Through a Mirror Darkly by HannaGoldworthy

Chapter 1

This chapter begins with the quote from Helen Oyeyemi's Boy, Snow, Bird.  If you squint you can see the first two prompts of the seven-prompt Caprice and Chance; the "love" I chose to feature is Philia.

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“Nobody ever warned me about mirrors, so for many years I was fond of them, and believed them to be trustworthy.”

 

It was the first full sentence her handmaiden had spoken to her alone since they met the previous month, and Celebrían found the occasion novel enough to draw her attention away from the ruin that was her reflection.  She knew Opolintë’s face well, ebony skin mottled with light patches, one brown and one green eye, white-blonde curls generously interspersed with black ones; she had learned that the warm smile directed toward her was rare, and marked the maiden’s subtle attempts at soul-healing that usually went nicely.

 

“And what did the mirrors tell you, in that time you believed them?”

 

Opolintë glanced briefly over Celebrían’s shoulder before making eye contact again.  “Nothing of value, and nothing that you have not heard yourself, milady,” she said, and then she shifted the bright blue fabric which hung over her right arm.  “However, I did learn that one ill turn deserves another.  Shall we see if we can deceive the mirror right back?”

 

And she proceeded to help Celebrían dress, her touch gentle, her voice soft, and her body placed inexorably in a way that prevented her lady from looking in the mirror again.  At first, Celebrían had thought Ëarwen assigned Opolintë to her because the maid’s unconventional beauty would not threaten her granddaughter’s wounded vanity.  But now that she beheld Opolintë’s true, tranquil strength, she understood her grandmother’s wisdom.  Only one person could be better company now, but he was left behind, and Opolintë was sensible enough to avoid taking his place entirely.

 

The maid held up a blue mask, and grinned playfully.  “Now, milady, do you think you can handle a little fun tonight?”

 

***

 

“So, tell me,” Celebrían said later, as they walked the streets of Tírion, hectic in its festivity.  Opolintë was bedecked in an unnatural color of green, with a mask to match; she turned to Celebrían with a mouth full of candied apple, and offered a bite of the fruit she carried on a stick.  Celebrían politely waved her hand to decline, and continued her question.  “What is this feast, Sovallë?  I must confess that in Endorë we celebrate little in the month of Sovalwaris.”

 

A street performer let go a burst of blue flame from his mouth, startling the two for a moment.  Opolintë let the moment pass, obviously wondering if it would trigger one of Celebrían’s fits; when her lady laughed she smiled with relief, and answered as if nothing had happened.  “It’s a bit complicated for me to explain, as I was in Endorë myself when the holiday was instituted.  However, I’m given to understand that it’s a commemoration of the years immediately after the Darkening.”

 

Celebrían raised an eyebrow at that, skimming her gaze skeptically through the crowd of revelers in which danced and laughed and ate and played merrily about them.  Nothing of this feast seemed to recall any of the deprivation of that time.

 

Opolintë gleaned her meaning, and rolled her eyes smilingly.  “Well, I’m given to understand that this, strictly speaking, is only the lead-up to Sovallë.  Sovallë itself entails a weeks-long fast from rich foods such as meat, milk, and eggs, and this feast is to ensure that we use up all of those things so they do not rot.”

 

“Ah.  So that’s why the cooks were racing while flipping pancakes?”

 

“Exactly!  Even if every pancake hits the ground, we achieved the purpose of using up the ingredients.”

 

“At least the seagulls will eat like kings.”  It was very Ñoldor, even in the merriment; Celebrían was reminded of her mother in all her pragmatic majesty.  “So, what happens next?”

 

Opolintë’s face fell a little – she tried admirably to hide it, but Celebrían’s nerves were still too raw to miss the slightest change in a person’s expression.  “Well, milady, there is a ceremony at midnight, but I don’t think you’ll need to go.  Your condition precludes you from the fast, and that includes you missing sleep over a little affair that will happen again next year.”

 

Celebrían closed her eyes and huffed quietly; she was getting very tired of people treating her like glass because of her condition.  “Is it too frightening for you to summarize briefly, then?  I can avoid attending if I know what is happening.”

 

***

 

She did not avoid attending.  She just did not attend with Opolintë at her side.  From what she had heard, the ceremony which was performed in her grandfather’s great hall every year was a melodramatic reenactment of Melkor’s rape of the Silmarils, with Arafinwë playing the part of his father and a newly re-embodied elf playing the part of Melkor.  Afterward, the Ñoldor would be symbolically kingless for a period of five and one-half weeks, to venerate the five and a half Valinoran years of strife the Ñoldor had endured whilst (among other things) trying to find a king to fill Finwë’s shoes.

 

Celebrían had attended plays in the past that dealt with much the same subject matter.  She’d even seen them in the time between her rescue and her decision to leave Middle-Earth.  She had a feeling she could handle what she saw.

 

So, after Opolintë left her safely in her room, she sat up and waited.  Then, she slipped downstairs, filing in behind the rest of the attendees, taking up a well-shadowed corner in the back where she could see Opolintë, and know that her caretaker did not see her.

 

A single candle shone upon Finwë’s throne, highlighting Arafinwë where he sat, glimmering gold in all his finery. Three white jewels glimmered in his crown – not those Jewels, but patent facsimiles, very distant memories of their light.

 

The doors of the entryway flung open, and “Melkor” strode in confidently.  And that was where Celebrían stopped minding the proceedings carefully, for this new arrival chilled her blood to the core.  The costumers had done well, draping him in black silk that was cleverly sewn or enchanted to flow independent of the actor’s movements, covering his head with a crown so heavy that his brow seemed cruel no matter how sweetly he smiled.  But nothing could hide his head completely, and she saw that the hair beneath his crown was red as clotted blood.

 

She heard none of the lines of the melodrama, saw none of the deliberate flimsiness of the prop weapons used.  She only saw the Kinslayer stride up to her grandfather and provoke a duel, which ended with the King of the Ñoldor struck down in his own hall.  She saw the Kinslayer turn around, the crown with three jewels in his hand, and his gaze, though it did not land on her personally, pierced her to her very soul.

 

Once, in her youth, Celebrían had used Galadriel’s mirror without permission, when the War of Wrath had figured heavily in her education.  Through the mirror, a Kinslayer had seemed to look directly at her.  She had remembered his face ever since in her nightmares, lost and ruined, his red hair framing eyes that glowed with the sickly Ulmo’s fire blue that marked the risen dead.  Looking upon “Morgoth” now, that moment seemed to have been carried into her new life, and she was unable to prevent herself from shrinking against the wall, heedless of her actions.

 

***

 

“Moringotto” let loose a wicked, howling laugh, and then pelted at full speed from the room, chased by all of the spectators save two.  Arafinwë remained behind as he had always done; when the castle was empty, he would change into the traditional sackcloth for this time of year, an atoner like all of his people rather than a king.

 

As he made to leave, however, he saw the crumpled form of an elf in the corner of the room – obviously, someone had partaken too much of strong beverages, which did not need to keep but inevitably reared their ugly heads during any celebration.  This was not the first time such a thing had happened, nor was it the first time he had escorted someone safely home as his people ran pell-mell through the streets, so Arafinwë moved toward the corner as a matter of habit.

 

As he drew near, however, he realized with a cry that the slumped figure was his granddaughter, newly arrived and so very fragile.  Whatever had she been doing here, when any reminder of violence could send her into such devastating fits of abject fear?  Arafinwë shook her gently, mindful of how defensive she could be when roused from her waking nightmares.  She’d bitten Findaráto once, and pulled a knife on him at least once.

 

This time, however, she just stared blankly at Arafinwë, as if watching him from a great distance.

 

“Celebrían, I’m here.  Are you able to walk?”

 

She blinked slowly, one eyelid after the other.  Then, without warning, she vomited forcefully all over his gilt slippers.

 

Arafinwë sighed.  At least there would be time to get the blasted things clean before he had to wear them again.

---

Chapter End Notes

Opolinte is an archaic Qenya term for "fawn," which I spiced up a bit with a Quenya umlaut.  It's an epesse referring to her vitiligo, one she embraced for...reasons I hope to make clear later.

Chapter 2

This chapter uses the lion's share of the Caprice and Chance prompts.  There is no actual bodice-ripping, but some potential noncon is discussed discreetly toward the end of the chapter, so be warned.

And I suppose you could lump this into the Solve a Problem challenge as well, since Amrod did in fact burn with the boats in this story and the name game with him and Amras is also brought up.  However, trying to solve either problem only adds more problems - Amrod's burning (and subsequent early resurrection) is part of the premise of this fic, and the name-game thing is taken from my own experiences with names and siblings (and therefore never satisfactorily resolved for anyone involved).

Read Chapter 2

 

Apparently, it was customary for Mandos to release at least one Kinslayer on the first day of Sovallë – the holiday held great significance for the remission of sin, and particularly their sin, and Námo had a great sense of graveyard humor.

 

Apparently, it was also customary that the names of those being released were not made known ahead of time – the guests of Mandos were known mainly by their accomplishments in life, or by their sins…mostly their sins.

 

And, apparently, Amrod Fëanorion had finally done the appropriate amount of time necessary in Mandos to properly atone for his crimes, and be allowed among the living, on Celebrían’s first Sovallë among her people.  Eru only knew how, since he had not upheld the Oath, but Eru did not operate on any earthly logic, so here he was.

