking up the bowl and setting it down again. The sound of the door opening had her turning instantly, defensively, breath ragged.

But it was only Fingon, valiant as ever, venturing into the dragon's lair. He recoiled from her look of irritation and the sharp barb of her tongue. "What are you doing here? This is supposed to be a private meeting."

"About what?" he said, undeterred. "The business over language was a tale which could have been brought by Mablung or Beleg. It seems to me that this meeting is the true purpose of the Sinda's visit. And you seem... not entirely yourself. Why do the rulers of Doriath pursue you? Are you in trouble? May I help?"

"Oh, coz." The knowledge that he meddled out of care for her, one of the few who still seemed to care, made her sink into a seat, suddenly weary. "If you will know all, I will tell. But I charge you in courtesy not to repeat it."

"That will depend on the revelation," Fingon lowered himself onto the settle beside her, seeming part of the art collection in his exquisite tunic, even his hair a work of craft. "Yet, unless it is treason, you may depend on me."

Nerwen took a breath, and surrendered to the concern in his eyes. "Celeborn and I are betrothed."

"What?!" Barely having sat, he shot once more to his feet, looking horrified. He made an empty gesture, sharp and angry, turned to pace. "With all the Lords of Arda at your feet you choose this arrogant, illiterate Moriquende? You do know they are baying for his blood out there? You will splinter the host with this decision! There are those saying Thingol should be taught a lesson, this dark elf of yours should be taught who the true rulers of Ennor are."

"Let me guess, those would be the placating words of our cousins the Feanorim?" Nerwen gave him an icy look, "I hope we have learned better by now than to listen to them!"

"Father will be beside himself!"

"I do not fall in love to please or displease my relatives!" Nerwen folded her arms across her chest and looked away from him, deliberately watching the half open door. Turning his back on her, he shook his head, then scrubbed a hand over his face, softening. Returning to the seat he managed a faint, unconvincing smile, and at this gesture of compromise her defiance ebbed. It had been hard to carry this secret alone, and if he knew so much he might as well know all. "But you may be spared from contemplating a liaison so distasteful, for I exaggerated a little. We were almost betrothed. And then..." She lifted a hand and twisted one of her hairpins hard, the small grimace of discomfort covering a deeper torment. "And then he learned about the Kinslaying. And now I do not know if he has come to ask me to return with him, or to say farewell."

Breathing deep, she struggled to be frozen, dry eyed as she had been through greater hardships than this. Watching the deliberate, costly strength, Fingon became yet gentler. "You will abide by his discussion - this distantly-noble Grey elf?"

She shrugged, miserably. "What choice do I have? I cannot force him to love me, if his regard for me is dead. In this arena I have no more power than he."

Her cousin shook his head, marvelling. "And so the irresistible force meets the immovable object. I am amazed."

There came a knock on the door, Nerwen's heart lurched as though the blow had been to her face. She breathed in sharply, stiffened. Fingon rose, and paced to the centre of the room. Pausing, looking worried and oddly fatherly, he said, "I suppose that after Grandfather married a Vanya, and Finarfin married a Teler, you are only keeping up the family tradition. But bear in mind that the House of Finwë is not known for its successful relationships, or its good decisions. You risk much with this. Please be sure."

Leaving, he passed Celeborn in the doorway, and they looked one another over carefully, like two lead wolves at the edges of their territory, wondering if it will be necessary to fight. Then Fingon gave a small, cursory bow, and strode away, and Celeborn came in.

***

Seeing him, she felt as though a millstone had been lifted off her chest, and she could breathe fully for the first time since leaving Doriath. Her spirit, like a leaf tight curled through an icy night, unfurled to meet the sun, and though she had thought she would feel afraid or angry, instead her whole body seemed to sigh with relief. "Well," she said, smiling, wondering why he looked more relaxed, not less, after the fracas in the throne room, "That could hardly have gone worse, could it?"

He laughed, though there was an edge of nerves to the sound, "Oh, I don't know. I am alive, at least."

