What REALLY Happened; Elrond and Celebrian Get Engaged by Cee Cee

Chapter 1 The Proposal

Read Chapter 1 The Proposal

 

THE PROPOSAL 

Lorien Third  age 100

Late spring    

    

In which Galadriel is completely sure.

 

     Deep into the golden woods of Lorien, two elves were having a picnic.

     “Mama’s started seeing things recently,” said Celebrian, brushing cake crumbs from her skirt.

     “I’m sorry to hear it,” Elrond replied gravely, “but my expertise is in wounds, poisoned arrows, broken bones, and those sorts of things.  I am not really qualified in treatment of mental dis-"

     “Don’t be silly,” Celebrian broke in.  “I mean she’s been scrying again.”

     “Oh.  My mistake.  Has she seen anything interesting?”

     “You might think so.  She is thoroughly convinced that we must get married.”

      Elrond inhaled his tea and began to choke violently.  Waving away Celebrian’s attempt to pound him on the back, he soon got things under control.

     “Are you all right?”

     He nodded and cleared his throat twice.  His ordinarily beautiful voice was raspy when he spoke.

     “ I think I swallowed a bee,” He said breathily. 

     He paused, cleared his throat, and prepared to resume coughing.  He didn’t.

     “How did she come to that conclusion?” He rasped.

     “She said that if we marry, the world might be saved in the future.”

      Elrond took a sip of tea, cleared his throat again and coughed a few times more.

     “Might?”

     “Well, she says that if we don’t, all surely will be lost.  Then she said something about one of our children being essential.”

     “Us?  I mean we?  Our?”

      Elrond fumbled about for his dropped teacup.

     “That’s what she said,” the elf maiden replied.  “I know that under elf law we’re stuck—I mean bound to each other until the world ends.  That’s really true, and the Valar frown on divorce papa says, and he should know because he once petitioned—“

She stopped.  Elrond remained tactfully silent.

 

     The silence continued.

     “More tea?”  Elrond finally asked, holding out the teapot.

     “Umm, thanks, but I think not.  The last comfort station is a couple of miles back and the trees don’t like it if we—“

     “Yes.  All right then.”

     They rose and began to repack the basket. 

     Slowly, thoughtfully Elrond said,  “I want to help save the world, of course, but is your mother completely sure--?”

     “Mama’s always completely sure.”

     Don’t I know it, Elrond thought.

    “Well,” he went on,  “We really shall have to think about this.”

     “How long do you think our engagement should be?”  Celebrian asked.

     “Hmm.  If we truly can save the world…maybe twenty-five years?”

     “How about six?  I don’t believe in long engagements.”

      Elrond shifted the basket to his other hand.

     “Twelve?”

     “Nine sounds better; short, but with enough time for me to get a trousseau ready.”

     “We’ll have to live in Rivendell,”¹ Elrond said.

     Celebrian tried to smother a giggle. "Definitely! We can’t have you falling out of a tree again.”

     “That was an accident,” Elrond said shortly.

     “Oh, right.”

 

      They walked on in silence for a long time, listening to the birds and watching the bees among the blossoms.

     “How often should we have sex?” Celebrian asked abruptly.

      Elrond stared at her in astonishment.  “Celebrian!  Let’s not talk about it yet.  You should discuss those things with your mother first.”

      Celebrian’s smile dazzled.  “Oh, you can be sure of that.”

 

     Ask mama? Like fun I will, she thought.  Then suddenly she had an idea.

 

 

 - tbc-

 

 

¹ Imladris.

 

 

 

MOTHER-IN-LAW

 Imladris¹   Third age 100

 Early summer

 

  In which we touch upon interior design, good manners, poetry, and blackmail.

 

      Celebrian and her formidable mother Galadriel had descended on Rivendell² late that morning, several hours before they were expected. So Elrond had had to give them lunch.

      Afterward Celebrian, hoping to avoid the fireworks, expressed a strong desire to walk in the gardens. 

