Through a Mirror Darkly by HannaGoldworthy

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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.

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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.

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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.