Whether this was intended as an oblique reference to the kinslaying, or Nerwen only assumed it was, being plagued with such thoughts, it put an abrupt end to a conversation which had seemed to open with such ease. Sitting down again, she knotted her hands in her lap, and watched as Celeborn gazed about the room. He did not fit with it - a disconcerting pillar of snow and silver in a colourscheme so warm. Seeing him outside Doriath made him seem more alien; something rare and exotic brought from a distant, hidden kingdom, which no one had the wit to appreciate but she. At this thought the treacherous heat overtook her once more, and she had to bury her face in her hands. She was ashamed that he might see her so.

Celeborn touched the harp and frowned at its metallic tone, then he turned back, face still dark, "Will she be safe from him, if she remains here?"

"Rilmiriel?" Nerwen followed his thought easily, "Yes, she will be fine. She is beneath Curufin's notice. It is from you that he will seek revenge, once he has licked his wounds a little."

"I do not intend to be here that long." At his terse tone she felt the ground tip beneath her, like the slab of ice which had upended, throwing Elenwe into the heartstopping water. She wished he would get on and say it. She wished he would remain silent. Instead he took another look around the room and sighed. "It is like a dwarvish mausoleum in here. Is there nowhere we can go to see the sky?"

In the midst of anxiety she could not help but laugh at that. It seemed they did most of their talking in the open air. Rising, she led him through the double doors at the end of the chamber, across a corridor and then out, onto a slender balcony of pale ash wood. Rigged so that it could at once be released from the stone walls, leaving no weakness to grapples, it was a frail thing. Through holes in the lattice beneath their feet a long drop went down in dizzying height, and few had the stomach to come here. Yet in it one might stand and seem to fly like Manwe's eagles amid the mountains. Nerwen herself felt a small thrill of fear, and leaned out, resting her weight on the balcony rail, just so she might defy it.

The sun was westering, and they stood above the mists. Beneath them, the courtyards were a roil of gold and flame as sunlight gilded the fog. Mountains rose out of saffron to soaring white purity, their tips aflame. Nerwen and Celeborn gazed together, and both laughed, and it seemed to them that both thought, together, that no work of craft could equal this.

Celeborn turned, the laughter still in his eyes. "Come home," he said.

Her heart leapt into the heavens like the mirrored sunlight. But it was not enough. She needed to know why. "Elu has forgotten his anger?"

"He is... less angry with you than with anyone else," Celeborn frowned, as though reminded of a pain he had momentarily, blissfully forgotten. "It is hard for any of us to accept that Finrod stood by and watched our families being murdered, and did nothing..."

"You do not understand," looking back, Nerwen would almost have said she did not understand herself. Angrod had the right of it - it was as if they had all been drunk on strong wine, desperate to get out, driven by an urgency she no longer comprehended, sober as she now was. "No one could believe what was happening. It felt...as though we had all gone mad, and we half expected it to be some perverse illusion - something we would awaken from and find had not happened at all. A fever dream. A nightmare."

"Yet you had the courage to set yourself against the slaying of innocents, and to act."

"But for what?" Nerwen smiled bitterly, "Only to end up ostracized by all."

"For what?" he gave her a look of puzzlement, "Because it was the right thing to do. And you are not ostracized. Plainly you belong in Doriath - you are one of our people now, by your own hand and choice."

This acceptance was too easy; she did not believe in it. There came unbidden to her mind the look of disgust on his face, the turned back, when she was driven out of his home. "You were not of such generous a disposition the last time we spoke."

At this, he sighed, came to lean out on the rail beside her, rubbing the furrow between his brows, as though he had frowned too often of late and it ached. "Now it is you who does not understand. You have had many Great Years to think about the kinslaying - to come to some kind of resolution. But to us, beyond the wanton slaying of our families, there is still a deeper horror. How can one elf take the life of another? Knowingly? My heart abhorred the idea. And to think that I loved someone who had killed... Noldor, Teleri, what did that matter? - they were elves."