      As he escorted the ladies out of the small private dining room, Elrond announced that he was returning to his study.  With a sidelong glance at Galadriel, he hurried away down the corridor.  Galadriel decided to give him half an hour to pull himself together.

     He’d been moping about for a century now, but if things did not get under way soon, they would find they’d missed the boat.

 

     Poor Gil-galad…too bad, but that’s a Valar curse for you.  The Noldor always got the dirty end of the stick.

     For a time she wandered through the galleria contemplating Elrond’s taste in art. Paintings and tapestries featured battles. There were collections of shields, armor and swords, swords and more swords. Why not display something uplifting?  Some watercolors of pretty flowers and trees; perhaps sketches framed in light wood and matted in pale silk?  Botanical prints at least.

     Pffugh—males!  They’re all alike.  Phallic symbols everywhere.

 

     At last she stood outside the study and cleared her throat loudly a few times before Elrond opened the door and ushered her in.

     He seated her in a comfortable chair far from his and poured her a glass of after-dinner wine.

     Say what you will about Elrond—and many had—he was unfailingly courteous, she thought.  No doubt that came from a youth misspent among the Feanorians who, though they periodically broke out and began killing people, had impeccable manners.

     Elrond sat almost immobile and nattered on about his improvements at Imladris³ since her last visit.  When was that?  Sixty-five years ago?

     She let him ramble on.  He was apprehensive, she knew, but did not show it.  He never did.

     Elrond had always had a stick up his arse, she reflected, but it had given him good cover.

     Except for his lips, he seemed frozen stiff.  Well, he was talking, so life was still present. Could it be a bad case of depression?  If so, they’d probably have to get him professional help.  Or maybe he had started drinking.  Not Thranduil’s best, she was certain.  That stuff was potent enough to knock a dwarf arse over elbow.

      It was suddenly quiet in the room.  Elrond had stopped talking.  Had he lapsed into a catatonic trance?  No, wait—he’d just blinked.  She had better get on with it.

 

     “So you and Celebrian are talking about marriage,” Galadriel began.

     “Yes,” said the zombie.

     “I didn’t hear much from her,” Galadriel hastened to add.  “She never tells her mummy anything.”

     Very softly Elrond murmured something that sounded like ‘hooray.’

 

     Galadriel crossed her legs and leaned forward, adopting an air of maternal confidentiality.

     “Listen, Elrond, darling,” she said.  “You know I do not get my jollies from using my powers to snoop on people. So last month Celeborn and I hired a detective agency--just to investigate the background of a new march-warden, you know.

They came up with something we had not asked for, believe me.  And it concerns you.”

     Elrond was still playing ‘statues.’

     “Perhaps you can guess what they found?”

     “Is that a rhetorical question?”  Elrond asked.

     “No," she snapped, "It is a collection of very erotic poetry from Gil-galad’s estate sale.”

     “So? Gil liked spicy reading.  Sometimes.”

     “He wrote it himself and it is about you.  This can’t get around, dear.  We do not want talk.”

     “No,” Elrond said and lapsed into silence again.

     “Do not worry, dear,” she soothed, reaching into a pocket in her sleeve and withdrawing a leather-bound book.  She held it up, raising her lovely eyebrows questioningly.

     “No, thanks,” he said. “I’ve seen it.” Quite often, in fact.

     “We will have to keep this between ourselves,” she said with a sad smile.  “It would be extremely awkward to have your elves singing bits of it to everyone who arrives here.”

     Elrond looked pained.  “Those half-wits like to climb into the trees and sing idiotic doggerel to anybody who shows up at our door,” he said.⁴ “There’s nothing I can do about it.  They’re mental, it seems.  Quite harmless, though.”

     Galadriel’s voice was like honey.  “You really should have this since it’s about you.”

     The Master of Rivendell⁵ relaxed somewhat and settled back in his chair.

     “I totally agree,” he said.

     Galadriel smiled wolfishly and slipped the book back into her sleeve pocket.

     “I’ll keep it safe for now,” she said.  “You shall have it as a wedding present.”