 

The joke – for it had to be a joke, Celebrían no longer believed in freak coincidences, not since her sons reached the age of twenty and suddenly developed an interest in setting things on fire – became all the crueler for the fact that it was she who had to deal with the Fëanorion in their midst.  This could not have waited until Elrond was able to make the crossing, no, she was the one who was going to have to peacefully share the Holy Continent with the Sindar’s hated enemy on this blesséd Sovallë, when she had much more important things to worry about.

 

Celebrían caught a glimpse of her scowl in the mirror, and frowned even harder.  Elrond always laughed at her when she was this angry.  He’d say it was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen, and cheerfully traipse out to sleep in the guest bedroom when she started throwing blunt objects in his general direction.

 

Elrond wasn’t here.  And he had some nerve in not being here.  She missed him so much more desperately than she had thought she would, and that took doing.

 

And Opolintë, bless her heart, was not helping in the slightest.

 

“I told you that you needn’t attend the celebration, milady.  What possessed you to go?”

 

Celebrían growled in frustration.  Ëarwen would have and had retreated from such an uncivilized sound, but Opolintë simply raised an unimpressed eyebrow and waited for a more cogent response.  A pang hit Celebrían’s heart, because Elrond would have laughed, and growled back.

 

“I was perfectly fine until that…that Fëanorion showed up.  Who persuaded Mandos to let him go?  He did not uphold the Oath.”

 

Opolintë’s eyes glinted dangerously.  “He also drew no blood in the first Kinslaying, and died by his father’s hand when he tried to renege on his promise.  He was never allowed to be among the monsters you remember.”

 

In that moment, Celebrían remembered that Opolintë herself had gone through the Halls.  Shrewdly she regarded her caretaker.  “Let me guess, you are not simply ‘given to understand’ this information?”

 

Caught, Opolintë could do little more than gape with surprise.  Celebrían nodded, looking significantly toward the maid’s right hand – at their introduction, she’d thought the betrothal ring on Opolintë’s finger was of exceedingly fine make, and now she saw that her instincts had been correct.

 

“Where is he now?” she asked.

 

Opolintë drew a breath.  “My lady…”

 

“Don’t start with me.”  She had perfected this tone with her children (and Elrond, but she was trying to keep her sanity together and thinking of him was hindering that process).  It produced an odd effect in Opolintë – no one had ever brooked this tone with her before, it was clear, and she seemed at once insulted and honored.  However, Celebrían was not going to unpack those years of baggage yet, not when she had so much of her own with which to deal, so she had to stick to her immediate goal.  “I’m going to have to face him.  So, you are going to tell me where he is, so we can get this over with quickly.”

 

“But, milady, you have only just arrived, and…”

 

“If you say one word about my condition, I’ll sneak off and find him without your help.”

 

Opolintë’s expression changed to utter and complete horror.  “Milady, you’ll have one of your fits again!”

 

“And what am I to do otherwise, hmm?  Until I speak with him, I shall dread every step I take out of this room for fear of seeing him without warning.  The very act of leaving will give me a fit.”

 

“Milady, see reason.  I have orders to confine you to your quarters.”

 

“I refuse to walk on eggshells in the country that is my birthright!”  Celebrían realized she was raising her voice, and stopped herself.  The risk of being overheard aside, she wanted to spare Opolintë’s feelings as much as possible.  “I’m going to see him,” she continued, more quietly.  “With or without you, and you cannot stop me.  So, help me.  I’ll see that any fallout is blamed on me, not you.”

 

The girl – for she was a girl, for all that she’d been born an Age before Celebrían – gnawed fretfully at one lip for a moment before she replied.

 

“I’ll not tell you where he’s gone, for you’ll be lost in ten minutes.  I’ll show you, milady, if you’ll behave.”

 

“I learned early never to make idle promises.  And stop with this ‘milady’ nonsense.  Forever dispossessed or not, my cousin is to marry you.  That makes us family.”

 

***

 

It turned out that Amrod had been settled in the palace, though not, by his own request, in his old quarters amongst the royal family.  Instead, he took a room with the resident servants, and was plying his chosen craft at the same going rate as any of them.

 

In this particular season, that craft entailed mending the palace tapestries – for they had all been taken down, as adornment of any kind, of body or of dwelling, was discouraged at this time of year.  The term Opolintë used was “ritual mortification,” and it approached the same sort of solemnly repentant Ñoldor balderdash which Celebrían, three-quarters Teleri and born well after all but three members of her extended Ñoldor family died, had grown accustomed to seeing with Galadriel, but had never readily begun to understand.  Still, she supposed it was something to do to mark the time, and it helped in locating Amrod, for he seemed to have gained some notoriety for being unable to sit still.

 

His reputation seemed to be unfounded, from her vantage point in the doorway.  He bent diligently over his work, using a yarn needle and carefully-colored thread to patch a frayed Arafinwëan standard, minding the door not at all.  Opolintë cleared her throat, and joy lit his face as he looked up – but that emotion was fleeting, as careful neutrality crept into his eyes when he saw that Celebrían was with her.

 

Oh, but he looked so alike to his brother in that moment, and Celebrían was nearly drawn back into the passing glimpse she’d had of Maedhros for the second time in the space of a day.  She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, and willed her disobedient brain to stay in the present.

 

“Well met, cousin Ambarto,” she managed to say agreeably, before Opolintë could glaze over the matter.  “I am Celebrían, daughter of Artanis.  I thought I might welcome you back to the land of the living.”

 

Perplexed, Amrod glanced to Opolintë for the space of a second before meeting Celebrían’s eyes again.  “Oh, you’re Nerwen’s daughter, all right.  Only she tried to sound pleasant through clenched teeth.”

 

The moment of wit took her entirely off guard, so that she even forgot her discomfort.  “It’s that obvious?”

 

“Painfully so, but I’m used to it by now.”  Carefully stabbing his needle through the fabric so that he would not lose it, the boy stood slowly – and he was a boy, for all he was the stuff of legend back in Middle-Earth.  Aside from the unsettling glow lingering about his eyes and the hair she still tried not to notice, Celebrían was reminded unnervingly of her own twin sons.

 

That thought threatened to open another mode of thinking that would hinder her recovery, so she gritted her teeth and willed her mind to ignore it.  Before Amrod could bow as a respectful servant should before his lady, she crossed over to him and grasped his right arm, as she would any equal she had just encountered for the first time.

 

“As I said, Ambarto, you are well met.”

 

She forced herself to look directly into his eyes without shuddering, and as a result had a glimpse of the confused, yet impressed, quirk of his eyebrows.  “Umbarto, if you please,” he said, clasping her arm in return.  “Let’s not pretend that I’m anyone else, not when we both know better.”

 

Celebrían nodded firmly.  “Umbarto, then.  Now, I’m precluded from fasting and mortification, but I’ve still intended to offer my services in some way to observe Sovallë’s traditions.  I’m no stranger to tapestry-mending; would you allow me to help?”

 

***

 

Amrod – or, well, Amarthan, to give his preferred name the appropriate Sindarin translation – proved to be an excellent companion during needlework.  She found she still could not quite look him in the eye, but the stitching provided an adequate excuse to avoid that, and if he noticed he said nothing about it.  Instead, he conversed cheerfully with her, and she could truly pretend she was with Elladan, who had once liked to while away an afternoon talking and reading aloud while she stitched.  Indeed, she found it easy to ask questions of him that she’d be ashamed to ask even Opolintë – she was sadly ignorant about Ñoldor custom, no matter how tirelessly Galadriel had tried to educate her.

 

“So, regarding father-names,” she segued from a conversation about how she only had one name, and that given by her mother.  “Is yours Telufinwë, or Pityafinwë?  There’s been a great deal of discussion about which is correct for which.”

 

She risked only the briefest glance up at him at the beginning of her question, for the sake of politeness; when his answer came, it was with a sigh and a cluck of the tongue, and she did not see his expression.  “You’ll probably think this silly, but I don’t rightly know myself.  Mother was exhausted when Father named us, and she could never quite place which one was born first or which was named what; she knew her names when she looked at us, and that was that.  And in those years, Father was distracted enough that he never minded which son answered to which name, and never bothered to correct us if we were wrong.  We both just learned to answer to both names.”

 

Celebrían found herself growing rather indignant.  “I gave birth to twins and never once confused them,” she said, and realized a heartbeat after it left her mouth that the comment was probably rude.

 

Thankfully, Amarthan only laughed.  “Somehow I doubt that.  Your own grandmother was infamous for calling all of her children to her when she only wanted one, but couldn’t sort out the names in her head.  Artanis began to answer to all of her brother’s names, and it was joked among us cousins that Angaráto ran off to the mountains with Eldalótë almost as soon as he came of age because she alone could keep his name straight.  My mother did much the same; she’d cycle through Maitimo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, and Carnistir before she remembered Atarinkë’s name.”

 

She was about to retort that she had never done that, but then she remembered one frightful incident when she’d called for Elrohir when she’d needed to speak to Erestor.  At the time, she’d been mortified, and thought she’d never live the matter down.  What she would have done to go back to that simpler time now.

 

“If you wanted to know my father name,” Amarthan continued, blithely ignorant of her internal musings, “the person who’d know immediately would be my father.  But he could grow rather tetchy over something he’d decided should be obvious to everyone even when it was not, so the best person to ask would probably be Maitimo.”

