The Sun in Spring by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

"And it was then that Elrond first saw Celebrían, and loved her, though he said nothing of it."

- Unfinished Tales; "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn"

 

The Misty Mountains rose stately as queens in glittering raiment. A cool, clear wind fell from the slopes, and down in the valley the cherries were at the height of their flowering. Branches laden with blossom stood white as lace against a sky of flawless blue.

Celebrían carefully bent down a twig and buried her nose in the wealth of blooms to breathe deeply of their scent, sweeter and richer than any wild blossom. These fruitless ornamentals were a Noldorin artifice, hothouse cultivars imported from Valinor. She overlooked the clipped expanse of the lawn, perfectly smooth in its geometric precision. By her feet a little stream murmured sedately from the tamed order of its marble rill.

“Your garden is well-designed, my lord.” she said, smiling. She would not dampen her companion’s joy in this fair day of spring - even if it meant heaping praise on the pompous rigidity of Golodhrim horticulture. Elrond’s invitation for an afternoon walk had been an unexpected delight. Like his private garden, the Lord of Imladris was emerging from a bleak winter of mourning. Gil-galad had been both Elrond’s king and his closest friend. 

He cast her a knowing look. “Well-designed indeed - and yet you did not call it fair.” A ghost of a smile played across his handsome face.

“Am I that transparent?” she laughed, teasing another flash of mirth from his grey eyes. They both delighted in games of words and meanings, but the public eye kept them from outright flirting. This stolen afternoon held no such limitations, and Celebrían meant to enjoy it to the fullest.  

“I cannot imagine Celeborn’s daughter approving of trimmed lawns and grafted cherries.” Elrond was now smiling outright. “Tell me, what would this place become if you were to reshape it?”

Is he truly asking me this? 

A wild, delirious joy washed over Celebrían, but she needed to be sure before venturing the final step. “Galadriel’s daughter would not oppose the visions of her gracious host in his own garden.”

Elrond ran his hand over a ragged indentation in one of the tree trunks, where the scar of an arrow-wound from Sauron’s siege of the valley had long healed over. It was the touch of a healer, careful and competent. The motion brought them closer together, and Elrond now stood as if wanting to touch her, but not touching, save with the sharp eagerness of his gaze. 

He breathed deeply, and when he spoke that steady voice sounded hoarse with nerves. “Ereinion’s last rites were a grievous occasion, but it has been my honour and pleasure to have you as my guest.”  

He hesitated for a heartbeat, then reached into his wide sleeve. Silver flashed in the westering sunlight. “Your company has been my delight, though neither of us were free to speak of such matters. Now that the shadow is fled and a new time is come, will you take this garden and make it your own?”

A silver ring lay upon his outstretched hand. Simple yet exquisitely made, and unmistakably Fëanorian. 

Celebrían shuddered. There could be no reprieve from politics, with Elrond Peredhel. The Sindar of Lórien would be feel betrayed to see that ring on her hand, and for a moment she flinched in pain at the thought of her father’s shock and sorrow. 

Elrond knew it at once. “I cannot become other than what I am. Of both Finwë and Elu Thingol’s blood, and Fëanorian upbringing.” 

At first she wanted to deny it, if only to ease his pain, but she could not lie to him. Elrond might be Elwing’s son, but he had been raised by kinslayers, and he bore his foster fathers’ Fëanorian influence in every fibre of his being. Even now, after two ages, many among the Sindar would find her love for him distasteful. Her father… what would Celeborn of Doriath do, when he heard of his daughter taking up with the heir to the House that slaughtered Doriath and Sirion? She tried not to imagine.

"I do not know ...," she said, and faltered. 

Elrond’s face fell. A deep breath, another one, and then she found her voice again. "I know not how the Sindar would respond if I would bind myself to you. My mother holds you in high esteem. My father … will be disappointed, when he hears that I chose you."

At first her words struck him like a blow, but then he turned sharply, velvet robes brushing the elanor-speckled grass. A fell joy stood in his eyes, like a warrior before the charge. "When he hears!?"

At a word from her, Elrond had leapt from despair into fierce passion like night gives way to daybreak, and Celebrían found that all she  wished in the world was to see him so radiant once more. She would rise to the challenge. 

"I love you, and I care not for old grudges," she said, and felt happiness wash over her like a tide. This was the truth, and it felt right to speak it aloud. 

“The mighty among the Noldor call this house their home,” she said. “Gildor Inglorion, Glorfindel of Gondolin, Erestor of Fëanor’s House. Will they suffer a Dark Elf uprooting their grafted cherries and planting rowans in their stead?”

Elrond laughed. “I should like to see them call Galadriel’s daughter a Dark Elf.” He gave her a clever look. “Whatever else might be said about you and me, lady, our match would be to both our advantage and that of our respective peoples. A union between our Houses would remind the hotheads on either side that we are all enemies of the one Enemy.”

“Will you have it said that Elrond of Imladris wed a wild Sinda from the forest and let her have her Wood-elf way with his home?” Her words were light, and they both laughed as he put the ring on her forefinger. The jewel glittered like a star fallen to earth in the late light.

Elrond’s hand felt right and natural in hers, and his voice had never sounded so light, as if a great burden had lifted from him. “I would let you have your way with more than my garden alone.”

His lips were soft and warm against hers, and he smelled of some Noldorin perfume, cedar and amber. For an instant she was lost in the sheer delight of it, the feel of his body against hers; his solid warmth, the slow rise and fall of his chest in the circle of her arms, the gentle strength of his embrace. Her heart fluttered and her spirit leapt with joy. He kissed well, without a trace of clumsiness or inexperience. She would not ask - and neither would he. 

When they looked up at last, dazed and exhilarated, the sun had sank towards the mountains, shifting the light to rich honey. A flight of swallows were wheeling over the lawn, and up in the cherries’ crowns woodpigeons cooed as they settled for the night. The valley of Imladris enclosed them in the green scent of thriving forests. Side by side they watched as the sunset turned waterfalls to bejewelled curtains of many-coloured glass, finer than any craftsman’s work, and it occurred to Celebrían that no other place would ever feel more like home.

She leant in for another kiss but Elrond drew back, his face suddenly dark with concern. “You and I must do more than plant gardens. Imladris is no house but a fortress, and I more captain than lord.”

She smiled. “Not quite. My father calls you a conniving fox who made himself High King of the Noldor without putting on the crown.”

This sobered Elrond. “I am no king.”

Celebrían was a warrior, and she was not above using whatever weapon came to hand. She stroked the soft skin of his throat above the collar of his robes, and with a hot flash of satisfaction she felt him shiver. “Then I shall likewise be no queen.” 

She meant it in jest, but Elrond did not laugh. “This peace will not last. The darkness shall return, and its strike will fall hardest upon my House.”

Celebrían’s heart leapt within her chest as she looked upon Elrond. Strong and wise he was, and so very beautiful, and all hers. This golden moment might pass, but in its wake would follow a long, winding river of years carrying joy and pain alike. She would stand against any who would tear her away from him, be it her father, the Valar - or Sauron himself. 

She took his hand to raise it to her lips and carefully press a kiss against his palm. The touch was feather-light, and yet he shuddered beneath it. 

“Do not dwell on darkness, my love. Let us seek the light.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Yours truly needed a little romantic escapism for these troubled times. There's still some politics, because I'm simply incapable of writing stories without it. I hope you enjoyed the result.
Comments always make my day, but even more so in these strange times. 

Idrils Scribe