 

     Only Galadriel could blackmail with such finesse, Elrond thought, feeling worse than before.

     “I see you’re having another spell of depression.  Are you having second thoughts?”

     Elrond looked at her solemnly.  “Second, third and fourth thoughts, frankly,” he said.

     “Remember, you will—“ Galadriel began.

     “Be saving the world,” they finished in unison.

 

     Galadriel pulled out the big guns.

     “You will be celebrated in song and story—and in many books.”

     “And Gil?”

     “Yes, but they’ll tidy up a bit there.”

     Elrond reached for his wineglass.  “Probably it’s just as well,” he replied.

     “Yes, darling.  And I see that in the far future there will even be films made; moving pictures with actors playing the roles.  You will be portrayed in them.”

     Elrond perked up. 

     “What about the actor who plays me?”

     The elf Lady looked slightly embarrassed.  “Ah, he will be somewhat older, with a receding hairline.”

     “What?”  Elrond cried, leaping from his chair.

     “I’m sorry, dear, but as the saying then will go,  ‘that’s show business.’  At least you will not figure in most of the slash written by illiterate teenaged fangirls.”

      Elrond sat again.   “What is slash?” he asked.

     “Oh, like you and Gil-galad.”

     “I see.”  Elrond paused a beat.  “They won’t show elves with god-awful pointed ears, will they?”

     “Certainly not,” said Galadriel, lying through her teeth.

     With a gentle sigh, Elrond yielded.  “Very well.  I will do it.”

     “That’s the spirit, sweetie.  And by the time you reach the Blessed Lands, Gil will be reborn and he will be so proud of you.  You can tell him all about it.”

      Elrond ran a finger around the rim of his wineglass.  “I mean no offense to you or my good friend Celebrian, but my having a wife really will complicate matters.”

     “I am sure that when the time comes you will be able to work something out, dear.  Now.  Why don’t you and Celebrian announce your engagement at dinner tonight?  It will be like a little party.”

     “What about Lord Celeborn?”  Elrond asked hopefully.  “He has not yet given his consent.”

     “Don’t worry, darling.  I will take care of that.”

      And she would, Elrond thought.  For a moment it seemed that he wore a defeated expression.

     “All right,” he said finally,  “I’ll speak to the cooks.”

     Galadriel’s smile was charming.

 

     “I would like to go to my room now to relax.  Then I will bathe and maybe take a little stroll before it’s time to dress for dinner.”   She began to rise.  Elrond stopped her.

     “My Lady, may I have another moment, please?  I would be grateful if you would persuade Celebrian to be a bit more--reserved in demonstrating her affection.”

      He regarded his future mother-in-law pleadingly.

      Galadriel gave him a sympathetic look.  Her daughter was more than eager to hurry things along with the stunningly beautiful half-elf.  Fortunately, Elrond had built-in brakes.

     “I’ll do what I can, but that’s part of the package, you know.”

      Elrond rose to escort his guest to her suite.

     “I know,” he said.

 

  

-tbc-

 

¹ Rivendell.

² Imladris.

³ Rivendell.

⁴ Yes, they did!  See The Hobbit, chapter 3.

⁵ Imladris.

 

FRIENDS OF THE BRIDEGROOM  

Rivendell¹   Third age 100

Late summer

 

 

In which Erestor and Glorfindel commiserate on the fate of their poor friend—having Galadriel as a mother-in-law.

 

 

     Mounted on some of the finest horses in Middle Earth, Galadriel, her daughter and their retinue cantered away down the ring road encircling the Last Homely House.

 

     Glorfindel and Erestor peeked at them around the edge of the drawing-room curtain.

“They’re away at last, thank the Valar,” said the blond seneschal.²  “What an awful  mess.” 

     Erestor nodded.  “It’s all that and then some,” he said.  “Poor old Elrond.”

     “ Why do you call him old?  He’s younger than either of us.”

     “Don’t get your armor in a twist, Glor.  It’s just an expression.”