 

She had once had an errant scrap of food that lodged in her throat; no matter how many times she coughed, it continued to tickle her gag reflex at the most unexpected times intermittently for the next week.  The threat of the recurrent flashback of Maedhros was beginning to tire her in much the same way. Celebrían tried to make her sniff sound dismissive.  “Yes, well, my husband was half raised by your brother, and he was somewhat less than forthcoming with that sort of information.  Elrond offered absolutely no solid answers in any of the debates that went on about that very topic.”

 

In her peripheral vision, she could see Amarthan angle himself questioningly in her direction.  He took a moment to answer, which led her to believe he had intended to ask a question of some import.  Instead, he changed the topic.  “Speaking of Elrond, you’d mentioned twins.  What were their names, and had the two of you any other children?”

 

A thrice-accursed Kinslayer was taking pains to preserve her feelings; Celebrían thought she must look even more pathetic than she had guessed.  “Ah, get comfortable.  This is one of my favorite topics.”

 

***

 

After three hours had passed, Opolintë insisted that Celebrían must be taken back to her rooms.  Umbarto waited patiently for his betrothed’s return; her concern had been palpable from the moment she entered the room, and he doubted she’d be able to keep her work at work tonight.

 

Almost to the second he’d predicted, she returned, and sat quietly beside him where he worked at the tapestry loom, in the same chair his fascinating long-lost cousin had occupied that midmorning.  She made no move to disturb him in his work, so he gathered that, as usual, she was content to watch his process; Opolintë was more of a leatherworker in her spare time, but had prevailed upon him to teach her the basics of fancy work.

 

The good thing about meeting his beloved in their afterlife was that they’d both learned by now to be patient with each other.  So, Umbarto continued to work; she’d talk when she was ready, and for now it was enough to have her with him.

 

At last, Opolintë decided that she could share.  “I don’t doubt that you’ve noticed the scars on your cousin’s face.  Have you guessed what they mean?”

 

He shook his head, though he kept his eyes on the tapestry long enough to stab his needle into place for safekeeping.  “Only that she was cruelly treated, and that her captors likely wanted to ruin her beauty.  I don’t think they succeeded, mind, only that that was their intended goal.”

 

Opolintë nodded sadly.  “It was the only goal in the beginning, yes.  As certain orc tribes grew to have…refined ideas, other goals crept in by the wayside.  Those scars are specifically meant to mark breeding slaves.  And she is currently with child, and does not like to talk about it.”

 

There was the shoe whose drop he had anticipated.  “Does her family know?”

 

“The ones here do.  I can say nothing of those she left behind.”

 

“Do you think the child will present a danger?  Or be in danger?”

 

A tear fell from her right eye, the brown one.  “Even children born to orc mothers had to be…conditioned, before they were a danger.  I do not fear the child.  But even here, there are those who remember such things; I fear there is a very real danger, should the child’s origins come to light.”

 

Umbarto got up, and delicately embraced his betrothed from behind.  “This is not your fault,” he whispered.

 

“No,” she replied.  “I know that.  But it hurts to see someone in that position, again, knowing that, even here, I can do little but watch and wait.”

---

Chapter End Notes

That sound you hear is me taking the "Secret Baby" prompt just a little too literally.  And, with that cliffhanger left, I'm off to write the next chapter.

Chapter 3

There's an awkward moment (or three) to fit prompt five of Caprice and Chance.  Aside from that, it's setup for other prompts.  And family bonding.  I love these three.

Read Chapter 3

One thing that had taken Celebrían by surprise during her first weeks in Valinor was the fact that the palace staff was so much more gossipy than anyone could manage back in Imladris.  No matter how discreet her family or Opolintë had tried to be, wild stories about the prodigal granddaughter of the house of Arafinwë made their rounds in the servants’ quarters within days.  The stories only got wilder when she got into the habit of assisting Amarthan over the first two weeks of Sovallë.  After all, the rumors about the two of them were easily compressed when they could be told together without changing the subject.

 

The talk helped Celebrían more than it annoyed her; she learned through eavesdropping that Amarthan had plans to travel to Tol Eressëa for what she judged to be a short business trip.  Therefore, she was able to take him mildly by surprise, when she and Opolintë met his cart in the courtyard, their own bags packed for light travel.

 

“Did Ëarwen say you could come with me?”

 

Celebrían shrugged, and jumped to sit beside him on the driver’s seat, waving cheekily at a couple of ladies-in-waiting who goggled at her from the parapet.  Opolintë climbed into the back of the cart a tad more sedately, a pleasant smile on her face as she grumbled into her betrothed’s ear.  “No, she ordered me to go with you, and take the young lady with us, before there can be any more altercations.”

 

“Don’t blame her, ‘twas I who made the suggestion to my lady grandmother last night.  It should spare anyone else from being slugged in the stomach on my account.”

 

Amarthan grinned over his shoulder.  “You actually did that?”  When Opolintë nodded, a turbulent expression in her mismatched eyes even as her smile got just a little too wide to be innocent, Amarthan kissed her full on the mouth in front of everyone.  The ladies on the parapet fussed disapprovingly, much to Celebrían’s perplexed enjoyment.

 

“Is kissing outlawed in Sovallë as well?  I thought there were only strictures against the marital act.”

 

With a shake of his head, Amarthan clicked his tongue to start the mules walking, and Opolintë stood sturdily behind them as they passed out of the courtyard.  “Technically,” she said, “there are no legal strictures against anything during Sovallë, because there is no king to enforce any such thing.  But, yes, putting off the marital act is a common sacrifice made during this time, and kissing is a tremendous temptation toward that, so it is frowned upon, especially in public.”  As she directed this last bit pointedly at his back, Amarthan smirked rakishly and made no apologies.

 

Celebrían frowned, confused.  “No king…does that mean there’s no law, either?”

 

“There’s always law, but the king does not enforce it.”

 

“So, technically, the populace has free rein to do whatever they wish?  Riot, perhaps?  Break windows?”

 

“Only if they want to explain why they would do such a thing to the Valar themselves – the Ainur commonly take disguises and walk among the people, especially during this time of year.”

 

The situation was becoming clearer the more Celebrían heard about it.  “So this is a pointed effort by both governments to encourage the Eldar to put their trust in the authority of the Valar.”

 

“And a pointed effort on the part of the Valar to be more worthy of trust,” Amarthan said, as Opolintë tried gingerly to sit amongst the packages in the back of the moving cart.  “Sovallë is a time to acknowledge the mistakes of the past, and try to overcome them.  The Valar will be the first to admit they made mistakes during the Darkening, and this time of year is when they try their best to atone for them.”

 

“By disguising themselves and lying to the people?”

 

“By disguising themselves and living among the people, the better to understand them.  It was Ulmo’s idea, but Manwë took rather well to it.”

 

Perhaps her mother’s Vanyar relatives would have been able to happily accept this, but Celebrían only felt exposed.  “So, they’re here, and they’re judging us if we, say, decide to eat meat, or in the case of you two, get married?”

 

That prompted a hearty laugh from both of her companions.  “Gracious heavens, as if they actually cared,” Amarthan chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye.  “Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” he cut in, at Celebrían’s look of despair.  “They’ll observe the fasts themselves, while they’re here, to fit in.  But such sacrifices are the Ñoldor’s prerogative, not anything the Valar have imposed.”

 

Now she was just lost.  “Why would you put such restrictions on yourselves?”

 

The merriment in his voice and face faded as swiftly as it had appeared.  “Mostly to remind ourselves and teach our children of how our own crops were dependent upon the works of the Valar.  When the Trees fell, much of the plant life withered, and game and farm animals scattered to the four winds, starving themselves if we could manage to find them.  We largely had to depend on fish and produce imported from the shore by the Teleri or, later, caught by those of us Ñoldor who knew how to fish.  There was never enough to go around, especially after what happened in Alqualondë.”

 

Oh.  “You…fished, in Araman?  Using the Teleri’s boats?”

 

Amarthan glanced at her with surprise.  “Of course we did, when we could persuade our cousins to teach us to use them.  We were there for at least one Tree-Year…I’m not sure how that translates into Sun-Years, but…”

 

“Nearly ten years.  You sat in Araman, gathering and fishing, for nearly ten years.”  She’d seen the dates in the old records, and knew cerebrally that the First Kinslaying took part in the latter quarter of 1495 YT and Fëanor’s landing at Losgar was placed in 1497.  But that knowledge, and its many unkind implications, had not set in emotionally for her until now.

 

“Possibly even more than that,” Amarthan conceded, staring grimly at the road.  “Father would not export what little we gained to those who remained behind in Tírion, deeming them traitors.  That was, ultimately, why Uncle chose to stay, after a very long and very loud argument.”

 

“And my mother and uncles?  Why did they choose to stay with you?”

 

“Your uncles stayed to teach us to use the boats because we, too, had women and children to feed, and because they were itching to punish Morgoth for all the sorrow he had deliberately caused.  Your mother remained behind in Alqualondë, because if she had been within arms’ reach of Tyelkormo, she’d have killed him.  She nearly killed him as it was.”

 

“But she…did she not cross the Ice with the rest of Ñolofinwë’s host?”  All the information she had of this event were the records written down second-hand, and they contradicted each other at every turn.  Galadriel never spoke of these things, nor did her father, nor did anyone else who had managed to survive past that time.