He shook his head, and laughed, a sound rather of grief than of mirth. Wanting above all to comfort him she reached out and covered one of his hands with her own. As he looked up, his gaze caught hers, and she saw that something had been permanently changed in it. An innocence she had not recognized as such was gone; a dull pain in its place. That look she had seen on the faces of the Noldor as they struggled across the ice; the knowledge that evil is not always from the outside, and there are no depths it will not plumb.

"So, in your thoughts," she said, turning away from that further scar of her deeds, "I am no longer crowned in radiance, but in blood."

By his startled glance, she knew he had thought it, but he said, "No."

There floated by, even at this height, the white canopied seed of a dandelion. Plucking it out of the air, he gazed on it for a moment before blowing it out of his hand onto the breeze once more. "I have had a month to contemplate, and in the end it seemed to me I was unjust in my horror. For have I not done the same myself, and not condemned it?" He gave her another smile which could not conceal a fathomless depth of misery.

"You?" she said, and her fea had the hypocrisy to recoil from the idea. "When?"

"When the first orcs were seen in Beleriand," Celeborn turned his face into the cold wind, watched shadows slide across the mountains and did not look at her, "there were those among us who thought they were Avari. Avari who had grown twisted in the wild. Yet when they attacked us - even thinking this - we killed them."

"That is different!" she was indignant that he would accuse himself of her own crimes in order to excuse her, "They were orcs!"

Now he straightened, and in the face of her horror became calm once more. "They were elves who had become evil," he said, without mercy to himself or her. "And evil must be opposed. We had to stop them, even if it meant killing them. Just so, the hearts of those who could murder and steal from their friends were dark. The deed was the will of Morgoth and had to be opposed. At whatever cost."

The white flame of the snow stung her eyes. "You say I was right?" Her voice quavered with tears - relief, and awe at this forgiveness, and a foolish notion that she was not worthy of it. With anyone else she would have been fighting to retain her composure, but as he had already seen her sobbing it hardly seemed worthwhile. Others thought she was invulnerable. He knew better.

"Yes." There were shadows in his eyes, and she could tell it was a decision which had come from his head and had not yet reached his heart. But as with her disgust for him, he was not letting it get in his way. He had decided, and his feelings would follow, when they could.

There was a silence, and both looked out, following the flight of an eagle as it burst through mist into sunlight, scattering the cold dew in a shower of topaz from its polished bronze wings. Slowly Celeborn turned the hand upon which her own rested, until they were clasped. "I remember you told me to begin this," he said, and smiled - for the first time without visible pain, "I am glad to know why."

She laughed, and if there was an edge of hysteria to the sound neither thought it was inappropriate. "O Valar! The curse! What are we to do about that? I should tell you to go away for your own good. Why would you walk into ruin open-eyed? How could I let you?"

At that, some genuine humour surfaced in his eyes, "How could you stop me?" And she gave him a warning glance, as though to say she might, if she wanted to.

"But look," he leaned out and pointed down to where the dock workers had built a small rope bridge over the Sirion outfall - it cut in half the journey they would have otherwise had to make around the source, "What would happen if that bridge were to fall in ruin into the stream? Would they stand on the shore and wail because it was no more?"

"In Aman they would," she said, looking down on the rough structure with a swell of sudden, strange affection, "they would say 'we shall never make its like again!' And the river would be left bridgeless so that all could remember what had been lost."

It made him laugh, delighted. "I do not wonder you wanted to leave! Here, we would build it anew - but stronger. If there exists the will to try again, even ruin does not have to be the end. It can precede a new beginning."

Finrod would have argued semantics with him, Nerwen thought, but her heart, bursting like the eagle out of icy fog into the warmth and brilliance of light, was too light for such caution. She stooped on the hope and carried it into the air with her, tightening her grip when it struggled to escape. "You still wish to wed me, then?"

"You think me so changeable?" There were doubts in his green eyes, but they were the doubts of wisdom, not of love. "Did I not vow to all your brothers that I would marry you, when you give me the chance. I hold to that."

