The Writing on the Wall by HannaGoldworthy

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Chapter 1

This references the love poem, the journal entry with the red blotch, and (if you squint) the harp notation page.  It also refers to some characters from Steel Rose, which I've been neglecting for months but which will be updated.  All you need to know is that Steel Clan is Bor's people, and Iron Clan is Ulfang's people, before their posthumous names were thought up.

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Tol Himling was very much as Celebrían had expected: cold, windy, and barren, the ruins of a once-grand fortress at its highest peak the only evidence that someone had ever been reckless enough to live there.  If she allowed herself to be truthful, she found no useful reason for their little expedition to stop here.  Surely Tol Fuin, with its richer significance in the written history of Arda and with its closer proximity to the drowned site of Gondolin, would hold more value in the eyes of their leader than this abandoned place, reportedly gutted with fire in the aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

 

And yet, Elrond insisted upon stopping here, if only for a day.  What was more, he insisted upon climbing the hill, alone, to have a look at the old fort, if only for an hour.

 

And Celebrían followed him, love-struck fool that she was.  Emotionally complicated as her suitor could be, she thought she knew his mind well enough to surmise that all he could find here were harmful memories of people whom he might have been better off without knowing.  If that were to happen – when that happened ­– she was not about to let him suffer alone, determined as he might be to do so.

 

So it was that when they reached the ruin, Celebrían stayed by Elrond’s side, expecting an outburst of emotion which would require her assistance to mitigate.  And, typical of Elrond, she received just such an outburst, but of an emotion which resolutely refused her mitigation.

 

“Good grief, man, what is so blesséd funny?”

 

The youngest prince of the Noldor, brother of the king of Númenor, steward and brother-in-arms of the King of Lindon, son of the Morning and Evening Star, attempted to stifle his childish giggling without success.  “I’m sorry, it’s just…look!”  He gestured to a patch of the western ramparts, which upon closer inspection seemed to be sporadically decorated with some sort of red paint.  “It is just…suitable, that this entire hill was completely devastated by the Easterlings, years ago, and still the vandalism survives.”

 

Celebrían felt she was going cross-eyed from the sheer frustration of not understanding his joke.  “Vandalism?  How do you know it was vandalism?”

 

He began to snicker anew at her expression, prompting her to lightly whack him on the forehead with the sheaf of paper she had brought with her.

 

“Ow!  All right, I’ll tell you!”  Still smirking precariously, he plucked his own sheet of paper out of a pocket inside his doublet and offered it to her.  “I found this deep in the libraries of Belegost…what was left of them, anyway.  There were several like it, but this is the one that had the most relevance.”

 

It was a letter, written in Quenya and with a small, elegant hand.  Enclosed was a sordid poem in a larger hand and a fraction of another letter in the same script as the main letter but bespattered with brilliant red ink.  Fascinated, Celebrían began to read, glancing back up in an instant.  “This is addressed to Maedhros.”

 

“It is.”

 

“What was it doing in Belegost?”

 

“From what I gather, he left in a hurry after that particular visit and forgot to take the letter with him.  Something about internal conflicts to settle – nobody could tell me anything more than that.”

 

“Whyever not?  I thought their king was his friend.”

 

“And personal correspondence – anything personal, really – is sacrosanct to dwarves.  Only family are permitted to even look at the envelopes of letters; the librarian was unabashedly relieved that I claimed this and other letters so that they would not have to keep blindfolding themselves to handle it.”  Elrond gently pressed the letter back toward her, smiling fondly.  “But, don’t let me keep you from reading it.  I’m sure you’re just dying to know what’s inside.”

 

How dare he know her so well, after only five years of knowing her?  Was it any wonder her mother was already impatient for grandchildren?  Blushing deeply, and hating every moment of that feeling, Celebrían did as he suggested, which conveniently allowed her insufferably stubborn beau to venture closer and inspect the building more thoroughly.  Still, the writing sample was a gorgeous example of mid-First Age Quenya, and she could not help but continue reading.

 

My lord Maedhros,

 

I had started a longer letter to you earlier today, detailing the progress of the kitchen garden, since I know it to be your favorite task of this time of year and your presence is greatly missed in the undertaking.  As you can see from the sample, I waxed poetic about it – overly poetic, now that I look it over a second time – but the untimely intervention of a certain one of your brothers prevented me from overextending my vocabulary too much.  Lord Maglor sends his fond regards, and insists that I include a transcript of this poem which we found inscribed upon the western rampart in Easterling script; and yes, the transcript is also written in red ink, to make your experience of the matter as “authentic” as ours.

 

My lord, before I explain any further, I must assure you that not one member of Steel Clan had anything to do with this.  I’m inclined to believe that this was the work of Iron Clan’s delegation, which arrived this past week in the company of your other esteemed brother; they are rather more traditional than we are in many respects, and this is part of a religious rite in our shared homeland used to ensure fertility.  They were, in their way, attempting to help.  That’s all I’m going to say on the subject, because my father and the rest of our clan split from those rites for many good reasons and it’s rather out of the scope of this letter to explain them.

 

Rest assured the paint will be cleaned from the wall by the time you return.  If at all possible, it will be cleaned before Lord Caranthir discovers it and gives Iron Clan an earful.  But I cannot possibly stop Maglor from setting it to music and singing it outside Lord Celegorm’s window at an unholy hour of the night; apparently he’s doing it to, “avenge my wounded ears for all the times he and Huan have serenaded me thusly.”  I’m not even going to ask who Lord Huan is, but if I might be allowed to prevail upon you to come home before your brothers kill each other or persuade my people to kill them, it would be a great honor to ask for your help.

 

With my sincerest sympathy,

Sarnai

 

There were many, many questions that raced through Celebrían’s head, but the first one that reached her tongue was the most un-academically general of the lot.

 

“What in the blazes happened here?” she yelled at Elrond’s back.

 

He seemed to take no offense at her mild oath, a first for him.  He still seemed to be laughing at her.  “Do you see now why I wished to come here?”

 

Of course he had seen her impatient questioning of his motives, no matter how hard she fought to conceal them.  Insufferable.

 

“Indeed.  Let’s stay here for at least a week.  There’s a lot in this old place that needs to be unpacked.”

 

He turned then, and the wistful smile he threw toward her hit her like a blow.  “Indeed there is.”

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Chapter End Notes

My apologies, I don't really think the journal page was overly poetic.  Sarnai overthinks things, a lot, especially when writing to her extremely good-looking liege lord.

Nor did I think the love poem sordid.  Celebrian is an elf and doesn't know why humans think so much about sex; why would anybody write a song about what amounts in her mind to a simple bodily function?

The full story will probably be told at some point in Steel Rose, but it's the sort of thing that makes about as much sense within context as without.  Still, I have to get back to that file and start writing again.