 

And, from the look on his face, Amarthan would not fill that gap either.  “She might have.  I wouldn’t know.  I was not there to see that part, and we’re encouraged to focus on our own healing in Mandos.”

 

At this point, Opolintë felt the need to intervene.  “I know it is Sovallë, but let’s leave the dreary talk in Tírion.  It’s a beautiful day out, is it not…?”

 

***

 

Tol Eressëa laid a good two days’ journey from Tírion, and Amarthan decided to camp for the night once they’d made it through the mountain pass.  The cart passed for shelter enough in mild Valinorean late winter, and Celebrían and Opolintë bundled under their blankets for sleep.  Celebrían was both relieved and exasperated to see Amarthan opted to take the first watch, even though there were none who would assail them at night in the Holy Lands; he was caring for her feelings again, even though she would rather he didn’t.

 

In fact, he needn’t have bothered.  She could not sleep, with her eyes open or otherwise.  And Opolintë seemed to drift off almost immediately, so she was left staring at the underside of the cart as her thoughts twisted around in circles.

 

At last, she gave up the fight, and slipped quietly out to sit by the fire.  “I apologize for earlier,” she said, keeping her voice low.  “I know the memories are probably painful.”

 

Amarthan smiled, but did not look up from his knitting – he was quite capable of sitting still, but his hands were always busy.  “Sovallë is a time to ask difficult questions of yourself; I’ll confess that my mind was on that time, whether you asked or not.”

 

He looked so normal there, illuminated by the firelight.  He could have been Elrohir, this time – her eldest preferred the crochet hook, but was famed for surprising people with desperately-needed mittens and hats without needing to be asked.  Amarthan’s project seemed to be larger than that, however, and it would suffice for a nice, gentle topic of conversation.  “What are you making?”

 

Amarthan looked up guiltily, his glance flickering uncertainly to sleeping Opolintë and back.  “A cradle blanket,” he murmured even more softly than before, a blush filling his cheeks.

 

She grinned conspiratorially.  “Making plans before the wedding, are you?”

 

He rolled his eyes.  “A man can make a blanket without any distinct plans.”

 

“You already have a cradle made, don’t you?”

 

“You are exactly like your mother.”

 

She pumped a fist in the air triumphantly.

 

“I’m serious, Celebrían, don’t say anything.  These are meant to be gifts for her, in the proper time, so she doesn’t feel like she’s being rushed.”

 

“I’ll have to say something, in case she discovers it anyway.  In fact, you should really have a cover story yourself – ladies’ maids and wives both have a tendency of finding out everything.”

 

“And what would you suggest?” Amarthan chanced a look back under the cart; Opolintë had rolled onto her back, and snored softly, dead to the world.  “I’m a terrible liar, and she knows it well.”

 

Celebrían shrugged.  “You can tell her the things are for me, then.  I’ve been meaning to commission a few baby things, but I haven’t yet been able to find someone who won’t blab my affairs all over the castle.”

 

She studied Amarthan’s reaction carefully.  There was no surprise in his face, not that she’d been anticipating that; Opolintë had no doubt already guessed the truth, and Celebrían herself had heard some pretty vicious palace rumors making their rounds in the general staff.  Amarthan looked torn as to what to say to her – likely, he’d heard what Opolintë knew, and made his own guesses from there.

 

“You’re right.  You’re a horrific liar,” she said, keeping her tone light.  “But I’m due to be showing in a month or two, so I might as well clear the air now, on my terms, rather than keep up some idiotic charade.”

 

Spending as much time with him as she could spare for the past two weeks had made it easier to look in his eerie eyes; she supposed there was something to be said for exposure therapy, though she doubted she could have accomplished that if she’d been anywhere else.  Still, she’d never been one to easily accept pity, so she stirred the flame a little to excuse herself from breaking with his gaze.

 

After he found the wherewithal to speak, he had but one word.  “When?”

 

“Midwinter.”

 

“Very well.”  She heard his hands begin at their knitting again, and knew it was her permission to look up; he’d largely had her mannerisms figured by the end of their first visit, and had learned to give her subtle cues.  “To be completely truthful, saying that I’d made the cradle for Opolintë was my cover story for making it for you.  I didn’t know how you’d react to my knowing.”

 

She blinked, and his lips quirked up in a half-smile that reminded her almost painfully of Elrond.  By sheer muscle memory, she reacted as she would have to Elrond’s tricks, shoving Amarthan’s shoulder with one fist.  “You sneak-thief!  You set me up from the start!”

 

He bore the fond mistreatment amiably, laughing aloud.  “It’s like you said; better to do this on your own terms than have the secret come out on its own.”

 

“You could have asked me!  I don’t bite!”

 

“The admirable scar on Findaráto's hand suggests otherwise,” he pronounced, and held up his hands to defend himself against a rain of light blows directed at his shoulders.  “All right, I concede!  You’re gentle as a newborn lamb!”

 

“And you’d better remember it,” she growled in mock threat, seating herself again victoriously.  A moment later, she had caught his merriment, and was laughing herself.  For a few moments, they were able to stay that way, each simply letting the other be happy.  Then, they wound down, Celebrían peacefully staring into the fire, letting the rhythmic click of Amarthan’s knitting needles sooth her.

 

After a few moments, he took a deep breath.  “Is it all right if I ask an awkward question?”

 

He’d learned to do this as well – he seemed to be as astute in listening as she was, and no doubt he’d inquired with Finrod and Opolintë on a few things.  Celebrían’s fits could generally be avoided if she had warning, and Amarthan usually gave her ample opportunity to back away or change the topic if she wished.  Sparing her feelings, again; she had a feeling he and Elrond would have become fast friends, exasperatingly nice as they both were.

 

“About the baby?”

 

“No, about your husband.  The…altercation of today involved him as well as you.”

 

“Oh, that’s right.  I never did get the full story out of Opolintë.  She’s perfect for you, by the way, marry her faster.”

 

“I’m trying!”  He smiled, but put down his work, falling serious once more.  “You did not come here at Elrond’s bidding, did you?”

 

Now there was a question fraught with meaning, and he knew it; Celebrían could see his hands trembling.  She bit her tongue, and gently laid her hand on his.

 

“No.  He went to every length to keep me.  I went to every length to be able to stay; he’s lost so many friends and family already, and I never wanted to be among that number.  But I couldn’t heal, and he couldn’t heal me and do the work he needed to do, so I elected to come here.”  Elrond had accompanied her on the journey to the Havens, of course; every motion he’d made during that time was a silent plea for her to change her mind, though he’d never given his shameless begging a voice.  The look in his eyes as he’d stubbornly watched her sail away, until not even she could see him anymore, haunted her dreams more than her torture ever would.

 

Amarthan’s hand moved to hover in front of her face, silently asking permission to touch her.  She made no indication denying that permission, so he softly brushed her cheek, drying a tear she’d not noticed as it fell.  Then, slowly, he drew close to her, and laid a hand over her shoulders.  “I’m glad,” he said softly.  “I was banking on an assumption that he would be very like his brother, and Elros was willing to fight Eru Himself for the sake of those he loved.”

 

Suddenly, a lot of things were beginning to make sense.  “He didn’t actually fight Him, did he?”

 

“He very respectfully but very firmly presented his own point of view.  Repeatedly.  I think he might have even begun putting it to song at one point, but that was when Eru began to laugh.  He was an unexpected advocate, but certainly not an unwelcome one.  Though Father did once interrupt in order to ask who the hell he was.”

 

“Please say he did not ask it in those exact words, in front of the Almighty Himself.”

 

“Would he be Fëanáro if he did not?”

 

“That idiot.”

 

“Incidentally, Elros said much the same thing to him to shut him up.”

 

Oh, but he was good at this, because she found himself snickering helplessly into his shoulder, not even thinking about how she had leaned into his embrace.  “So,” she said, recovering.  “The rumor was that Elrond rejected me.  That explains why Opolintë punched that groom so hard.”

 

“I did that for your good name, milady.”  Even Amarthan jumped, and he’d been a skilled hunter in his past life, so Celebrían felt slightly better about having been snuck upon.  Opolintë’s feral smirk, however, sent a few chills down her back.  “Now that I hear how thoroughly he was…incorrect, I might just have to find him again and give him a proper walloping, for the sake of those not present.  But I’ll only do that if you go to bed immediately.”

 

Celebrían suddenly felt five years old again.  “How long were you listening?”

 

“Long enough to know I don’t have to feign ignorance when we’re alone anymore.  Sleep. It’s good for you.”

 

Scratch that, she felt like a toddler.  “I’ll try,” she pouted, and tried to maintain as much dignity as she could while crawling back under the cart.

 

As she was finally drifting off, she distantly saw Opolintë lean to whisper in Amarthan’s ear.  “You are going to make our own cradle, just in case?”

 

The click of his needles stuttered a little, and Celebrían flitted off into her dreams with a smile.

---

Chapter End Notes

Just think - you know the Rivendell elves who twitted Thorin and Company's beards and sang annoying songs to welcome them into what is technically a secret fortress surrounded by unfriendlies?  That's elves holding their gossip back, for fear of being discovered.  Valar help anyone who gets on the bad side of a young Valinorean elf who has no sense of self-preservation because they've never needed one...