"I hear a 'but' in that sentence," she said, for his voice was diffident, almost apologetic. It did not dismay her as it might have done. What were a few conditions now? Now when she had regained all she had thought lost.

"Elu is not happy with the Noldor at present, and the people of Doriath are also less forgiving of the match than they have been. This is not a good time for it."

Always practical, Nerwen thought, and choked down wild, relieved laughter. Other couples might have wallowed in romance before they began to consider the politics, not he. My froward savage, she thought, and blushed, careful not to allow the thought to slip into the daylight where he might see it. "Nor are the Noldor happy with Elu," she agreed. "I see now what Angrod meant, and I would not drive such a wedge between my brothers and their family. What is a few centuries, after all? We can afford to wait until things are easier."

"But you will marry me, when the time comes?"

She had had proposals before. Proper proposals, on bended knee, accompanied by hot-house flowers and jewels. They had been...rather tedious. And embarrassing. This was none of that - it was just a question to which she knew the answer. Simple and joyous. She breathed in, fixing the sunlight and mountains in memory, the song of the Sirion, the scent of snow, the way Celeborn's look betrayed the very slightest hint of anxiety. I am sure. Very sure. "Yes. I will marry you, Celeborn of Doriath," she said, and her cheeks ached from smiling, "You and no other. When the time comes."

He took both her hands, and smiled like springtime, but to her disappointment he did not attempt either to embrace or kiss her. She knew from that that the bridge was not yet repaired between them - only the first foundations were laid. He had now to struggle with his own revulsion, as she had done with hers.

"Come home with me then, Nerwen. And let us wait together."

Again, it was not enough. She would have worn a silver ring with pride and flaunted it in front of Curufin's face. In its absence she yearned for some other symbol to fix this moment forever in history. She wanted too to give him something - if it could not be a ring, then some other outward sign of loyalty. "That name comes ill from a mouth forbidden to speak Quenya," she said, and shed the past - cramped and dirty as it was - like a snake shedding skin, emerging fresh. "Enough of Nerwen of the Noldor. Behold! I will come home with you, and henceforth I will be Galadriel Earwenien of Doriath."

Since he would not kiss her, she leaned in and laid her cheek against his, feeling him breathe out as though an agony was ended. Drawing back, he looked in her eyes with wonder, his own dark and a little awed by the magnitude of this step. "'Galadriel?'"

Winding her arms about him once more, she rested her head on his shoulder. He was solid and reassuring against her. Slowly, he raised a hand to stroke her piled and over-braided hair. Peace settled upon them. In its golden glow, she smiled against his throat. "Long I have been Galadriel in my heart. I am glad that now the whole world will call me by your name."

Closing her eyes, Galadriel leaned against the man who would be her husband, and set her mind out into the future, as Melian had taught her. Such foresight was, as Melian herself was soon to find out, more curse than blessing. Yet among the bright bloodshed, the loss and anguish of coming years; though lands might break and fall into the sea, though new stars rise and Doom lie in the palm of her hand, one constant silver thread remained, glimmering among the darkness.

Their love would prove stronger than Dark Lords, stronger than the word of Mandos himself, the children of their children would one day rule the world.
It will be a harsh road, she thought, abandoning the vision to bask once more in the comfort and warmth of his presence. A harsh road, but I will proudly walk it, so long as I might always walk by his side.

Chapter End Notes

1. 'Galdaran Arafain Celeborn': Both Galdaran and Arafain were originally considered (however briefly) by Tolkien as names for Celeborn. I have taken the liberty of assuming they are his mother and fathernames, and that 'Celeborn' is an epesse given to him by someone who had seen the silver tree of Valinor. Eg, either Melian or Elu.

2. "Man Elwë Thingollo i válëa i lambë quetilvë núrolvain, ardalvassen?" - Who is Elu Thingol to decree what language we use to our own servants in our own realms?

"Elyë! Neta limpe nin." - You! Bring me wine.

"A lelya!" - Go/proceed/get on with it.