     “Oh.”

     “You’re too literal-minded,” Erestor said.

     “Can’t help it.  I spent too much time in the far west.  Speaking of which, they sent me back here to help.  I’m supposed to be protecting him.  Valar!  What an assignment.”

      Erestor snorted.

     “You know,” he said,  “You can’t fight the tide, city hall, or Galadriel.”

     “Wasn’t she called Artanis?”

     “Yep,” said Erestor.

     “Also Altariel?”

     “Yep.”

     “Why’d she change her name to Galadriel?”

     “Because it has more letters, probably,” Erestor smirked.

      “Poor Elrond,” sighed Glorfindel,  “But at least he’s got nine years left.”

      Erestor laughed mirthlessly. “For all the good it does.  Gil-galad made him pledge to be faithful, so there’s no action for him on that side of the bed.  And soon he’ll be stuck with a wife, and you know what that means?”

      Glorfindel blinked.  “That he’s well and truly screwed?”

     “Yep.”

 

 

 - tbc-       

 

¹ Imladris.

² Big-shot official in the household of a noble or prince.

 

 

FATHER-IN-LAW

Lorien   Third age 100

Early autumn

 

In which Celeborn and Elrond discuss sex, tricycles, the vagaries of language, and dancing.

 

 

        Celeborn sat in his private reception talan, looking at Elrond Peredhel sitting across from him. 

        This time, Celeborn thought, his wife would not get her way.  He was prepared.

 

       Galadriel had a bee in her bonnet about their daughter and Elrond getting married.

       His wife had been somewhat squirrely ever since the old Annatar business.  Come to think of it, she’d been somewhat squirrely before, too.  Probably what came of signing up for that disastrous boat trip with the Feanor crowd.

 

       All this nonsense about ‘visions’.  She couldn’t even wash her face without seeing portents in the basin.  Still, he had to admit, her earlier visions had got them into some excellent investments that had enabled them to buy this place.  So, when she talked about money, he listened.

    

       But Elrond marrying their daughter?  He would have had no objection to the boy otherwise. However.  The Gil-galad affair—affair was right—scotched the deal for Celeborn.  He wanted to get the whole thing called off.  And, he believed, he knew just how to work it.

 

       He spoke.  “My boy, you know the laws of our people.  Once a female and a male have intercourse, they are wed.  Forever.  No chance for the big ‘e’ here.”¹

      “Yes.  Celebrian and I discussed it.”

      “Turgon on a tricycle!” Celeborn shouted,  “You talked about sex to my innocent little girl?”

      Elrond was sputtering with suppressed laughter, which he tried to disguise as a coughing fit.  He failed.

     “Is it that funny?” muttered Celeborn.  “He’s your ancestor.”

      Elrond snickered, then whooped uncontrollably.

      Finally he ceased, wiped his eyes, and said,  “Forgive me, my Lord, but I haven’t laughed so hard since Gil-galad died.”

 

      For a long moment the two elves pondered that statement.

     “Grammar,” Celeborn said sadly.  “Syntax.  Homophones.  Punctuation.  Sometimes language can be such a two-faced bitch.”

     “Don’t I know it,” Elrond said.

    

      Celeborn sipped his wine, then he sat up straighter, looking grave.

      “Now, where were we?  Oh, yes.  The marriage bond.”

       Elrond stifled a laugh.

      “Sorry,” he said, “I can’t get the tricycle image out of my head.”

 

      Celeborn took a long, deep breath, then let it out slowly.

      “I’ve always tried to give my little girl whatever she wants.  However, you’ve got a tricyc—a reputation!”

      “What do you mean by ‘a reputation’?”

       Celeborn produced the sternest expression he had in his repertoire, which would have frightened a balrog.  Not Elrond, though.  He’d lived with Maedhros.

      “I mean the talk that’s been going around for millennia about you and King Gil-galad!"      

      “We were discreet,” protested Elrond.