Chapter 4

This chapter begins to incorporate Lindo and Vaire from Unfinished Tales, for Hidden Figures.  Since they are non-canon, I've tried to play with them a little bit to make them fit in with canon a bit more.

And, yet another OC, though she's tangential to this plot.  Sarenda has existed in my mind before I got Tina Turner's "We Don't Need Another Hero" as a prompt for Singers and Songstresses, but that song works fairly well as a leitmotif for her nonetheless.  "We are the children, The last generation, We are the ones they left behind..."

Read Chapter 4

Arrival in Alqualondë showed the port abuzz with activity – not necessarily festive activity, for the Teleri did not celebrate Sovallë, but the city’s major export was fish, so the holy weeks could not be entirely avoided.  The markets were filled with the sort of frenetic energy Celebrían had learned to associate with the cities of Men; it was an odd, wistful feeling that washed over her, seeing cities of her people awash with light and life rather than lingering in darkness and regret.  However, that feeling soon subsided when she realized just how much there was to see here, even if she was only passing through for a time.

 

Amarthan kept his hood over his head, for reasons she could understand; Opolintë did likewise, for reasons at which she could only guess.  But Celebrían kept her head up and hair uncovered, feeling as if she had returned to her youth for a day, when Lindon had been new and she a welcomed traveler.

 

There were many children playing in the streets here, of a number which had not been seen in elfkind in Arda for an Age.  They paused only to allow the cart through the streets, staring unguardedly in that way which all children have, but without even a trace of fear of the strangers in their midst.  Celebrían smiled as they passed, and one little girl hazarded a wave of the hand, which was politely returned.  The game began again after they had passed, and it seemed to be a sort of tag, wherein the “tagged” children lingered in “Mandos” until the final child won and became “Námo.”  An odd game to play, for children who would not know Death; likely it had found its way here from Númenor, a very long time ago indeed.

 

The docks swarmed with fisher elves of all ages, some dragging their catch in for the day, some singing as they mended their nets.  Celebrían noticed her cousin’s attention pulled toward the nets themselves, which were of fine, white rope and as decorative as they were functional, colorful beads strategically threaded into a number of patterns.  “The art of macramé,” Amarthan murmured, when he saw her focus had been drawn there as well.  “Uinen taught it to them to make nets, but often they adorn their homes with it as well.  I’ve seen pieces that could outshine Ñoldor tapestries, and even Vairë likes to incorporate it into her work.”

 

There were a number of boats still out upon the water, and they too were singing, though the tunes were loud and rather more ribald than the songs sung on the shore.  Opolintë, uncomfortable with Teleri, asked for a translation; when she received one, she blushed red to her very ears, and Celebrían doubled over with laughter.

 

“Not really Sovallë fare, is it?”

 

“No,” Opolintë muttered, shrugging into her cloak even further in a gesture that was hopelessly Ñoldo.  “Not really Sovallë-worthy at all.  Though I’m positive I’ve heard it in a few taverns.”

 

The activity culminated in a large construction project, near the edge of town where the shoals were too great to withstand boats.  A great stone bridge had been erected to allow for passage between Alqualondë and Tol Eressëa, and it was beautiful, white and strong and gleaming.  Though the bridge was functionally complete, and indeed carried quite a bit of traffic on this day, artisans of all three elven kindred hung from its sides, carving reliefs depicting Ulmo, Uinen, and Ossë, as well as scenes from history.  Celebrían squinted to study the scenes, and then laid a hand on Amarthan’s shoulder.

 

“Do you think the artists would allow me to look at the bridge more closely?  I think I see my mother’s face in there.”

 

He tilted his head in thought.  “I’d been meaning to speak with someone before we crossed to the Tol.  Perhaps it could be arranged.”

 

About halfway across the bridge, Amarthan’s hands pulled gently on the reins, bringing his little mules to a slow stop, just in front of a Ñoldo artisan who had been examining her tools.  The woman made an irregular picture, all wiry muscle displayed in a sleeveless undershirt and no-nonsense leather breeches, with her stone-powdered hair cropped so short that its longest strands reached only to her ears.  When she saw who had stopped beside her, she glared banefully, rising to her booted feet with the grace of a threatened woodland cat.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed, appropriately for Celebrían’s metaphor.  Celebrían recoiled instinctively before she realized the challenge was not directed at her, but at Amarthan, who sighed sadly.

 

“I have business on the Tol.  Should I not at least greet her as I pass through?”

 

“She’s busy.  I should think she has better things to do than to talk with some…”

 

“Sarenda!  Enough!”

 

Another artisan clambered over the edge of the bridge, gracefully as a monkey from the rainforests in the Utter East.  She, too, was completely dusted with white, powdered stone, and wore an outfit similar to her companion’s; the exception being that her hair was fashionably long, but braided and tied to the top of her head to be out of her way.  Futilely she attempted to brush the dust from her arms as she hurried toward the cart, but Amarthan disembarked quickly, and swept her into a tight embrace without caring for the dust.

 

Celebrían had wondered where Nerdanel had been these past few weeks, when the first of her boys had returned home.  Now, she supposed she had her answer.

 

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay long,” Amarthan said, pulling back from his mother’s embrace.  “Will you still be here by evening?  I’ll be passing this way again.”

 

Nerdanel’s eyes remained dry, though she did seem a little disappointed.  Celebrían looked belatedly away from the scene, suddenly feeling as though she were intruding; unfortunately, she looked in the direction of Sarenda, who eyed her coldly, as if calculating exactly where to hit her with a chisel in order to make her fall apart.

 

“Of course I will be,” Nerdanel replied, and Sarenda rolled her eyes and shook her head.  “Have you a place to stay for the night?  The road back to Tírion is a long way.”

 

“Especially for elegant ladies,” Sarenda growled, never taking her eyes away from Celebrían’s.

 

“Oh, you’ve noticed!” Opolintë exclaimed by Celebrían’s ear, her arm casually encircling her shoulders.  “We went to such effort to pick out the prettiest sackcloth, just for you!”

 

“Sarenda, I said enough,” Nerdanel’s voice could cut granite if it wanted.  “Talk to me when you return,” she said more softly, obviously turning back to Amarthan again.  “You’ll sleep in my house tonight.”

 

“I don’t want to impose…”

 

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

 

“Sarenda, take your break.  Now.”

 

The short-haired elf huffed, and stalked angrily toward Alqualondë; Celebrían’s eyes followed her, and it seemed Opolintë’s did as well, her hand squeezing Celebrían’s shoulder comfortingly.

 

“Never mind her,” Nerdanel continued, when Sarenda was out of earshot.  “She’ll either hold her tongue, or go drinking with her friends tonight.  When do you think you’ll be back this way?”

 

“Sunset, or thereabouts.  I have business with Lindo.”

 

“I’ll look for you.”

 

Celebrían risked a glance in Nerdanel’s direction again, just as the older elf placed a swift kiss on Amarthan’s cheek.  Then, she returned to the edge of the bridge, raised a hand in farewell, and rappelled down to continue her work.  Amarthan returned to his seat in the cart, clucked his tongue, and they were off again.

 

The whole thing struck Celebrían as remarkably brusque for such a long-delayed family reunion.  And when she judged that they were well out of Nerdanel’s hearing, she said so.

 

Amarthan only sighed.  “That was no reunion, cousin.  Mother has been visiting me for years; I’m the only one of her sons who will see her.”

 

Valinor just seemed to get more and more mundane, the more she heard of it.  “Mandos has visiting hours?”

 

“Nay,” said Opolintë, climbing back into her seat by Amarthan.  “But the Halls of Waiting do.  Nienna has her ways.”

 

As she said this, she wove a mottled hand into Amarthan’s, clasping it in quiet solidarity.  It was tenderer than Nerdanel’s hurried kiss had been.  That thought made Celebrían unreasonably angry.  Childishly, she felt the need to take it out on the nearest available culprit.

 

“I take it that Sarenda does not come with her when she visits?”

 

A snort came from behind Amarthan’s hood.  “Oh, she used to, when she was young and still had hope of seeing her own parents.  But her father refuses to return from exile, and her mother chose to die as Míriel had, rather than raise a child alone.”

 

Regret chilled Celebrían’s heart, and remorsefully she turned to look back at Alqualondë, hoping to see the thorny young stonemason again.  “It’s kind for Nerdanel to take her under her wing like that.”

 

“Kind?  Perhaps it is, but there is an obligation there as well.  Sarenda is Makalaurë’s daughter.”

 

And, like that, time seemed to freeze, the cold late-winter air kissing the tears that seemed to be the only answer Celebrían could manage for that information.

 

***

 

It was a somber mood with which they reached their destination, a small cottage on the west side of the Tol, looking out at the Sundering Sea.  It was rather out-of-the-way for what Celebrían had thought would be a merchant’s house, but perhaps it was an artifact from the time when Númenor had been in regular contact with the Isle.

 

The spot was certainly well-picked, with a view that took Celebrían’s breath away, despite the winter sea’s sullen gloominess. The cottage’s owner, a tall, dark-haired elf, seemed to be of the same mind as she, for he stood watching the gulls soar, far too distant to touch, a pensive melody whistling through his lips.

 

“Mel ar nilme

I amaurea indóme túl

Ilya mal i na-”

 

“Your grammar leaves much wanting, old man,” Amarthan drawled.

 

“OF COURSE IT DOES,” said a voice that sounded like the distant toll of a funeral bell.  “I LEARNED IT FROM YOU.”

 

Amarthan’s remark of the Valar taking natural form and living amongst their people flooded back into Celebrían’s mind.  Once again, her brain seemed to retreat from the present, and she watched with a sort of frightened awe as Amarthan strode confidently up to the stranger.  Lindo – which was not his real name, she was sure – bore little resemblance to any elf of any kindred, though he opted to keep the dark hair of the Ñoldor.  His eyes, however, were a deep, glowing purple, deeply unsettling even at this distance in much the same way Amarthan’s were.

 

And yet, there was tenderness there, a deliberate crinkle in the Ainu’s eye, as without hesitation Amarthan embraced him as closely as he had embraced his mother.

 

“MY BOY,” murmured the Valar of the Dead, rocking her cousin’s body with all the natural affection of any father.  “I'VE MISSED YOU SO VERY MUCH.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Namo was supposed to talk in Small Caps, because I'm a Pratchett Nerd and I think it's funny.  However, I could not get the formatting to transfer from my computer, so he talks in All Caps at 10 pt.  And yes, that is a quick (and probably massively erroneous) translation of one verse of "We Don't Need Another Hero" that he sings.

Chapter 5

This chapter begins the real attempt I'll make for Solve a Problem - can orcs be redeemed?  For that matter, can the children of orcs be redeemed?

There is an oblique discussion of (barely) off-screen noncon in this chapter, as a brief forewarning.

Read Chapter 5

The place possessed the rather gloomy title of the Cottage of Lost Play, but that was about the only melancholy thing about it that Celebrían could see.  Consisting of three stories built sturdily into the stone of Tol Eressëa, it reminded her of the little hill-houses made by the Shire-folk, its herb garden planted right on top of its red-bricked roof, and its wooden door and trim-pieces painted a bright, welcoming orange.  A calico cat sunned herself on the south bottom windowsill, seated so that her piebald paws were contently invisible.

 

The inside of the house proved no less homey.  The first floor consisted of a pleasant little parlor filled with soft chairs, crocheted doilies, and teatime implements; there were storage rooms in the back, but they were cleverly concealed, and Celebrían only guessed they were there when Amarthan delivered their cargo thence.  If she was to be honest with herself, Celebrían was quite taken aback.  The Doomsman of the Valar lived here?  Surely he and his would be far more at home in some deep, dark dungeon?

 

But Lindo – Námo, for he could be no other– saw the look in her eyes, and grinned quite cheekily indeed.  “WE'VE BEEN EXPECTING YOU, LITTLE MEADOWLARK!”  Celebrían choked at the casual use of her father’s pet name for her.  “VAIRË'S SET UP AN EXCELLENT LUNCHON, AND QUITË IS DUSTING OUT YOUR ROOMS.”

 

That explained the cloud of dust emanating from the staircase and hanging in the air of the second floor.  Lindo waved it away like one would a pestering gnat, and the rest of them could breathe easily as they followed in his wake.

 

“Oh, you want us to stay longer?” Amarthan asked at Lindo’s elbow.  “I thought I’d need to report back to Tírion in a couple of days.”

 

“TELL ME AGAIN WHO IT IS WHO DICTATES THE TERMS OF YOUR RELEASE?”  The disguised Vala adopted a lofty expression, his lightning-purple eyes glittering with humor even through his feigned superiority.  “I'M SURE THAT I CAN PERSUADE WHOEVER REQUIRES PERSUAION THAT I NEED YOU FOR A FEW EXTRA DAYS.  SOMETHING ABOUT DOOM OR WHATNOT.”

 

“There had better be a lot more about ‘doom or whatnot,’ or the lady’s going to faint dead away,” Opolintë laughed.  “We’ve told you before, Námo – people from across the pond rather expect you to be intimidating.”

 

“AS THEY SHOULD,” the Vala sniffed.  “BUT, WE DIGRESS.  COME!  I'M NOT ONLY FLATTERING MY WIFE WHEN I SAY THE REPAST IS EXCELLENT.”

 

“You could do with a bit more flattery toward your wife, however.”  One who appeared to be an elf woman, looking as mundane as any other in a simple blue cooking dress with an apron about their waist, appeared in the doorway at the top of the second flight of stairs.  Lindo smiled fondly, raced up the steps, and kissed her cheek.  The others followed him once again, Celebrían feeling almost dizzy as she performed a perfunctory curtsey.

 

“Now, now, none of that,” the Valië tutted.  “I’m not dressed for that.  But I do hope you’ll enjoy my efforts at cooking.”

 

And, despite her misgivings, Celebrían thought she might, judging only from the way the third-story kitchen and dining room had been decorated – blue-and-white stoneware and bright yellow curtains and table-dressings, with the herb garden peeking merrily through the kitchen window.

 

The fact that Vairë could cook – the Vairë, her very self – gave almost as much of a shock as the fact that Námo could laugh.  However, it was equally as true, and though the fare was Sovallë-simple, it was delicious – good Alqualondë yearling salmon, caught as they were returning to the sea after spending the winter in warm Valinor rivers.  Celebrían tried to mind her manners as she ate, but accepted two helpings at Vairë’s insistence; the Valië wore a doting, secretive smile, reminding her very much of Galadriel at her happiest.

 

Equally as surprising were the rooms to which they were shown.  Quitë – Vairë’s little sister, unsung in any of the old tales but wearing a strong resemblance to her – guided Celebrían and Opolintë into a clean little space on the north side of the second floor.  The beds were covered in gorgeous knitted blankets, warm and beautiful, depicting a vista of the Pélori range and a scene of soaring seagulls.  When Celebrían, unable to help herself, exclaimed at their loveliness, she had the particular privilege of seeing a full-fledged Maia blush like a complimented little girl.

 

“Would you like to keep them?  I’m forever making more, and I can never do anything with them.”

 

Celebrían had the feeling it would be bad manners to refuse such a kindly gift, so she agreed to take the seagull blanket when she returned to the city.  Later, when he stuck his head in the doorway to bid the women goodnight, Amarthan rolled his eyes fondly.  “Stuck you with one, has she?  That means she knows you’re an easy mark.  You’ll have twenty blankets before long.”

 

“Oh, hush, or I’m telling her you’ve decided to make your own blankets.”

 

“She knows already – she should, I learned from her.  Well, I’m off.  Try not to be too pampered in the hours I’m gone.”

 

“No promises!” Opolintë called, her coverlet wrapped over her head like a hood. 

 

Amarthan waved her off and went to keep his appointment with his mother on the other shore.  Then, the women nestled into their beds, and Celebrían slept more soundly than she had since arriving in this strange land.

 

***

 

The morning washed in with a light sprinkling of rain, and the air smelled clear and fresh when Celebrían awoke.  She found herself drawn to the window, entranced by the sea as it seemed to play.  Here, in the quiet, when only the seabirds seemed to be awake, she found that she finally believed in the promise of the Hither Lands; even her deepest pain was finally starting to subside, replaced by a fervent joy of the sort she’d never been able to risk in Arda.

 

The moment ended when she heard the door-latch click, and Amarthan wandered outside to take in the view himself.  He remained in the same clothes he’d been wearing when he left, nursing a dark, steamy drink in hands that trembled against the early-morning cold.  It was true that elves in Valinor required less sleep than was typical in Endorë – due to various factors draining upon her energy, Celebrían doubted that she’d try to get into that habit anytime soon.  Still, Amarthan looked as if he could have benefitted from a full night’s rest as Opolintë had, and, as he did not expect her to be up this early, he was not trying to hide it from her.

 

Had the visit gone poorly?  Celebrían had to restrain the parental urge to walk out, place a cloak around his shoulders, and ask (perhaps in vain) how his day had gone.  Amarthan was not one of her sons, no matter how his unwitting slouch reminded her of them.  He had a mother, and she doubted her own counsel could replace Nerdanel’s.

 

To her surprise, however, the latch clicked again.  Námo strode out, a robe in his hands; he proceeded to do everything Celebrían’s instincts had nearly persuaded her to do, down to the loving pat he left on Amarthan’s shoulder when the robe was accepted.  “HOW WAS YOUR MOTHER?”

 

The red-haired elf shrugged.  “She offered to take me into her home in Tírion, when we’ve both returned.  She also had a few choice words for you.”

 

“I'D HAVE TOLD HER YOU WERE BEING RELEASED, IF NO ONE ELSE, BUT SHE'S A HARD ONE TO FIND.  MY HERALDS CHECKED AT ALL OF HER HOUSED BEFORE ANYONE TOLD US SHE WAS AWAY ON ASSIGNMENT.”

 

Amarthan nodded casually, draining the last drops in his mugs.  “Some things never change, I guess.”

 

Suddenly, Celebrían felt as though she were intruding upon something rather personal.  It was an odd feeling; in what seemed now to be another life, every house wherein she had lived had been hers in some way, and whatever transpired within had necessarily been her business.  She’d only rarely been truly a guest once, in Lindon, and even then she hadn’t stayed a guest for long.

 

Well, odd or not, this conversation was not her business, so she had to find something else with which to occupy her time.  With a sigh, she left the two to their conversation, dressed quickly, and left her room…only to come face-to-face with Vairë, who stood enthroned above a simple-but-elegantly arrayed plate of kippers.