      “Of course,” Celeborn said with deceptively gentle irony, “Though there was that little incident involving a conference table in the council chamber.”

      Elrond thought fast.  “Only the once.  Pressures of office and all that, you know.”

 

      Celeborn sighed windily.  “Look, Elrond.  I like you.  I really do, but I cannot let my little girl marry someone with a reputation.  I rest my case.”

      Elrond sighed, just as windily as his vis-à-vis.²  “Well,” he said, and sipped his drink.

     Celeborn hid a smirk.  Score one for me, mister smarty-breeches.

     Elrond moved slightly and stretched out his long, elegant legs.  “You know,” he smiled, “Speaking of cases just reminded me.  That detective agency you and Galadriel hired?  She mentioned it and how they had a mix-up.”

     He shifted into a more comfortable position.  “We use them at Imladris.³ They’re under contract to check our border security every six months.  It seems a new secretary switched the mailers.  The report we got concerned an elf—a male exotic dancer—who performed in some of the most exclusive private gentlemen’s clubs back in the day.  Silver-haired like you, and a real looker, it was said."  Elrond chuckled.  “Danced under the name Teleporno, if you can believe it.”

 

     Celeborn’s face suddenly was as pale as his hair.  He shot out of his chair, hauled the startled half-elf to his feet and pulled him into a close embrace.

    “Elrond, my boy,” he cried, “Welcome to the family!”

 

 

  - tbc-

 

 

¹ The big elbow:  British slang for a break-up;  or, as we say in the States, the old heave-ho.

² A person who is face-to-face with another.  I think a little French always adds a touch of class.

³ Rivendell.

 

 

THE BRIDEGROOM

  

Rivendell¹  Third age 100

Winter

 

 

In which Elrond muses on his checkered past, his bizarre present, and his uncertain future.

  

     So here we are, Elrond thought, ready to take the plunge.  He hoped with all his heart that Galadriel knew what she was doing.

 

     In nine years he would marry Celebrian.  She would be a fine wife, really—lovely to behold and with a first-rate family background.

     Yes, her mother was banned from Valinor, but other members of the best old families had found themselves in similar straits.

 

     They hadn’t gone bankrupt for a long time and there were remarkable numbers of kings in the family.  There had been, anyway.

 

     Their newest place was splendid.  Splendid for a tree house, that is.

     He winced remembering his first visit to Lorien.  Strolling about while reading, as was his wont, he’d walked right off the edge of a talan and had never felt so silly in his life.

 

     If it had to be Celebrian, and it had, at least they were the best of friends.  It helped for a couple to be friends, especially if the marriage was a bust.  Much less chance of screaming and hurling of objects.

 

     He crossed the room to stand before a life-sized portrait of Gil-galad, the last High King of the Noldor.

     Elrond wondered what his lover would think to see him now;  running a combination hospital and hotel for all the cranks and weirdos in Middle Earth who managed to find their way to this place.  And now he’d got himself engaged to a girl who lives in a tree house.

     Probably, he decided, the Valar were exercising their unique sense of humor.  Just a thought, he rapidly amended, wondering if the Powers could read minds.

 

   Smiling at the portrait, he executed a flawless bow, winked and turned away.

   He walked the corridors to his rooms thinking of Celebrian.  She’d grown up around horses and was observant and smart.  Still, he was sure she never had seen a gent’s naughty bits.  This might prove to be something of an obstacle, Elrond supposed.

 

 

-tbc-

 

 

^I Imladris

 

  THE BRIDE

  

Lorien   Third age 100

Winter

  

In which Celebrian fools everybody.  Well, maybe not her mother.

 

     For someone as smart as Elrond, Celebrian thought, he could be amazingly thick at times.  She was aware that he considered her to be sooo ignorant.

But.

Nobody knew that last summer she had found the key to her father’s private "library" as he called it.

     She’d done some extensive reading and closely examined the drawings.  Especially the drawings.

Whew!

     Smiling, she pretended to fan herself.  Then, with a gleam in her eye, she licked her lips. 

  

The End