 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the Valië intoned.  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.  But first, eat your breakfast.  No sense having a serious conversation on an empty stomach.”

 

***

 

“What is it you intended to show me, my lady?”

 

Vairë gave a rather un-ladylike snort at that term.  “Don’t fuss about pleasantries with me, child.  Melian is my dear friend and a close relative – I believe you’d call us ‘cousins.’  And you have long been married to one of her descendants, so that makes you family.”

 

It was more than doubtful that the Valië would paraphrase Celebrían’s own words, to her face no less, by accident.  Again, she was reminded of Galadriel; biting the inside of her cheek to avoid any impertinent remarks, Celebrían allowed Vairë to lead her to a small door, cut into the back side of the first floor of the house.  It seemed that this door opened into a stairway; with its warm-colored tapestries lining the walls and flame-colored Fëanorian lamps lighting their way, Celebrían was reminded of the residential halls of Khazad-dûm in the years of its splendor – dark, but cozy, if she dared use such a familiar word.

 

The basement to which the stairs led was much the same, if rather crowded around the walls by the packages Amarthan had brought with him.  There was a comfortably overstuffed sofa against the far wall, with the parlor table set in front of it.  Atop the table were a number of sparkling jewels of every shape, color, and variety.  Upon the sofa Vairë sat, and she patted the space beside her to invite Celebrían to sit; once she had done so, the Valië gestured toward the gems.

 

“These little ones are to be given to good homes,” she said lightly.  “But first, they must be arranged to be with their appropriate stories.”  Here, Vairë took one of Amarthan’s packages and opened it, revealing a number of swatches of cloth – tiny tapestries, most no bigger than Celebrían’s palm, woven in Amarthan’s neat hand.

 

Celebrían took a swatch off of the top of the pile, and studied it closely.  The swatch itself seemed somewhat morbid – it was the tapestry of a young elf-child’s life, from his birth in Eriador to his death what could scarcely be a decade later – but for the life of her, she could not understand where to start looking for the right stone with which to pair it.

 

Vairë, however, seemed kind enough to provide an object lesson, just this once.  Taking a small turquoise, she smiled lovingly at it for a moment before she motioned for Celebrían to open her hands.

 

As she registered the small weight upon her palm, the boy’s brief life flashed before her eyes.  It conformed rather tragically to the events depicted upon the swatch which she held, and Celebrían felt a small tear make its way down her cheek as she wrapped the stone securely in the little piece of fabric.

 

“Now you know how this cottage earned its name,” Vairë said softly, reaching for another little tapestry to sort.  “Most elf souls cross into our Halls eventually, but many are innocent enough that they do not need to stay for long.  Often, they can be released to immediate family, but alas, not all have immediate family in Valinor.  And even in the Hither Lands, it would be terribly difficult for a young soul to grow up without a family to support it – your great-uncle was evidence enough of that.”

 

Celebrían wiped away her tear, her brow unconsciously furrowing in the way it did whenever she concentrated.  “Can you not age them in some way?”

 

“That is out of our jurisdiction.  My husband and I can only keep them in death; his siblings and sister-in-law can only heal and guide them.  Their growth, physical and spiritual, Eru intended to be Life’s duty.”

 

“So you intend to keep them hidden away, perhaps forever?”

 

Vairë’s laugh was like the steady hum of a spinning wheel.  “Nay, child, certainly not.  We intend to find suitable foster parents, since their birth families are unavailable.  The little tapestries are meant to give the candidates a hint of whom they are adopting – it is quite a responsibility to accept, after all, and not all care to see the little ones’ lives play out in their heads as what happened for you.”

 

Celebrían nodded, consoled.  Then, much to Vairë’s amusement, she cracked her knuckles, steeling herself for the work ahead.  “There’s little time to be wasted, isn’t there?”

 

***

 

The work of categorizing the lives of unfortunate children went as slowly as might be anticipated, but Celebrían found it merrier than she might have, had Vairë simply told her the task before she showed it to her.  The little souls slumbered peacefully, without recollection of their pain in life; she found herself smiling in turn at each one she held, rocking them as lovingly as she had her own children.  The afternoon passed smoothly and happily, until she came upon a swatch which had been woven recently, and found her blood suddenly running cold.

 

The swatch, painfully small, contained but two pictures.  One depicted an elf maiden, dark of hair and dark of skin, attired in sienna raiment lying swooned upon the floor of a dark cave as a cruel orc leaned leeringly above her.  The second depicted that same maiden, pale as death, her raiment torn pathetically; a minute glimmer of silver glittering quietly, dying, in her lower belly.  In the background of each scene – chained to the wall with an orc gripping her hair to tilt her head – was a silver-white figure that Celebrían knew all too well.

 

“Something troubles you, child?”

 

Vairë’s voice startled her out of her sudden reverie, and Celebrían felt as if she had walked ten miles when she returned to herself.  The Valië regarded her with no little concern, but also with a shrewd sort of measurement.  This was a test, she realized, and she’d done a good job of failing it so far.

 

“It’s…” Celebrían swallowed, her mouth suddenly bone dry.  “This child’s mother was Lachinthil, one of my handmaidens.  She and three others were among my entourage when…”  Her throat caught again, and she had to stop speaking.  So, she looked frantically at the table, her eyes searching for one particular stone.

 

There, a bright orange topaz.  Lachinthil would have approved; her favorite color had always been orange, and Elrohir had worn her token proudly for well-nigh a century before her death.  Celebrían took the little stone and cradled him to her heart; for he was a boy, she saw, a sweet child who slumbered in innocence of the spiteful fate which had brought his mother’s end.

 

“They forced me to watch, every second, so I could know what they intended for me,” she found herself stammering, her head falling against Vairë’s breast as naturally as it had rested against Galadriel’s.  “It was an experiment, they said, one to bring shame to the houses of Imladris and Lothlórien.  And as I was the lady of noble blood, they saved any experimentation upon me until they had developed the process correctly.”  She gulped a breath of air as she had not done since she was a child, sobbing shamelessly against the Valië’s fine woven dress, straining to hear the comforting nonsense-words Vairë whispered deftly against her hair.  “Two of my handmaidens faded before they could even touch them with that intent.  The third faded, once their sleep-potions wore off and she realized what had been done to her.  Lachinthil died because their own healer bungled the anesthetic; I watched her burn out like a wickless candle from across the room, she who should have been my law-daughter.”

 

Vairë took Celebrían completely into her lap, then; somehow, Celebrían was not too big to be held as one would an infant, even when the Valië chose to remain cloaked in elvish form.  “You blame yourself too much for a wrathful decision that was not your own,” she murmured into Celebrían’s ear.  “Lachinthil does not blame you.  Your family does not blame you.  I certainly do not blame you.”

 

“But I am to blame,” Celebrían sighed miserably.  “I knew Azog’s tribe still lurked within those mountains, and yet I took a great many to their deaths for a familial visit.  I should bear at least part of the responsibility.”

 

“You are not accountable for the cruelty enacted upon you and yours.  That action was ultimately Azog’s choice, and he will reckon for it in the end.”

 

The tears, at last, stopped their relentless course, and Celebrían found the strength to uncover her face, staring at the small soul she held in her very hand.  “Lachinthil would have made an excellent mother,” she said.  “Is she to stay too long in the Halls to raise her child?”

 

“All have their accounts to reconcile, child.  And, understandably, the memories evoked by this little one cut a bit too deeply for her to endure at the moment.  She surrendered him into my care.”

 

Celebrían brought the topaz to her heart once more, nodding in understanding even as her heart broke for the poor child.

---

Chapter End Notes

Lachinthil is approximate Sindarin for flame-lily, since apparently the Professor had no occasion to use the Sindarin word for lily (Sam and Rose, you had one job).  So, I took the Quenya insil and replaced the s with a th; I guess Feanor would consider that Eru's work, the pedant.

Chapter 6

This hits prompt six of Caprice and Chance, and Celebrian is certainly experiencing the return of a problem from the past.  She's not the only one, though.

There's some imagery toward the beginning that might be a little disturbing...no gore, not really, but it's rather like a jump scare.  Some reference to long-past noncon toward the end.

Read Chapter 6

It took two more days to catalogue Vairë’s treasury, though Celebrían scarcely noted the passage of time, so absorbed was she in the work.  Still, the day dawned when she and her cousins needed to return to Tírion, and though she was loath to leave, she nonetheless awoke early to prepare.

 

As she finished dressing, a glimmer of Ulmo’s-fire blue danced in her peripheral vision.  Thinking that it must be Amarthan, come to collect her, Celebrían turned with a mischievous smile and a quip about how her generation knew how to get out of bed…and stopped short, unable to move despite the fear that suddenly gripped her heart.

 

He had to be near seven feet tall, this monster of her youth, but the size of the room forced him to crouch grotesquely, his hand upon his knee.  Lurking from beneath his blood-clot hair, his intense gaze was too desperate to be casual glance, not angry enough to be a glare, and it pierced her very heart as she looked at him.  The scars on his ruined face stood out in sharp relief against his pale skin, and what remained of his right wrist, pushed up near his cheek by the position in which he sat, seemed alight with the red lightning-fire of a terrible infection.

 

“Celebrían!  Milady!”  Her vision became a wall of soothing green, and Celebrían blinked, to find herself against the wall, staring into Opolintë’s eyes.  The other elf had her face in her hands, her entire body determinedly placed so that Celebrían could see nothing but her.

 

“You’re safe, milady,” she murmured, her presence enveloping her charge with the comforting familiarity of a cool forest morning.  “What you see is not here and not real.”

 

A deep, shuddering breath wracked Celebrían’s body, and she eased into Opolintë’s embrace, too shaken even to cry.  “I told you.  I am your kinswoman, not your lady.”

 

Opolintë chuckled low in her throat, the relieved laughter of one who was still gravely worried.  “And I told you not to trust mirrors, but here we are.”

 

Mirrors?  Celebrían held her friend tighter, and risked a look over her shoulder at the place where Maedhros had sat.  It was indeed a mirror, the same one that had been in the room for the entirety of their stay, the same one at which she had never taken a second glance in her preoccupation.  And now the only face she could see within it was her own tattered visage, her own desperate blue eyes.

 

Childlike, Celebrían hid her eyes against Opolintë’s shoulder and shivered.

 

***

 

It was a quiet and pensive Celebrían who bade the occupants of the Cottage goodbye later that morning.  She tried not to seem as suspicious of them as she was – she had been having episodes for months, yes, but the powerful tricksters of her mother’s tales would not be above triggering one of them for the goal of character growth.  Of course they saw right through her, and Lindo and Quitë seemed more sad than insulted, but Vairë smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead.

 

“You are welcome here, my child, whenever your heart leads you back.”

 

Celebrían, instantly regretful of her mistrust, dove into a fierce embrace with the clothed Valië, breathing in Vairë’s scent, like the tingling static of a well-used loom.  She would look back on this moment, in years to come, and decide that it was here that she’d begun to drop her guard.  It was a place where children were nursed back to life, she’d realized, not a place of death…and she’d been brought back too, in a way.  For the first time in entirely too long, Celebrían felt like life was worth living.

 

Now, if only she could hold to that conviction when presented with the outside world.

 

The apprehension built in her heart as the Cottage of Lost Play faded from view.  It grew stronger as she heard the characteristic tapping of sculptors at work, and realized, without looking up from her seat in the back of her wagon, that they’d begun the transit over the bridge.  It truly began to well up in her stomach and throat as they stopped, and, after a few moments of indistinct conversation, took on two more passengers into the nearly empty space.

 

Nerdanel smiled pleasantly.  “Good morrow, my dear!  You’re looking rather pale today…are you well?”

 

“She’s probably fasting, Haruni,” Sarenda said, arranging her tools for an excuse to be busy.  “Let her be.”

 

“I’m precluded from the fast, actually.”  Celebrían took in Sarenda’s quick, appraising glance with her usual veneer of nonchalance – she had several reasons for not overtasking her body’s endurance at this point in time, but people always jumped on the most obvious one.  True to form, Sarenda’s jaw dropped, and Nerdanel was at her side in a moment, taking her hand in a motherly fashion.

 

“Why is she in the back of the cart?” the older woman griped at her son.  “There’s no cushioning mechanism here, she’ll be terribly jostled.”

 

“She’s Nerwen’s daughter, Ammë,” Amarthan sighed, clicking to get the donkeys walking.  “I’ve no doubt that she was born in the back of a cart herself.”

 

“She went into labor in the middle of a skirmish, actually – berated my father for being worried, too.”  At Nerdanel’s studied look of resigned horror, Celebrían tried to soften her statement with a shrug.  “Also, Valinor roads are like feather mattresses compared to the roads I grew up riding.  Really, I don’t feel a thing.”

 

“Ah, yes, the warrior traditions of Endorë,” Sarenda sneered, though she put few teeth into it – Nerdanel’s glare could probably blunt obsidian.  “It’s no wonder you get along with the she-orc so well.”

 

Amarthan twisted so sharply Celebrían could feel the wagon turn under his unwitting pull against the reins.  “Do you want to walk home, niece?  It could be arranged.”

 

“What?  Doesn’t she know?  It’s not like there’s any shame in it…”

 

“Get out.”

 

“Ambarto…” Nerdanel looked around them nervously, likely at surrounding spectators.  Celebrían did not care to see how may; she’d been under a glass her entire life, and the best way of dealing with that was to ignore it.  Instead, she gazed up at Amarthan, who was uncharacteristically livid, and at Opolintë, who sat tall and ramrod-straight, staring regally ahead of them without acknowledging the conversation.

 

Looking at them, Celebrían’s voice seemed to find itself without her own permission. “There’s also no shame, now, in growing up without a father-name,” she said, pointedly meeting Amarthan’s strange eyes.

 

There was a palpable silence, and Amarthan seemed on the brink of an apology for his overreaction, when the wagon shook as Sarenda alighted upon the ground.  “I’ll see you in a few days, Haruni,” she grit out, obviously from between her teeth.  “I’ll be at the Tower if you need me.”

 

Amarthan turned around and started the wagon going again before anyone could object.  They crossed the bridge and were well into the residential streets of Alqualondë before Nerdanel broke the silence.

 

“I’m so sorry, my dears.  I don’t know what’s come over her.”

 

Celebrían shook her head and patted Nerdanel’s hand.  “I’m her law-sister, in a way.  Likely she thinks I’ll overtake her place, or that my husband has already overtaken her.”

 

Nerdanel’s face flooded with exhaustion.  “Such wisdom from one less than half her age; perhaps there’s something to be said for Endorë’s harshness.  I wish I could make her feel welcome in her own home.”

 

“I’ve fostered many orphaned children in the past.  She’ll feel welcome when she’s ready, not when you are.”

 

***

 

Nerdanel’s house was studiously, questionably clean; on the outside, it sparkled, but Celebrían could smell the ever-present rock dust of a sculptor’s studio.  To her, it felt almost like Ost-in-Edhel, and flooded her mind with bittersweet memories of her long-lost home.  Opolintë, however, was disgusted, and discreetly began to run a broom around Celebrían’s bedroom when Nerdanel’s back was turned.  She also insisted upon moving a cot into the room so that she could watch, in case Celebrían regressed again.

 

She never met Celebrían’s eye the rest of the day, not even when they were seated across from each other at dinner.  Somehow she managed to coax Amarthan from his sullen silence, but though he was willing to joke lightly with his cousin and mother and laugh a little, Opolintë never smiled genuinely herself.  And when Celebrían made an excuse to go to bed, letting Amarthan and Nerdanel catch up with each other, Opolintë followed her without a word, her head bowed like a respectful servant.

 

It grew to be nearly too much for Celebrían to bear, though she did wait until after the door was closed behind them.  “Who you were changes nothing about who you are, cousin,” she whispered.

 

Opolintë took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders to look Celebrían in the eye.  “You are brave, and dearer to me than I ever anticipated.  I wanted to avoid reminding you of what happened to bring you here.”

 

“Avoiding what happened will never erase what happened.  And you likely went through something akin to my experience, didn’t you?”

 

There was a certain look about a hunted deer which realized it was caught, and could no longer run – a sort of bleak denial, a wild refusal to accept its ultimate fate.  In that moment, Opolintë was particularly well named, for Celebrían recognized that fearful stubbornness very well indeed. 

 

“It wasn’t…they never…”  With a sigh, Opolintë sat upon her cot and massaged her temples.  “I was…taken, yes, but they…I was not used for…”

 

Celebrían took a seat next to her, and clasped her hands.  “For breeding purposes?”

 

Opolintë shook her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears and her hand over her mouth.

 

“And yet, you knew exactly what happened to me as soon as you looked at me, did you not?”

 

Her caretaker gave her a pained look, confused at her calm.  “I…yes.  I was tasked, at that time, with hunting down children or other…experiments, when they ran.  I had to know a great deal about why they were running.”

 

Celebrían studied Opolintë’s face, letting her regard shine through steadily.  Opolintë had never turned away from her terrible secrets; it would be poor manners to look away from her now.  “What changed?”

 

The other woman gnawed her lower lip, and her eyes became distant.  “On my last hunt, my quarry was cleverer than most.  He got away, and led me out into the Open, where the stars still glittered.  I got a good look at the Little Sickle.”  There was a shaky smile.  “That’s where I got my name, actually.  The northern Laiquendi tribe where I was born called the Sickles the Doe and the Fawn.  My mother named me for the Fawn, so that I could always find my way home by the bright white stars of its tail.  It was coincidence that I started to look like a fawn later in life.”

 

“Some might call that a mother’s prophecy.”

 

“Some might.  But that night, when I found myself again after wandering for so long in darkness?  That I call my mother’s real prophecy.”

 

Celebrían nodded.  “You’re probably right.”

 

Opolintë grinned.  “And your next question is, ‘how in the blazes did she get here?’”

 

“Well, I’m going to bank on previous experience and assume you died.”

 

“Eventually, yes.  I found Gondolin first.”

 

Now that was impressive.  “Before Huor and Hurin?  How did you manage that?”

 

“Not for long.  Eagles can be disgusting little bastards.” Opolintë looked nervously at the window.  “Don’t tell Manwë I said that.”

 

“Do you think he’s just waiting outside our window like a beggar?”

 

“The Lord and Lady of Mandos live in peaceful domesticity in their spring and summer cottage near the beach.  Anything can happen in Sovallë.”